Prologue

Atchison, Kansas, 1870

The door slammed against the wall like a gunshot. Beatrice’s eyes darted toward the entrance of the old line shack. For a moment, she thought she saw the figure of her father-in-law, ready to drag them back with him.

When she blinked, it disappeared. She’d imagined it. It wasn’t real. It was just a hallucination, probably from the hunger that was now a persistent feature in her stomach.

“Bea?”

The timid voice barely broke through the fog that had clouded Beatrice’s mind for days now. She wondered how many times Ian had tried to get her attention before managing to draw her from her own thoughts.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she croaked out, taking great care to disguise the anguish she felt beneath her gentle tone.

“I ain’t trying to complain too much, but I’m gettin’ real hungry…” the young boy trailed off, wrapping his arms around himself tightly, as if that might quell the sharp cramps in his stomach.

“I know, Ian…” Beatrice murmured, pulling her stepson close against her bosom and running her fingers through his soft brown hair. She winced as she felt the vibration of his stomach grumbling against her, the noise somehow louder than the raging winds outside.

Ian kept his head buried against her, but Beatrice craned her neck slightly to look down at him. His skin was notably paler than she’d ever seen it, and in that moment, he neither looked nor felt like a thirteen-year-old. Usually, when he hugged her, he squeezed her close enough to knock the wind from her lungs, but it was obvious that he no longer had the strength to; all he could seem to manage was a loose grip as he clung to the fabric of her dress. What was once a fine dress was now dirty and tattered, and in the spots the children had clung to for comfort, it was thin and threadbare.

“And Mary…” Ian murmured, his voice muffled against Beatrice’s shoulder. He pulled back, his golden-brown eyes looking more like tarnished brass now that the usual life in them had drained away. “I’m awful worried about her.”

Beatrice’s eyes wandered over to the still lump in front of the small fireplace. At first glance, it was difficult to tell that beneath the tattered blanket lay her other stepchild, Mary. Her hair, usually a golden brown with beautiful waves, looked limp and lifeless as it poked out from beneath the fabric. Her eyes were closed, but Beatrice could imagine the pain she’d see in them if she opened them. They were usually sharp, but the last time Beatrice had looked into their brown depths, she’d seen only fear.

Over the three days that they had spent in this crumbling hovel, the young girl had hardly stirred. Hunger, fear, and cold had gripped Mary early on, and she had scarcely moved an inch since then. As weak as Ian was, Beatrice was even more concerned about his sister. This small shack was shelter, sure, but the wood was rotting and allowed the harsh winds to slip through the cracks.

Mary was two years younger than her brother, but right now, she also looked years younger than her real age. Beatrice wasn’t sure how much longer Mary could last; she was withering away before her very eyes.

Beatrice felt like her world was falling apart—an emotion she was familiar with, but never this intensely. If the children didn’t make it through this, she’d never forgive herself. The very thought was enough to bring tears to her eyes, even though she thought they’d dried up hours ago.

“I know, Ian, but I promise you we’ll—” Beatrice’s promise died on her lips as a loud bang erupted throughout the small space. A bitter, oppressive cold invaded the shack, cutting through to Beatrice’s bones. It wasn’t just the gaps in the wood that allowed the cold to seep in, but it was coming in through the chimney now, too. Probably the windows, as well. This place had obviously been forgotten and left to decay long ago.

She dragged herself up from the floor, her legs barely listening to her; each step was wobbly and weak. Her arms, feeling as limp as wilted wheat, just barely held the strength to push the door back closed.

Once more, she took solace by the fire, basking in the warmth; it hardly cut through the chill, but it was still a welcome respite. She glanced over at Ian, who had grown quiet and was now shivering more, arms wrapped around his stomach again. He’d stopped complaining about the pain, but she knew it was aching more than ever.

“I’ll… I’ll go get more food…” Beatrice whispered, but she was unsure whether it was a reassurance aimed more at herself or the children. In truth, Beatrice wasn’t entirely sure she had the strength to brave the cold long enough to forage for scraps.

She barely had the energy to shut the door, which wasn’t particularly heavy. If she were going to find that strength, she could hardly do it on her own. Beatrice’s eyes fluttered shut, and she clasped her hands against her chest. Her knuckles were stark white, even against her already pallid complexion.

Dear God, as your faithful servant, I ask for Your guidance and strength. I… have come to accept that we won’t make it much longer here. It just ain’t possible. Please, Lord, send someone or… something that might help us get out of here alive. If it is Your will that this is my time to pass on, I… I will accept that, but please, don’t let the children suffer the same fate. They didn’t do nothing to deserve this… I guess, neither did I, and I know it’s hard for us to understand Your greater plan, but… please…

Usually, praying filled Beatrice with renewed hope, but the deep despair invading her chest was louder than her prayers. When she heard Ian’s soft sobs off to the side, they joined in that despair and drowned out any bit of faint hope.

“Oh, come here,” she mumbled, scooting closer and pulling him against her again. Gently, she guided them both to lie beside Mary, figuring that sharing warmth was their best chance at survival right now. “It’ll be okay… God will provide… we’ll be just fine…”

She repeated those sentiments and others along the same lines until the two of them joined Mary in sleep. At least in their sleep, they couldn’t feel pangs of hunger.

Beatrice wasn’t sure how long they slept, but when she was startled awake by the door slamming open again, she figured it was long enough for the wind to pick up. She groggily rubbed her eyes, whimpering softly as she pulled herself up.

As soon as she struggled into a sitting position, a new strain of fear invaded her chest. The wind wasn’t the culprit here; it was a strange man towering over them, large enough to block the doorway when he took a step inside.

We’re trapped, she thought. Not that we would get very far, anyway. We’re all too weak to walk, much less run.

“Please…” she begged, meeting his incredulous gaze. “Don’t hurt us. Don’t hurt them! If this is your property and we broke in, I… I swear we didn’t mean to!”

The man narrowed his eyes, his exact expression difficult to read underneath his thick, dark beard. He looked like a veritable mountain man, and that led her to believe a gruff nature would accompany his appearance.

“Shh…” he said, which was certainly not the reaction she’d anticipated. He took a couple of long steps across the shack, kneeling before them. He looked at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. Her heart thrummed loudly, unsure if his shushing was a placation or a threat.

“Sir, please… they’re only children…” she pleaded, wrapping her arms tighter around Ian. If she knew anything about men, it was more likely a threat than a genuine attempt at help. She tried to sit up, willing her legs to find strength she didn’t have. “We’ll get out of here as soon as possible, just don’t…”

“Ma’am, don’t you waste your strength,” the man responded, shaking his head vehemently. He leaned closer, and she caught the fire glinting in his eyes, just enough. She couldn’t find any ill intention behind his gaze, and while his expression was stoic, it didn’t seem cruel. “Everything is alright now. I ain’t gonna hurt any of y’all. We’re gonna get you and these kids out of here.”

Beatrice’s fears held fast, not willing to trust this stranger, but… what choice did they have? She squinted, trying to ascertain anything about this alleged Good Samaritan. His voice was deep, but there was a gentleness to it that made her want to believe he truly meant it. A distant flutter in her heart told her that he wasn’t going to hurt them, after all. Maybe her prayers had been answered.

“I… we owe you—” Again, her words died on her lips. Her strength was utterly drained.

The edges of her vision blurred, darkness overtaking it as her consciousness faded. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the man’s brow furrowing in concern, which added to her tentative hope. Maybe he did care. She used the last vestiges of her strength to send up a brief prayer.

If you sent this man to save us, then… Thank you, God. Thank you for your infinite mercy.

She hoped that the feeling in her heart truly was a sign from God—that the handsome stranger wasn’t a threat. Then, the world faded away, and their fates were left in the hands of the mysterious man.

Chapter One

Three days prior

“If ya ain’t got nothing else, you’ve sure got some gall!” Peter sneered at her, his lip curling under his white mustache. “You really think you can argue with me about what my grandchildren can and can’t do?”

“You have to know I’m not trying to argue!” Beatrice’s voice was filled with only a tenth of the desperation she felt. Arguing with her father-in-law felt like arguing with the wall. In a sublime example of that, Peter continued as if she’d never spoken at all.

He slammed his hand against the parlor wall, hard enough that the pictures hung along it shook. Beatrice flinched; she often wondered how long it would be until he went from hitting inanimate objects to hitting her—or worse, the children.

“You expect me to cook and clean for myself on this trip?” he snapped. When he smacked the wall this time, one of the ornate gold frames fell to the floor. Shattered glass littered the floor, shards scattering across the green Oriental rug, crunching under Peter’s shoes as he stomped toward her. She was sure he’d yell at her about that later and remind her how expensive that rug was—that it was worth more than her.

Beatrice didn’t want to meet his eyes. She knew that, especially when he was angry like this, she would only find vitriol in his dark eyes. She looked around the parlor, keenly aware of how normal it looked despite how abnormal everything was inside.

Family photos of the Priestleys adorned the floral wallpaper, interspersed with tasteful decorations. Aside from the pictures, there were paintings Peter had won at auctions trying to impress his rich friends, and a gold mirror.

Beatrice caught sight of herself in the small, gold-trimmed mirror across the room. She didn’t like what she saw; the dark circles that surrounded her eyes made the usual warm brown of her irises look dull. Furthermore, she had been so wrought with concern that her appetite had waned considerably, and it showed in her face. Its usual soft heart shape had morphed into something sharper and more gaunt. Even her hair, usually sleek and the color of fresh wheat, was frizzy and seemed to have lost its golden luster.

She looked away, shaking her head and staring down at the hardwood floor instead. She scarcely recognized herself, and it pained her to acknowledge that.

“Answer me when I speak to you, woman!” Peter yelled, hardly giving Beatrice a minute to respond before demanding more from her. “You too lazy to cook and clean now?”

“It’s got nothing to do with that!” Beatrice protested, her gaze finally settling back on Peter. “I’m concerned about the children, and you have to know that! You don’t see anything wrong with leaving them behind?”

Their eyes met. As she’d expected, he held an expression full of such disgust that you’d think she’d committed a heinous transgression.

“That boy’s gonna grow up real soft if you keep coddling him like that,” Peter scoffed, stopping in front of Beatrice—so close she could smell the pomade he used to slick back his hair. It wasn’t a bad scent, spicy but with a hint of sweetness underneath, but she’d come to associate it with the man, and that made her hate it.

“He’s only thirteen!” Beatrice protested. She clenched her hands in her skirt to quell the trembling that threatened to wrack her body. “You just said it yourself: he’s just a boy!”

“That’s right… he’s just a boy, but he should be a man.” Peter leaned in, sucking his teeth and wrinkling his nose. “By the time I was eleven, I was working my fingers to the bone!”

“But how is he going to provide for himself and his sister?” Beatrice pressed on despite her rapidly growing terror.

“Maybe you’re too dim to understand this, or maybe it’s ‘cuz you’re a woman, but that’s up to a man to figure out himself.” Peter finally took a step back, tossing his hands up dramatically. “Way I see it, he’s been mighty spoiled these past few years.”

Spoiled was not a word any reasonable person would use to describe Ian—or Mary, his little sister. They had lost their birth mother when Ian was still a toddler and Mary was little more than a baby.

Despite having raised the two children for most of their lives, it was an accusation Peter threw in her face often—as he did right then.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me right the first time, but they’re my grandchildren!” He snorted, his bitter laugh sending chills down Beatrice’s spine. “And I never signed up to take care of them or you for the rest of my life! You should be grateful I didn’t throw you out and hire a nanny. Probably would’ve given me a lot less lip.”

“I never signed up for this, either!” Beatrice countered. “I was only seventeen, and, if you’re struggling to remember, it was you and my parents who decided all of this.”

“Don’t forget yourself, now.” Peter spun back around, his hands clenching into fists by his side. Beatrice was half-convinced he might strike her at any moment now. “If I’d have known you’d bring this… this bad luck to my home, I’d have never agreed to let you marry my son! It’d have saved me a lot of coin, and maybe I wouldn’t even have to go out West to make money! Money that’s going to keep you fed, mind you.”

Beatrice gawped at him, unable to think of any suitable reply. His logic was nonexistent. “How… how is any of that my fault?”

“Thomas wasn’t sick afore you came ‘round,” Peter stated, as if it were a basic fact and not an irrational connection. Beatrice had long suspected that Peter blamed her for Thomas’s death, but this was the first time he’d stated it so bluntly.

Thomas Priestly had been in his 50s when they were married, even though Beatrice had been little more than a child herself. It wasn’t as if he’d experienced a shocking, untimely death, but, nonetheless, that was exactly how Peter acted.

“Please…” Beatrice softened her voice, desperately trying to appeal to whatever semblance of empathy Peter might still possess. “Even if you want Ian to start working and pulling his weight, just… just let them come with us!”

“If the boy wants to come out West, he’ll find a way. Just like you, he don’t know nothing of the world. Not like I do,” Peter stated coldly. He walked over to the fallen photograph, kicking the cracked frame. “Clean this up and start packing your things. If I hear one more word outta you…”

He turned to shoot her one final glare. “Well, let me say… I would shut my mouth if I were you.”

His heavy steps echoed throughout the parlor long after he’d stormed out; though, at some point, they blended with the thumping in Beatrice’s ears. There was no getting through to Peter. No compromise could make him budge on the matter. He wouldn’t even let Ian and Mary stay in the house after he left, claiming they needed the money from the sale.

“They can stay here until my associate finds a buyer,” he’d told her. “Should give the boy enough time to find somewhere else.”

Beatrice had to figure something else out, and she had to figure it out before the sun rose. Otherwise, she wasn’t sure any of them would make it beyond tomorrow.

***

“Bea, my arm’s getting tired,” Ian whispered. His voice was shaky, and he sounded almost guilty to point it out.

“Hand that over to me,” Beatrice said, holding out her hand for the lantern Ian had been carrying for hours now. She was already carrying most of their baggage, and her shoulder ached under the weight, but she would rather bear the extra burden than make this any harder on her stepson.

“Um, are we… close?” Mary murmured. “My legs are getting real sore.”

Beatrice didn’t have an answer to the question, considering that she hadn’t the faintest clue where they were going. There hadn’t been time to think about all that; there was only time to get away.

She glanced back at Mary, her heart panging as the moonlight glistened off the tears streaming down the young girl’s cheek. Mary held her favorite doll tightly against her, as if using the toy as a shield.

“We’ll stop soon,” Beatrice answered. It was vague, but it was all she could offer right then. She knew they’d have to stop soon. Neither she nor the children would have the energy to keep walking for much longer.

“Ahh!” Ian let out a screech, stumbling back and falling to the ground—hard. Beatrice knew what had startled him. She’d heard it, too. Somewhere in the distance, yet still too close for comfort, some hidden creature had let out a growl.

Mary let out a similar screech, her tears streaming faster now. She’d clearly heard it as well. “What was that?! Is it gonna… is it gonna eat us?”

“Probably just a bobcat or… or coyote,” Beatrice said quickly, clumsily reaching out to help Ian up. With everything she was now holding, it was a strenuous task, but she pushed on. “As long as we mind our business, it should leave us alone.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Ian asked, scrambling to his feet and wiping the dirt from his pants as best he could.

The two children stared up at her, their matching chocolate brown eyes mirroring each other. They looked terrified, of course, but beneath that, they looked doubtful. They were rapidly losing faith in Beatrice, and she understood. She was losing faith in herself.

“You know what?” Beatrice cleared her throat, brushing a few stray leaves and twigs from Ian’s messy hair before continuing on. “Y’all missed your nightly prayers, so… so we ought to do that now. It’ll make you feel better, and by the time we say amen, I’m sure we’ll be there.”

Wherever there is, she thought to herself. The children nodded, tears now streaming down both of their cheeks, but they quieted. Beatrice used the time to say her own prayers.

I ask you, Lord, for Your guidance and protection. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t wise of me to set off without any money or friends or family to help, but… but I didn’t know what else to do. Don’t punish the children for my mistakes or their grandfather’s mistakes. They don’t deserve that. I thank You for bringing them into my life, and I just… I gotta ask that You don’t take ‘em from me.

From the cramps in her muscles, it felt like they continued on for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, because after a few more reiterations of similar prayers, Beatrice spotted the faint outline of a building in the distance. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t matter. It was likely near collapsing, but it would just have to do.

“See?” she offered, as if she’d had this plan all along. Maybe if she pretended to be confident, it would instill hope in the children again. She pointed a shaky finger off into the distance. “We’re almost there!”

As the building came into view, she was able to surmise that it was an old line shack. From the looks of it, it hadn’t been used recently. The paint was peeling, exposing the rotting wood beneath, and the windows were coated with a layer of grime so thick that they couldn’t see inside.

Beatrice was well aware of the possibility that she could swing the door open and find an unfriendly party already occupying the space. That was simply a risk they’d have to take. Who knew if they’d find any other shelter out here? The wind had begun to pick up, dropping the temperature enough that her shawl was futile against the chill.

She set the lantern down on the porch and pushed against the door. As it creaked open, Beatrice’s stomach knotted in fear.

Thankfully, it was empty, save for some old crates, a thick layer of dust, and a few long-forgotten, rusted tools. The inside was as neglected as the outside. Her assumption had been correct; no one had been in here in a very long time.

“Come on, now. Let’s get inside before the cold gets worse.” She ushered the children in before her, slamming the door closed. As soon as the bags fell from her hands and she set the lantern down, Beatrice fell to the floor.

Ian and Mary had already huddled up together, their faces still wet with tears and their bodies trembling. Beatrice glanced at the fireplace. By some small miracle, there was still firewood in the crumbling brick space. She’d regain some of her strength, get some kindling from outside, and make a fire soon enough.

She had no idea what she would do after that. There was still the matter of food and water and their future as a whole, but she could only take it one step at a time. All they could do now was try to survive long enough to figure those things out.

As the wind screamed outside, it sounded like Peter, mocking her and her silly decision to flee. Maybe he’d been right. Maybe she didn’t know anything about the world.

Maybe, in her attempts to help, she’d doomed all three of them.