Prologue

Tarryall, Colorado, August 1859

Joseph Sharp eased his way to the top of the knoll. He had left his horse in the valley below with a feedbag to keep her occupied and less likely to whinny and give away his position. The pinto quarter horse, Penny, was a sweet-tempered mare who would go all day long and still put on a burst of speed as necessary. She was getting along in years and had a round belly more indicative of over-eating than any chance that she had gotten with foal at her last estrus.

He regretted bringing her on this trip. This was supposed to be a routine patrol, but he had found signs of a herd of cattle being moved. None of the ranchers around had mentioned doing a cattle drive, and this bunch was quite a ways back from the regular roads. So here he was, riding a horse who loved to chat up other horses and riders and who would be likely to pull free of her tether and come after him if he did not return to her soon.

Carefully avoiding a clump of hawthorns, Joseph made a mental note that the berries were ripening. His mother would want some to make jelly and to put by as a syrup.

Snaking his way under a large sage bush, he got a clear view of the valley below. Sure enough, there was a make-shift corral and a non-descript group of cowboys happily altering brands from local ranches. Six men and twice that many horses. He needed to take the men down and round up the horses today because they would be gone by tomorrow.

Joseph eased his way down a conveniently placed dry waterway, keeping a wary eye out for sunning rattlesnakes. It would not help him at all to get a snakebite just now.

Fortunately, any snakes who were local to the area had picked some other place to den, and he emerged in the cool shade of a large evergreen tree. The drooping limbs made a perfect hiding spot from which he could watch the camp while he considered the situation. Too many of them to take all at once. I could pick off one or two with my rifle, but that makes it hard to take them back for trial.

While Joseph considered the situation, the wind shifted, bringing with it a rank scent. He wrinkled his nose, then grinned. The rustlers had clearly designated an area close by as their outhouse. It would not be long before one or more of them had a call of nature.

Sure enough, the shadows had scarcely moved to point east before one fellow came hustling down the path, undoing laces as he hurried right past Joseph’s hiding place. There was a heartfelt sigh, then the fellow came back up the path, muttering imprecations upon his tailor, who—according to the rustler—had made his trousers a size or two smaller than he’d ought.

As he passed, Joseph slipped out of his hiding place, clapped a hand over the rustler’s mouth, slipped a rawhide thong over one hand, then looped it around the other. Pinioning the man’s hands allowed his loosened trousers to slip down to his ankles and act like hobbles, keeping him in place.

Just as if the fellow was a roped calf, Joseph dumped him onto his side, still keeping one hand over the man’s mouth and the other on the looped rawhide around his hands. Kneeling on the rawhide to keep it taut, Joseph took a bandana from his pocket, using it and another rawhide strip to gag the man. He then trussed him up, hands to feet, and tucked him under the evergreen tree. Then he settled down to wait some more.

Soon the men at the corral began calling out to each other. “Where’s Jake? Has anyone seen Jake?”

This caused the captured man to wiggle around trying to get loose, but his bonds were too tight. Soon, another man came trotting down the path, calling out, “Jake? Hey, you fall in the privy pit?”

This time, Joseph didn’t wait for the man to go to the privy. He reached out a foot, tripped him, and quickly tied him up too. The trick worked one more time, but the remaining three men became too wary to make the trip alone and came on in a bunch. Still, the odds were reduced six to one to three to one, and Joseph shortened them even more by whacking one man behind the ear with a stick he had found and following through, got in a good hit across the shins of the next one.

That left only one man standing, and that fellow went for the six-shooter in the holster at his thigh. But Joseph was prepared for that, bringing his stick up like a quarterstaff and smacking the gun out of his hand before the man could get off a shot.

In just a few minutes, Joseph had all six men felled and tied with rawhide thongs. Once that was accomplished, he removed the gags from the first three before checking the two with injuries. Neither were happy, but both would live to stand trial.

Joseph hauled the lot of them back to the corral, slung them over their saddles, belly down, and led their horses on the slow journey back to town.

***

Joseph was glad when he topped the rise just above the town and started down the slope. It was only then that he noticed that the flag was flying at half mast, and that there was a long line of coffins laid out beside the church. His stomach clenched with apprehension. Raiders? Bar fight? Clearly, there had been some terrible event.

“I’ve only been gone two days. What the heck happened?” Joseph muttered, hurrying the tired horses on into town.

As he came to a stop in front of the jail and sheriff’s office, Billy Campbell, his deputy and friend, came hurrying out the front door to greet him.

“Oh, thank God you are here, Joseph,” Billy said prayerfully. “Something horrible has happened.”

“More rustlers?” Joseph asked, hoping that was not the case.

“Worse,” Billy replied, tears spilling out of his eyes. “So much worse. It’s cholera. Doc Murphy is tryin’ to figure out how it got started, but he thinks it’s because the Holstein’s pigs got in the crick.”

Cholera. Joseph felt the breath catch in his throat. “Ma? Pa? My sisters? My brothers?”

Billy shook his head. “I’ve got Ben. He’s all right, but the rest…I’m sorry, Joe. They died the first day. Doc did what he could for ‘em, but half the town is down with it.

No. Joseph’s mind refused to accept the words that were spilling from Billy’s lips. They could not be true. He was mishearing, jumping to conclusions, letting worry get the best of him. He wanted to ask Billy to repeat himself, but his ears were full of a sudden roaring that blocked out all other sounds.

Joseph swung down from his horse. The whole thing felt unreal, as if he was moving through a nightmare fog. He would wake up soon, and it would be over. His eyes stayed fixed on the line of coffins by the church even as his voice spoke calmly, barely penetrating the thunder in his ears. “I have the rustlers,” he said. “An’ they been cussin’ an’ discussin’ all the way home, so I’ve pretty much got a full confession out of ‘em. There’s a bunch of cows and horses in a corral out beyond the hawthorn trees if there’s anyone left to claim ‘em.”

Billy nodded, his mouth moving and his hands gesturing as he moved toward the prisoners’ horses. Several times, he paused, concern evident on his face as he looked back at Joseph and said words Joseph couldn’t seem to hear although their meaning eventually penetrated. Billy was talking about telegraphing someone, and Judge Trevor having his hands full, and a circuit judge and marshal coming to help out.

Woodenly, Joseph helped Billy get the rustlers off their horses and stood them on their feet so they could walk into the jail. When the men were all secured, he and Billy walked back out of the jail and across the street to the telegraph office. Again, Joseph’s eyes caught on the coffins, and a stab of pain jolted through him.

He could hear again, and see, and feel the rush of emotion building behind a thin layer of control, ready and waiting to tear him open. “Billy,” Joseph stopped on the step, and Billy turned to face him. “My family—You said… You’re pulling some kind of ugly joke on me, aren’t you?” Billy’s face creased with sympathy and confusion.

“No,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I wish it was a joke and I could take it all back, but it isn’t. We’ve got near half the town laid for burial over by the church.”

Raw horror rolled over Joseph, like an ugly beast clutching at his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His family was the foundation of his world. They were always there for him when he came home. As waves of emotion shuddered through him, he fought to bring them outwardly under control, to keep the impassive face his father had always told him was the correct one for an adult male in public. After several moments had passed, he felt he had mastered his voice enough to speak.

“I’d like to see them.”

“It ain’t pretty,” Billy cautioned. “But they’s laid out down by the church along with the rest.” His hesitation was clear as he shifted from one foot to another and reached to touch his hat.

“Even so, I’d like to see for myself,” Joseph said. “I need to see for myself.”

“I understand,” Billy said, and the two men turned toward the church. “Like I said, I’ve got Ben out at my place,” Billy repeated as they walked side by side. “He’d gotten into trouble with your ma the morning all this started, and I took him out to look at my new colts. I kept him there when folks started falling ill. No one on that side of Tarryall has been affected, an’ I’ve got a couple old cowpunchers out there keepin’ an eye on ‘im. He ain’t said much. Just hangs out down at the barn, brushin’ his horse.”

“That’s Benjamin,” Joseph said. The thought of his young brother opened a crack in the wall he was already carefully building around his emotion, and his voice trembled slightly. “He loves that horse. If he’s not sick, spendin’ time with him is probably about the best medicine possible. I’ll want to see him next.”

When they got to the church yard, it was filled with plain, wooden boxes. It was clear there had not been enough planks to build them because some of the planks were so new they were bubbling sap out their edges.

There, all in a row, were his people. Ma, Pa, Willie, Rebecca, Sarah, and Paige. Their familiar faces filled Joseph’s vision and mind. Rebecca had put all her time into training her horses and had no time for the boys. But Sarah was different. She’d been half sweet on Billy, even though he was too old for her. Sarah was just a year older than Ben, and Paige was the baby. And Willie. Willie’d been in line to inherit the ranch. Though he and Joseph had butted heads plenty, he’d been happy that him taking on that responsibility had left Joseph free to take up other occupations, like being sheriff.

And now they were all gone. Death had taken them, leaving only still forms without the spirit that made them each both dear and special. The still figures, with the faint bluish tint to their skin, didn’t even seem like the people who had seen him off to capture rustlers. “You be careful,” Ma had said. “I want you back. You’re more important than any horses or cows.” Grief tore through Joseph like waves of ague that could not be denied, but he looked at the bodies dry-eyed. There would be time enough for tears when he was alone.

Joseph stood and looked at them for a long time. In less than two days, his entire world had changed, leaving him only his brother, Benjamin. No tears, prayer, or pleading would make this strange reality different. It was in front of him, in these waxen forms, forever unchanging.

Then he nodded. “I see them,” he said, an affirmation that he understood and accepted this new, harsh reality. “I’d like to go over to the hotel and rent a bath before we go pick up Ben. He doesn’t need to see me fresh off the trail in all my dirt.” Despite the rolling waves of emotion, his voice was steady.

Billy looked at Joseph, disbelief written plain on his face. “I’ll go round up a couple of boys you can deputize to look after those rustlers so’s we can both go. All right?”

“That’ll be fine,” Joseph said, although his friend’s sympathy rubbed his raw nerves almost beyond his ability to maintain control. He didn’t know what he would say to Ben. He should have had something wise and comforting to tell the boy, but he couldn’t think of a single thing.

At the hotel, he ordered a bottle of whisky to go with his bath. Joseph folded his lanky form into the half-hogshead filled with hot water and suds, laid his head back against the side of the tub, and took the first sip from the bottle. It was like liquid fire rolling down his throat. He only wished that it could burn away the sickness in his belly and let him forget the sight of those still forms. Alone in the bath, he let the tears roll down his face.

***

Two days later, Joseph rode out with Billy to Billy’s ranch. His head throbbed abominably, thanks to the combination of tears and a massive hangover from too much rotgut whiskey.

Joseph rode into Billy’s stable yard, unsure what to say to his younger brother or how to behave with him. Benjamin, slender and dark-haired, just at the dividing edge between late childhood and early manhood, came out from the barn to meet them. When Joseph slid off his horse, the boy ran to him and wrapped his arms about his waist, head pressed against Joseph’s chest.

An old cowpuncher who had followed the boy out said, “He ain’t said nothin’, boss. Just keeps currying that horse. It’s a wonder that sorrel has any hair left at all.”

“I’ll take him home,” Joseph said, keeping his voice steady and calm. “This is hard for all of us, but maybe it will be better when we are in our own place. Go on and saddle up, Ben.”

The boy nodded, then turned and went back into the stable.

“Not a word?” Joseph asked.

“Not a single word,” the oldster confirmed.

Joseph sighed and leaned his head against his saddle. The weight of his own grief was almost unbearable. He could only imagine the deep pain that Benjamin must be feeling. Joseph wondered how profoundly it had scarred the boy to have stolen his voice and whether Ben would ever be the same. It felt as if he were a pack mule that had been loaded down with a load of rocks that were more than he could carry.

Billy asked sympathetically, “You gonna be okay, Joe? You need help with anything?”

“I hardly know how to go on,” Joseph replied. “I never thought there would be life without Ma, Pa, my brothers, and my sisters. On top of that, there’s all the paperwork, an’ ranch chores, an’ it’s been years since I did any of it. Willie ran the ranch, and Ma and the girls took care of the house, garden, chickens, and the milk cow. Ma did all the money stuff, including ordering supplies for the ranchin’ end of things. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around, an’ I can’t think how hard it must be for Ben ‘cause he was always at home with them.”

“Let me know if there’s any way at all that me and the boys can help,” Billy said. “I’ll be right glad to do it.”

“Thank you, Billy,” Joseph said. “Right now, I’m not even sure I can think. But I’ll be certain to let you know.”

Chapter One

Jamestown, Virginia, January 1860

Grace carefully swept crumbs off the table into the silver crumb tray. Logan, her dearly departed husband, would have loved that silver crumb tray. It had an ornate grape and leaf design on the handle. Even though it was really only pewter, it lent an air of elegance and grace to clearing off the breakfast table.

Logan had favored things that were elegant and graceful. He had told her often how much he admired her green eyes and the graceful way her dark brown hair hung down her back and past her waist when it was braided in a single plait.

But Logan would never again tell her anything. In late November, he had been gunned down on the highway on his way back from a business trip. That would have been nightmare enough, to have suddenly become a widow, her dearest love and best friend ripped from her, but what followed immediately upon the notice of his death was a descent into Dante’s inferno.

Logan’s will indicated that he had intended to leave her provided for, but he had run into debt. Everything, including the business her father had built, had to be sold, leaving Grace barely enough to rent a room in a rat-infested boarding house.

Without money, a father, or a husband, Grace took whatever work she could get. This week, she was working as a maid at a large plantation. The family had just finished their breakfast and gone off to their various pursuits. Surreptitiously, Grace cut off the bitten half of a baking-soda biscuit laden with honey and popped the untouched half into her mouth. She chewed quickly because Agatha, the angular cook, would take extreme exception to this poaching on what she viewed as her prerogatives. Although meals were supposed to be part of their wages, Agatha had to feed everyone out of the leftovers.

The master of the plantation liked to read his newspaper at the breakfast table, even though his wife fussed at him about it. Today had been no exception, and the paper lay scattered about his place. Fuel for my stove, Grace thought, picking up the smeared and crumpled leaves.

Her drafty little room had a Ben Franklin stove, but Grace rarely had anything to burn in it. With Christmas only a bitter memory and the first days of the new year marching along, January evenings were damp and chilly here in Jamestown. Besides, it would give her something to read. She missed her books above all things, but they had been sold with all the rest of their things.

With the table cleared, Grace loaded the dishes, scraps, and half-filled bowls of leftovers onto the cart. These would most likely be the servants’ noontime meal, so Agatha’s watchful eye on them was not without cause. Besides Grace, there were three other maids, the cook’s helper, the gardener, and Agatha herself to feed out of these leavings.

After the dishes were all washed, dried, and put away, Grace, armed with a carpet beater, went out back to get the dust out of the parlor carpets. The family was expecting guests in the upcoming week, and it was important to get that special room as clean as possible before it was subjected to the many boots and slippers that would tread those worn carpets.

When Grace returned to the kitchen, Agatha, an angular, gray-haired woman of medium height, handed her a plate containing cold pancakes, congealed gravy, and one tiny slice of bacon. “You come back for a cup of sage tea,” Agatha said. “You want feeding up, you do. I’d give you more if I had it.”

“Thank you, Agatha,” Grace said. “I will.”

Grace tucked herself up in a ray of sunshine on the back porch and spread the paper out beside her. It was full of debates about slavery, state’s rights, and secession. There was also a section about going west to greater opportunity.

If only I were a man, I would go in a minute. The wages I earn here scarcely pay the rent on my room, with not even a penny to spare. Grace could hear her papa’s voice in the back of her head: “Always set a little aside, Gracie, even if it is only a penny. You never know when that penny might buy an opportunity.”

Grace read through all the news and then started on the advertising at the back of the paper. “Lilliam Pinkham tablets,” one of them read, “Relief from your monthly sick time.” Another read, “Develop muscles that will be the envy of all at Atlas Gymnasium.”

Then she ran her eye down the personals. There were little one-line ads such as, “AB is very sorry, CS. Please come home.” And “Missing: boy, medium dark, property of…” She hurried on past that one. There were no slaves on this small plantation, but the workers were paid so little that they were scarcely better off.

Except that we can leave if we’ve a mind to. We’d all starve, but we could.

Then Grace saw an ad that read, “Wanted: Wife to help care for younger brother and run ranch. Will send travel expenses. Please respond by telegraph or by letter to J. Sharp at Tarryall, Colorado.”

Grace looked at it. Tarryall, Colorado—all expenses paid. Was this perhaps the opportunity she’s just been wishing for? She was so tired of eating leftovers and hoping that she would not wake up with rats in her hair. Could life as a rancher’s wife be better? Or would it be just more of the same?