Prologue

Bandera, Texas, February 1861

The boarding house room was small and spare, its wooden walls offering precious little protection against the early February morning outside. Outside, the rumble of wagon wheels carried up from the street, along with snippets of anxious talk about the coming war. A faint staleness hung in the air, thickened by days of lingering illness and coal smoke from the potbellied stove in the corner.

An oil lamp burned low on the bedside table, its dirty flame flickering like hope itself, casting shadows that danced across two figures: a boy lying still on the narrow bed and a young woman with copper-auburn hair escaping its pins, her dark cotton dress wrinkled from long nights of vigil. On her cheek, a scar where a whip had struck her across the face. The wound had healed, but the scar was fresh and still an angry pink.

Eliza Mae leaned closer, her shawl slipping from one shoulder as she listened for any sound from Samuel—a whisper, a sigh, the faintest murmur that might mean he was coming back to her. But he lay silent, caught in the depths of his fevered sleep, his chest rising and falling with the shallow, labored rhythm that had tormented her these past three days. A lock of his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and she brushed it back tenderly with callused fingers worn rough from months of taking in washing, remembering how he used to fight against such gestures of tenderness.

She lingered, one hand resting on the rough quilt, imagining him running free, back in days of health and light—riding his old horse Storm through the paddocks of home, whooping with the kind of joy that only comes with youth and strength. The memory was so vivid she could almost feel the Texas sun on her face and smell the mesquite and sage carried on the warm breeze. She willed that strength into him now, even as the wan light faded from the frost-rimmed window and another long night stretched before them.

The sob rose in her throat before she could stop it. She pressed her lips together, holding back the sound. Their parents’ graves were still fresh on the hill behind the church, and now… She couldn’t finish the thought. Instead, she wrung out a cloth in the washbasin, the water gone tepid hours ago. As she laid it across Samuel’s forehead, his skin burned against her fingers with a heat that no cool cloth could chase away. The doctor’s words echoed in her mind: “Nothing left but to wait.” She knew what that meant—had known it since yesterday, when Samuel’s breathing had taken on that terrible, shallow rattle.

His face in the dying light bore little resemblance to her little brother of just a few short months before. Illness had carved away at his features until they were sharp as a man’s, though he was barely ten. The fever spots high on his cheeks stood out like cruel paint against skin gone waxy and pale. Eliza Mae straightened his collar with fingers that wouldn’t quite steady, trying to mother him the way their mama would have done, the way he deserved. But even as she fussed with the bedding, his breathing grew more labored, each breath a little further apart than the last.

Just then, the longed-for but impossible moment came. His eyelids fluttered open, and he murmured something. Eliza stroked his shoulders so he knew she was with him.

“Eliza,” Samuel rasped, his voice hoarse and so small it was barely audible.

She leaned in closer still, her heart clenching as she took his hand. It felt so fragile, like a little bird in her hands. It was hard to believe it belonged to Samuel, to the strong, wiry boy he had been just a year ago.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her throat thick with the tears she was determined not to shed. Not yet. The time for that would come soon enough, too soon.

He turned his head just enough for her to see the flicker of a smile in his eyes before he winced with the effort and the pain, and the smile was gone.

“You’re always here,” he said. “I know that you always will be.”

Unshed tears prickled at her eyes. She blinked them back. Samuel needed her to be strong. But she couldn’t help but think that “always” wasn’t very long now. Their final parting was drawing near.

“I could never leave you,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “Not like this, not while you need me. We’re family. That means sticking together, thick and thin.”

His chest heaved with what might have been a sigh. Almost before it reached his lips, the sound became a hacking cough that left him gasping for air. Eliza felt fear grip her like a vice until she could hardly breathe either. She reached for the cup of water on the bedside table and held it steady to his pale, cracked lips so he could sip just enough to wet his throat.

Samuel’s cough subsided, and he wilted back into the pillow, exhausted. His breathing steadied, but she could feel the strength draining from him. Every little thing took such a tremendous effort, and he was being so brave. Eliza’s heart swelled with pride just as it was pierced with the pain of what she knew was coming. The moment of separation was coming. It was too late to do anything about that now. She had known it for days, but it still felt impossible, the finality of it a weight she could hardly bear.

“Eliza,” he said again, his voice quieter now but with a new urgency. “You did everything you could. I want you to know that. Before…” He trailed off, too weary to go on or too afraid to say aloud what they both knew was coming.

She shook her head, and for a long moment, she couldn’t speak. Her chest was too heavy, her heart too full. When she eventually found her voice, it was barely above a whisper. She cradled his delicate head in her caressing hands and spoke close to his ear.

“No, Samuel. I didn’t. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save any of us.” The sob she had been holding down burst through, and she stifled it.

His hand gripped hers weakly but fervently, and when he spoke, he sounded older than his years. He had had to grow up so fast this past year; they both had.

“You did more than anyone else could have. You’ve kept us going. You… you tried. You didn’t give up. You mustn’t give up now.”

He sounded so earnest, so strong, despite his illness and the hardships they’d been through. Would she ever forgive herself for this? For not being able to save him, for not being able to keep him alive? For not protecting him the way she had sworn she would after their parents passed away? She was all he had, and she had not been enough, not when it came down to it.

As they sat hand in hand in the silence of the sick room, Eliza’s mind drifted back to that terrible day a year before that had set them on this road leading them here to this unthinkable moment.

“Do you remember,” Samuel said haltingly, “the day the Iron Riders came to Cedar Ridge?”

Cedar Ridge had been their daddy’s ranch in Bandera. It wasn’t much—just a modest spread in this corner of Texas with a small herd and good water—but it had been home; it had been enough. And the Iron Riders, well, they were infamous. A ruthless gang of outlaws who terrorized the territory, leaving broken families and burned-out homesteads in their wake.

“I was in the garden,” she said as though speaking in a trance, “with Ma. We were picking peas.” The memory was crystal clear: the plink of peas falling into the basin, the gentle rustle of her mother’s skirts as they worked in the morning sun. “That’s when I heard the hooves on the trail, and when I looked up, I saw they were coming. I cried out to Pa in the corral, but it was too late.”

“I remember how brave Pa was,” Samuel said, his voice a little brighter, a little more like his old self. “He didn’t give in. When the gang came and said he had to pay, he said no because that was wrong.”

“He died for it,” Eliza murmured. “And Ma, too. If he had given in, he wouldn’t have died that day, and Ma wouldn’t have wasted away like she did.”

She dwelt on those hard weeks after her pa was shot down before her very eyes, the sound of that fatal shot still echoing in her nightmares. She remembered how her ma had sunk to her knees and wailed, a sound like nothing Eliza had ever heard before or since. How she’d retreated to her bed, consumed by grief and illness. They said she’d died from a broken heart, but weren’t they all broken-hearted? She loved her mother and father, but part of her was angry that she’d been left alone to care for Samuel when she was not quite sixteen.

She touched the scar that marked her cheek. The men had circled them on their horses, jeering and laughing, and one of them had flicked a whip at Samuel, who defied them with a scowl and refused to be afraid. Eliza had put herself between them and had taken the sting of the whip, a mark she would wear with sorrow and love all her days through.

And now Samuel, the only family she had in the wide world, was slipping away from her, too. Eliza could feel rage bubbling beneath the surface of her sorrow. There was no one to blame except herself. She should have done more. She should have been stronger.

Samuel’s eyes flickered open, focusing on her with surprising clarity. His lips trembled as he forced out the words. “Eliza, you have to stop blaming yourself. You’re like Pa. You’re strong and brave. You can do great things. And it makes me happy to know it. You’ll find someone to love, I just know it. This isn’t the end…”

He trailed off and sunk back into his pillow, his eyes closing as though he was drifting to sleep. Eliza listened as his breathing changed, then slowed, then stopped.

She sat with him in the flickering light cast by the lamp. He was still, and though he looked like he was sleeping, she knew he would not wake again. The sounds of San Antonio awakening intruded—the clatter of merchants’ carts, the calls of vendors setting up their stalls, the distant whistle of the morning train, the stamp of cavalry horses in the military quarter—and the world kept turning.

Eliza smoothed the counterpane over Samuel’s little chest, which had fallen still at last, tucking him in for his final sleep. The silver cross at her throat—their mother’s last gift—caught the first ray of dawn and gleamed. He’d said she was brave, but she didn’t feel it. He’d told her to live, but she didn’t know how.

How long did she sit beside him like that? She wasn’t sure, but when she rose, went to the window, and pulled back the curtain, she found that the sun had risen and the day outside had begun.

“I don’t know how I’ll do it, Samuel, my love,” she said with a steel in her voice that she hardly recognized as her own. “But I’ve got to live for the both of us now. And that’s what I’ll do, come what may. I promise.”

Chapter One

San Antonio, Texas, June 1871

The midday sun of San Antonio beat mercilessly against the grocery store’s glass front, offering little shelter to Eliza Mae as she worked. She paused to wipe sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her dress sleeves rolled above her elbows. The store stood quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock behind the counter. It was a simple place—wooden shelves lined with canned goods, dried meats hanging from hooks by the door, burlap sacks of flour and sugar piled in the back—but it was hers. Every shelf, every nail, every decision had been hers to make.

Through the small window behind the counter, the sounds of the city drifted in on a sluggish breeze: the steady clip of horses’ hooves, the distant murmur of conversation, the subtle pulse of a town alive even in the summer heat. These were Eliza’s favorite hours, when the light turned everything golden and time seemed to slow, each moment preserved like a flower pressed between pages.

The bell above the door chimed, letting in a rush of warm air and street sounds. Eliza looked up with a practiced smile to find Mr. Stevenson, the town’s blacksmith, ducking through her doorway. He was a mountain of a man with hands like anvils, but his sheepish smile and gentle manner always reminded her of an oversized puppy, more likely to knock things over in excitement than cause any real harm.

“Howdy, Mr. Stevenson,” she called, quickly brushing her hands on her skirts and moving behind the counter. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

“Howdy, Eliza.” He grinned, clearly amused by her formal greeting. “Mr. Stevenson,” he chuckled, “I sure do like that! Though Pete’s just fine by me.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll take some of that fine jerky you’ve got hanging over there. And a bag of sugar. My missus does like to bake, even in weather like this. Always got a pie cooling on the ledge. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“I’d say you’re a wise man for keeping her happy,” Eliza laughed, moving to gather his items. “And her pies are the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’ll bring you a slice of her next creation,” he promised. “She’s got herself some huckleberries from her little nieces. I’ll wager they’ll bake up real nice.”

Eliza wrapped his purchases in brown paper and noticed his expression grow serious. “You know,” he said softly, as if sharing a confidence, “there’s not a soul alive in this town who doesn’t appreciate what you’ve done with this little store, Miss Eliza. It’s a blessing to have you here. Made a real difference.” His cheeks colored slightly as he added, “You’ve made a difference.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly, tallying his total. “I’m just glad to be part of this community.”

“You’re more than a part of it,” he said, tipping his hat. “You’re right at the heart of it.”

After he left, Eliza watched through the window as he disappeared into the crowd. Her smile faded. Running the store was good work—honest work that helped people. But was it enough? Was this the life she was meant to lead?

Her fingers absently traced the ridge of the scar on her cheek, a reminder of the day her father died, when the killers’ whip had lashed out toward her brother, and she’d stepped between them. Ten years had passed since she’d lost her Samuel, ten years that had seen a Civil War tear the country apart and stitch it back together. A time of turmoil and rebuilding for herself and her country, the land she loved. She thought of her tidy rooms behind the shop where she lived alone, of the quiet satisfaction of a simple life. Was this what Samuel had meant when he’d spoken of her doing great things, when he’d dreamed on his deathbed of a future filled with love?

She wiped away a solitary tear. Her life might be safe and quiet now, but she knew better than most how precious safety and peace could be. Those were blessings she counted every single day. Still, as she returned to stocking shelves, arranging cans in neat rows, and finding comfort in their orderly progression, a shadow of melancholy lingered, a specter of doubt.

The door chimed again, and the sounds of the street pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to find Mrs. O’Leary entering the store and couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. O’Leary was a force of nature, a woman of perhaps forty who ran the town’s saloon without any man in sight. Her independence and moxie made her a welcome sight any day.

“Mrs. O’Leary,” Eliza called warmly, “a very good day to you. What can I help you with today?”

The afternoon passed with a steady stream of familiar faces drifting in off Main Street, exchanging a word or two, and drifting away again, returning to their lives, their homes, and their families. Mary O’Conner had stopped by that morning as she always did, bringing fresh gossip and a warm smile along with her shopping list. “You work too hard,” she’d told Eliza for the hundredth time. “Life’s meant for living, not just working.” There was Mrs. Hendrick, the widow who always bought more flour than she could carry. The Martin boys, who couldn’t resist the penny candy by the counter. Old Barnard Wilkins shambled his way across from Mrs. O’Leary’s saloon for some chewing tobacco. Eliza knew everyone by name, knew their stories, their quirks. It made her feel less alone, part of something. But it was always fleeting.

As the sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the wooden floor, Eliza began to tidy the shop, preparing to close for the day. She swept the floors, wiped down the counters, and made sure everything was in its place. It was a good feeling to leave everything in good order. A pleasant ritual, she supposed it made her feel good to control what she could when there was so much that she couldn’t.

She untied her work apron, hung it neatly on its hook behind the counter, and collected her bonnet from its peg beside the door. Then, she pinned it neatly into place using the reflection in the plate glass window against the darkening sky.

Turning to go, she heard a sound, a little like the mewling of a kitten. She looked around and, seeing nothing, decided she must have imagined it.

Just as she was about to lock the door, she heard it again. Faint but unmistakable. A soft cry.

Frowning, Eliza stepped outside and looked up and down the street. The street had quieted, the usual hustle and bustle winding down as people retreated to their homes for the evening. The cry came again, and this time, it was a little louder. She looked down. There, at the doorstep, was a small bundle wrapped in a worn-out old blanket.

Her breath caught in her throat. A baby.

She kneeled, gently picking up the bundle, and the baby inside squirmed, letting out another tiny wail. As she adjusted the blanket, her eyes met the wide, bewildered glance of the baby. Those deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through the careful walls she’d built around her heart, past all her doubts about whether running a store was enough. Here was something that demanded more of her than neat shelves and careful ledgers. The baby began to cry, and Eliza bounced it in her arms.

“There there, baby,” she cooed. “Where did you come from, huh?”

Just then, something slipped out from the folds of the grubby old blanket—a rectangle of white drifted to her feet. It was a piece of paper. With one hand, she reached down to pick it up and managed to open it with her teeth so as not to disturb the fractious child.

As she studied the note, something about the handwriting tugged at her memory. The elaborate curve of the ‘C’ in Charlotte, the way the ‘f’ in safe tilted slightly—she’d seen this hand before, she was certain of it. But where? Her heart thundered in her ears.

This couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Someone had left this baby—Charlotte—on purpose, and they wanted her to protect her. But why leave an infant with Eliza, of all people? And who in tarnation could have done this? The letter offered no further explanation, no further clue. There was no name, no address, no mark on the paper that might give the writer away. Just plain, blank white and that simple line, that momentous request: Take care of Charlotte. Please keep her safe.

Eliza stood dumbstruck for a long moment. Her heart thundered in her ears, and a strange warmth flooded her limbs, flushed her cheeks.

“I can’t do this,” she said aloud to the empty street.

The baby whimpered and burbled softly in her arms. What was she supposed to do now? She’d never cared for a child before, let alone been thrust into the role of protector for one. Not since Samuel, anyway. But he was far from a baby when they’d been alone together. And just look how good that turned out, Eliza thought. Unshed tears prickled her eyes, and she swallowed hard to suppress a sob. This was no time for thoughts like that.

But one thing was certain: She couldn’t leave this little girl—Charlotte—out here alone. What she felt about it didn’t matter a jot, not really.

She hurried back inside the shop and locked the door behind her. Her mind raced as she paced back and forth across the creaking floorboards, gently rocking the baby and trying to soothe her.

What could she do? Who could she turn to for help? There was only one person she could turn to for help right now. Mary.

Grabbing her shawl, Eliza laid Charlotte down gently on the counter and bundled her carefully in the folds of soft fabric. It was an improvement on the grubby old blanket, that was for sure. Charlotte’s pink face looked cherubic amongst the yellow and pink roses of Eliza’s shawl. It was the most expensive piece of clothing Eliza owned, had ever owned, a luxury she’d saved for and ordered from a catalog after her first good month of business. She’d waited months for the peddler to bring it. And now, she wore it like a medal, a mark of pride. She bought it with her own money, and when she wore it, she thought about her little shop and how good she’d done with it, what she’d built all by her lonesome. It made her feel braver whenever she wore it. She gave it to Charlotte now; the poor mite would need to be brave, she feared.

It made the baby look a little more cheerful, perhaps even healthier. No longer an abandoned foundling in a strained and ragged bundle. A cossetted flower among flowers, wrapped up in silk.

“There,” she said softly, a smile playing on her lips and twinkling in her eyes. “Isn’t that better?”

She retrieved her bonnet from behind the counter, tied it with uncharacteristic haste so it sat slightly lopsided, and rushed out of the shop with Charlotte cradled in her arms, held with care like she was made of porcelain and might break. Eliza moved with a sure stride and a purposeful expression: She was heading down the street to her best friend’s house.

Mary O’Conner had been her rock ever since she’d arrived in San Antonio. She was strong, independent, and always ready with a smile and a joke, no matter how tough things got. She had no family around these parts either.

Mary had a good head on her shoulders and had worked as a governess before she rolled into San Antonio. Now, she taught reading and writing to the children of ranch hands and laborers at the free school. It was a modest little place—just a bare room behind the church—and the community fund didn’t stretch to a lavish salary for Mary. But she poured her soul into it. It was one of the things Eliza admired most about her friend: her energy, dedication, and determination to help lift up the little guy.

They’d found each other; they supported each other like family.

When Eliza knocked on the door, it swung open almost immediately. Mary stood there, her arms crossed and a grin on her face.

“Eliza Mae, I do declare. What on earth are you doing here at this hour? You’re usually holed up in that store of yours till the roosters start crowing again.”