Prologue

August 1879

The room held its breath between contractions. The midwife’s eyes keep floating shut, the past twenty-four hours draining her almost as much as Elsie and Linda.

“Come on, Linda,” Elsie murmured, sitting beside her sister’s bed with a basin of lukewarm water and a blood-streaked cloth in her lap. “You can do this.”

The windows were shut tight against the humid Texas heat. Even in August, Prairie Lea was like a smoldering brick oven. It was hot, and the air was stale with the smell of blood and sweat.

Every time Linda cried out, Elsie wiped her forehead gently, speaking in a voice meant to distract, to soothe, to pretend everything was fine.

“You remember Mama’s blackberry cobbler?” she asked, dipping the cloth again. “The time we ate it raw because we couldn’t wait for the crust to finish baking?”

Linda didn’t answer—just whimpered. Her fingers were balled into the quilt, shoulders tense as another wave of contractions hit. Her breathing grew ragged as she bore down with what little strength she had left.

Elsie counted softly, watching her sister’s eyes flutter under strain. The midwife cracked one eye open, then closed it again, seemingly unbothered by Linda’s situation. Elsie frowned before turning back to her sister.

“You’re doing just fine. Real strong,” she whispered.

Linda nodded faintly, though her face was pale and her lips trembled with exhaustion. Her sweat-soaked nightgown clung to her thin frame. Elsie hated seeing her this way—so small in a body that had endured too much.

“How about that time when those yellowjackets got after us?”

This time, Linda managed a broken laugh between gasps. “You left me,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I ran for my life,” Elsie chuckled. “I didn’t know you were going to run headfirst into Ma’s sheet and knock it in the dirt.”

“She’d just washed it and hung it to dry.” Linda smiled weakly. “But it was your idea to hide it.”

“Yeah,” Elsie said thoughtfully. “I should have known she’d never believe a bear came out of the woods and took it.”

Linda gasped out a laugh, and then the pain returned. Her back arched, and she cried out. Elsie leaned over her, grasping both hands now.

“Push, Linda. You’re almost through.”

The midwife finally woke up and stumbled over. She gave a brisk nod and stood ready with another cloth. She’d been quiet all morning, her silence speaking more than her words ever could. Honestly, Elsie wasn’t even sure why they needed her.

When the baby’s cry finally pierced the room, Elsie slumped in relief. “Thank you, God,” she prayed softly.

Mrs. Grover wrapped the infant in a faded blue blanket and placed him gently in Elsie’s arms.

“It’s a fine-looking boy,” she said proudly, as if it were all due to her expertise and hard work.

Elsie smiled down at her nephew, already falling in love. “Oh, Linda. He’s…” She shook her head, looking for the right word. There didn’t seem to be one that described him aptly. She settled on, “He’s beautiful.”

Linda smiled, but her eyes remained firmly closed. Elsie stayed beside her, still wetting Linda’s forehead with one hand while she held the baby with the other.

“What are we going to call him?” Elsie asked.

“Philip,” Linda whispered, each syllable cracked and fragile. “His name is Philip.”

Elsie touched her sister’s cheek. “Philip. I like it,” she smiled. “Philip… Smith?”

“No!” The excited utterance took its toll, and Linda panted. “Jackson. Philip Jackson.”

“Okay,” Elsie sighed, looking down at the baby. “You heard your ma. Philip Jackson, it is.”

But her voice faltered as she turned her gaze toward the blood-soaked linens on the bed. The midwife exchanged the cloths faster now, her jaw tense.

Linda’s color was wrong—ashen, almost waxy. She wasn’t bouncing back. She was slipping under. Elsie’s stomach tightened. She’d seen animals fade like this after birthing too long—eyes dulling, breaths slowing until finally they stopped.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Elsie said, just short of insisting. She squeezed Linda’s hand and felt how cold it had become.

Linda blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused. “Ross…”

Elsie stiffened. The name cut through the moment like a gust of winter wind. She didn’t want to talk about him. Not now.

Her sister’s husband had all but vanished from their lives after Linda ran away from him. After he’d shoved her down the cellar steps, cracked her collarbone, and then tried to sweet-talk her from the front porch like nothing had happened.

“He can’t have him,” Linda murmured, her voice a thin whisper. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Elsie said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “He won’t get near Philip. But you’ll be here to help me keep him away.”

Linda smiled weakly, her fingers clinging to Elsie’s for a moment longer.

Then released.

The room went quiet except for the baby’s soft whimpering. Elsie didn’t dare move. She stared at Linda’s face, still and pale, her mouth slightly open like she’d meant to speak again but never got the chance.

The baby shifted in Elsie’s arms, his arms flailing from beneath the blanket.

The midwife said nothing at first—only removed some of the bloody linens from the bed and sat them in a corner.

“I’m afraid she’s gone,” she finally told Elsie as she covered Linda’s body with another sheet. “It was a long, hard delivery. Honestly, I didn’t expect the babe to make it, either.”

Elsie looked up, staring through the woman, her sight unfocused. “You can go,” she said, not trusting what she might say.

“I’ll just clean her up first.”

“No. You can go. I will take care of my sister,” Elsie stated firmly.

“Suit yourself,” the midwife replied. “I’ll stop by and see Mr. Clark on my way home. I’m sure he’ll be right over, with the heat and all.”

Elsie didn’t say anything else before the midwife left. She stayed seated, unmoving for a long while. Finally, she stood and placed a whimpering Philip in his cradle while she set to cleaning her sister. No one else would see her like this. She’d make sure of that.

As she washed and dried her sister’s body, she let her tears fall free. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. The life that had filled the house just the day before had drained into silence.

When she finally finished preparing her sister—brushing her hair and dressing her in her favorite cream-colored dress—she stood up. Her legs felt weak, and her head swam. She could almost believe this was all a bad dream. Any minute, she would wake up. She wanted to wake up.

She splashed some water on her face and dried her eyes. Then she walked over to the cradle and looked down at her nephew. He lay curled and quiet, his tiny fists tight against the blanket. Elsie studied his face—Linda’s nose, Linda’s lips, even the soft round of her jaw set gently in place.

The poor thing looked nearly bald at first glance, his scalp smooth and soft. But as a sliver of afternoon light caught the crown of his head, she noticed a faint spattering of fine, straw-colored hair—just enough to hint at blond. He would have hair like his mother’s and his aunt’s.

He was so small, a bundle barely bigger than the family Bible that sat on the mantel. It suddenly occurred to her that she’d need to make a new entry in it. Two new entries, actually—a birth and a death. She put it out of her mind for now.

She lifted the baby gently, holding him against her chest. He nestled into her without complaint. His skin was warm, and he smelled like Linda. Elsie closed her eyes and breathed him in.

“I’ve got you now,” she whispered. “I’ll keep you safe.”

She turned back to the bed and took Linda’s lifeless hand, gripping it tight. There were so many things she wanted to say—apologies for any slights or arguments in the past and gratitude for the days they spent picking wildflowers instead of working. For the sister who once stole her ribbon, then sat crying on the porch until Elsie forgave her.

Her big sister.

But those words would only echo in the quiet now.

So, instead, she looked at her sister, her chest aching with grief, and said just one thing.

“He’ll know you,” she promised.

Then she let go. Not of the grief—she’d carry that with her for the rest of her life—but of her sister’s hand.

Outside, she heard horses and a creaky wagon coming down the road. She figured it was Mr. Clark, the town’s undertaker. The midwife had been right about one thing, anyway. He did get there quickly. Maybe that was a good thing.

Now, with Philip tucked into her arms, Elsie stood in the doorway and waited. She glanced down at Philip and sighed. She didn’t know how she was going to keep him away from Ross. Or how she’d survive with another mouth to feed. But she would do it. Because Linda had asked her to.

And because love—real love—meant sacrifice.

Chapter One

August 1880

“Grace!”

Elsie turned at the sound, her smile softening as the little girl beside her looked up. A woman barreled across the street, skirts flying behind her, eyes locked on the child. She reached the sidewalk in two strides and seized the girl’s arm with a force that made her stumble.

“I’ve told you before,” the woman snapped, dragging the child back toward the curb. “You don’t speak to people like her.”

Elsie sighed. A year since Linda’s death, and the town still whispered. Even more these days, if that was possible. She told herself it didn’t hurt. But it did.

Regardless, she could take the abuse if it meant being able to take care of Philip. And she was. Just barely, but they were eking by. He was still too young to understand what they said about her, anyway. That wouldn’t always be the case, though.

For now, she was returning to work with the shopping and needed to hurry so lunch wouldn’t be late. She couldn’t afford her wages to get docked again—not even a cent.

She was already working as many hours as she could get, saving a few coins each month in hopes they would someday have enough to move far away from this wretched town. Somewhere, no one knew them, and they could start fresh.

Elsie trudged up the back steps of the O’Donnell’s Queen Anne-styled mansion and let herself inside. From the kitchen, she retrieved the stiff-bristled broom tucked neatly in the corner. She used it to keep the back stairway neat and inviting. Her mind continued to drift as the dry twigs scraped across the soft wood, sun-bleached and worn soft by decades of servants’ footsteps.

Her shoulders already ached from the morning’s laundry. Her palms were red and raw, blistered from scrubbing chamber pots with lye soap too harsh for skin.

Six days a week, she labored from sun-up to sundown for a dollar and a plate of food. No one said thank you or expressed appreciation for her diligent efforts. In fact, no one spoke much to her at all, unless she’d missed a corner dusting or put too much pepper in the stew.

The O’Donnells were an older couple who’d started their family rather late in life. Mr. O’Donnell seemed kind but was rarely at home. He was some kind of senator or assemblyman, she wasn’t sure which. Mrs. O’Donnell was exacting but didn’t seem to go out of her way to be cruel or punishing.

She didn’t particularly like working there, but they were the only wealthy family in town that would stoop so low as to hire a woman of Elsie’s caliber. They generally steered clear of her, like everyone else. Not even the other servants would talk to her.

She tolerated it because the O’Donnells gave a generous Christmas bonus to all the servants each year. And they allowed Elsie to take home scraps for her supper whenever there were leftovers. Or at least, no one ever objected.

“Oh! There you are, Elsie,” Mrs. O’Donnell crooned from the doorway. “We’ll be hosting the ladies from the Literacy Society for lunch on Saturday. I’ve prepared a list. Stop by before you leave and pick it up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elsie replied.

Mrs. O’Donnell started to leave, then paused and turned around. “Oh, and be sure you go over Mr. O’Donnell’s study before Friday. He’ll be coming home this weekend, and you know how he likes his whiskey and cigars in the evenings.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elsie repeated, wondering when she’d have time to do that.

“That’s a good girl,” she said as she walked away.

Elsie sighed. Mrs. O’Donnell wasn’t a bad woman. She was just a particular woman who liked things done a certain way—floorboards wiped until they shone, bed linens boiled for a specific time, silence at all times unless spoken to.

When she wasn’t busy with her children or one of the many societies or charities she supported, she followed along behind Elsie like a shadow, inspecting folded shirts and sniffing cookware before mealtime.

That was bad enough, but their boys tracked dirt through every cleaned nook and hallway, throwing things and slamming doors—shouting and shoving without correction. Elsie wasn’t allowed to scold or raise her voice at them. That was a quick way to get dismissed.

She stayed because she had no choice. Philip needed food. And someone had to watch him while she worked.

Mrs. Harper, a half-blind widow who barely left her rocking chair, kept an eye on Philip during the day. Elsie paid her each week from her own wages—money she should’ve spent on shoes or beans.

Mrs. Harper tried her best, but the poor woman’s memory slipped more every day, and her knees tended to give out easily. More than once, Elsie came home to find Mrs. Harper asleep, Philip left unsupervised, getting into things, or curled up asleep in a kitchen cupboard or playing in front of the hearth.

But she didn’t have the luxury of choice. No one else in town offered help. Not after they decided who and what she was.

They thought Philip was her baby. That she’d lain down with someone in secret. That she’d birthed a child out of wedlock and chose to raise him alone. The fact that he looked just like Linda—and therefore her—didn’t seem to help, either.

They called her names when she passed by—fast, shameless, wanton. Some even spat at her or looked away as she walked into the general store, then charged her higher prices for salt and flour.

The preacher no longer asked her to read verses aloud in Sunday service. Women crossed the street with their children if she came too near. Even Mrs. Harper, despite taking her money, muttered under her breath when Philip cried too loudly.

Elsie kept her head down and her mouth closed. The lie, cruel as it was, gave her protection. If Ross ever discovered that Philip was his—that Linda had hidden the pregnancy from him and left Elsie to carry the consequences—she couldn’t imagine what would happen.

She remembered the way his anger filled a room like poisonous smoke. How he screamed at Linda until their dishes rattled. How the walls of their house trembled every time his boots struck the porch.

Elsie didn’t doubt what he’d do if he found Philip. He’d march in, claim Philip by name and by blood, and drag the boy into a life of bruises and broken doors.

And the town wouldn’t stop him. The sheriff would say Elsie had no right. The preacher would say that she was being punished for her sins. No one would remember Linda, or what she’d endured. No one would help her keep her promise.

So, she kept quiet. She worked herself sick, sewed clothes from curtains and feed sacks, and whispered stories to Philip about a beautiful princess named Linda who’d been forced to leave her son when he was just an infant. She told him his mother was brave and kind. She kissed the crown of his head where the fine blond wisps curled just like his mother’s.

But rumors have legs. And this one was no different.

Mrs. O’Donnell found her in the pantry one late afternoon, elbows deep in a flour sack, and said, “Sheriff says Ross Smith is asking questions about you. What have you done now, Elsie?”

Elsie didn’t blink. “Nothing.”

Mrs. O’Donnell looked doubtful. “Well, you’d best get it straightened out,” she said, voice sharp. “I’ll not have any foolishness darkening my doorstep.”

Somehow, Elsie managed to work out the rest of the day before she hurried home to Philip. It was time for them to go. She’d start packing them up on Sunday.

That evening, Mrs. Harper had already gone home, and Elsie was slicing carrots for supper, wondering how far they could get on the little she’d managed to save so far.

The knife slipped when she heard shouting outside. She ran to the window and saw Ross Smith standing in her yard with several of his ranch hands. He swayed on his feet, waving a torch—red-faced and armed with a rifle as he demanded answers. His voice rattled the porch posts.

“You lied to me, Elsie Jackson!” he yelled. “Where is he? Where’s my son?”

The blood drained from Elsie’s face.

She dropped the knife, scooped Philip off his cot, and grabbed the old satchel she’d kept packed for emergencies. Inside were two dresses for her, two outfits for Philip, three cloths, a flask of water, her meager savings, and a photograph of Linda.

Her fingers shook as she tied the satchel shut and tossed it over her shoulder. She could hear Ross still shouting threats and curses out front.

She ran to the cellar, pried up the hatch, and climbed down into the dark. Philip whimpered.

“It’s okay. We’re going to play hide-and-seek,” she said, trying to sound happy for his sake.

It seemed to take forever, but she finally reached the bottom. The air smelled of mold and rust. In the far corner, behind a stack of rotting crates, was the exit—low, narrow, hidden beneath some warped slats.

A secret passage, known only to Elsie and Linda—and their parents, who had been gone for years now.

“Here we go,” Elsie said as she crouched low and duckwalked through the tunnel. She pressed Philip tightly to her chest until finally, she had to crawl the rest of the way through the dust. Philip was not entertained.

The bag was dragged behind her, and she had to drag it the last bit. Her breath came short and fast. When she reached the end, she pushed aside the boards and crawled out into the night.

Thankfully, the sky was starless. The wind tugged at her shawl as she stood and brushed herself off. She looked around for a second to get her bearings, then headed northeast toward the tree line. She didn’t look back.

Ross’s voice faded behind her, the distance swallowing it up. Her footsteps were hurried as she made her way toward shelter—away from the noise, away from Prairie Lea, away from the life she’d barely held together since her sister died.

She didn’t know where they were going. But she knew what she had to do.

Elsie moved through the trees, careful with her steps. Branches snapped beneath her boots, louder than she wanted. Philip wriggled and stirred against her chest, restless and shifting in the sling she’d tied from an old bedsheet.

She paused beneath a wide oak and pressed a hand to his back. He settled with a soft sigh. She took a deep breath and glanced around.

The moon hung low, half hidden behind a shelf of clouds. Hours had passed since they’d left the house. She hadn’t stopped except to feed Philip part of a hoe cake, give him a drink of water, and change the cloth wrapped around his bottom.

The forest around them didn’t seem very friendly. Every rustle made her tense. Twice, she dropped low in the brush, holding her breath while something—a fox or a dog, she didn’t know—passed nearby.

She’d kept off the main path, weaving through scrub and thorns. Her arms ached from holding the baby, and her knees were bruised from crawling under bushes and fallen limbs. But she was afraid to walk on the road.

Sometime during the night, the trees finally began to thin. The hush of the woods lifted slightly, traded for crickets and tree frogs. Up ahead, beyond a rise, she saw the beginning of open land. She crept forward, keeping low until the shape of a building came into view.

It was a ranch house. Large enough and nice enough to suggest money, but modest enough to feel safe. No lamps burned inside. No barking dogs. Just stillness. Behind the house sat a few outbuildings and a large barn, dark and wide, with its doors loosely shut.

She watched a while for any sign of movement. Nothing stirred. No smoke, no voices—nothing. She crossed the clearing without making a sound, ducking behind a large wooden barrel and then stepping into the shadow of the barn.

The door gave way with little effort. Inside, it smelled like hay and grain. It was a working barn. She moved past a row of stalls, most of them full of mares with foals. Tools hung on nails near the back wall, and a broken pitchfork leaned against a feed bin.

Everything about it said it was frequently used, but she didn’t have much choice. She was exhausted, and Philip needed some rest.

She found a fresh bale of hay in the corner, dry and soft enough to make a good bed. After scattering it in the corner, she grabbed one of the horse blankets on a worktable and spread it on top of the pile before lowering Philip onto it. Then, she eased herself down beside him, keeping an arm around his small body. He didn’t wake.

Sighing, she stretched out and stared up at the ceiling. She wouldn’t sleep, but she had to rest, too. She’d been up for twenty-four hours, put in a full day at the McDonnell’s cleaning and scrubbing, then spent the entire night running. She might only be twenty-three, but her poor body was spent.

Her muscles stiffened, and the scratches along her legs burned and stung. She ignored them and tried instead to think of a plan for the day ahead. Her eyes closed almost at once.

Outside, a soft breeze pushed against the barn’s frame. Somewhere in the trees, an owl called out. Elsie didn’t stir. Her breathing slowed. Her hand rested lightly on Philip’s back, steadying herself more than him.

And in seconds, she fell fast asleep.

Chapter Two

“That fence in the south pasture’s got a hole big enough to drive a cart through,” Ed said as he shoved the last piece of toast in his mouth and washed it down with coffee.

Joe Martinez sat at the table and stirred the last of his coffee. “Do you need help with that?”

“Nah,” Ed said, standing up and walking his cup to the sink. “Sam’s got the men working on it.”

He should have known. Not much got past Sam Harris, their ranch foreman. Sam’s word was gospel around the ranch, had been since the days when his pa was alive. What he said was generally the law. And that went for Joe and his brothers, too.

“I do need the wagon, though,” Ed mused. “I might as well take some extra barbed wire and tackle those fences while I’m out there.”

Joe nodded, knowing better than to question Ed’s priorities. As the oldest, Ed prided himself on leading the brothers as a steadying force and ensuring the ranch ran smoothly and profitably.

Then, Joe turned his attention to the youngest brother, Mark, who was polishing off his fourth biscuit. Joe didn’t see how the boy could be as trim and muscular as he was. He ate more than his horse, Romeo, and avoided hard work like most people avoided the plague.

But at twenty-four, Mark was still lighthearted and carefree, often keeping the brothers laughing. Most times, he glowed with positivity and somehow managed to keep them all hopeful for the future. Mark would probably also add charming and modest to his own description, but Joe would never give him the satisfaction. He chuckled to himself.

“And you?” he asked Mark.

“Romeo threw a shoe the other day,” he replied, chugging the last of his milk. “We’re going to see the blacksmith today.” Then, with a devilish grin, he added, “And maybe go see Polly since we’ll be so close.”

“Right,” Joe scoffed. “That’s fine. But I’m telling you right now, that’s the last time one of your gals is going to name one of our stallions.”

Mark laughed and stood up, ignoring Joe as he carried his dishes to the sink. “I can stop by the general store on my way back, too, if we need any supplies.”

Joe looked at Ed, and they both shrugged. “Mrs. Sullivan would have the list for the house, and she won’t be in today. We’re sitting fine on feed.”

Ed leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “If you happen to run into Josh, you can tell him we need some more of that colic medicine for the horses.”

“Oh,” that reminded Joe. “We need some more of that sulfur tonic and a drenching bottle, too.”

“Whoa,” Mark teased. “For someone who didn’t need anything, I think we oughta write this down.”

Ed chuckled, stretching his stiff shoulders. “Follow me and I’ll write it down for you.”

Joe watched his brothers leave the kitchen, then stood and took his own dishes to the washbasin. He washed his dishes, and Mark’s and Ed’s, too. When he was done, he grabbed his hat from the peg by the back door and went outside to stand on the porch.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, and the heat was already stifling. It was going to be a real scorcher today.

A minute later, Mark and Ed lumbered out onto the porch and joined him.

“Keep an eye out for Grover,” Ed muttered, adjusting his hat on his head. “I caught them trying to move the fence line over by the bluffs last week.”

“I guess he thinks we don’t realize what he’s doing,” Mark scoffed.

Joe knew exactly what he was doing—moving back the fence lines little by little to claim as much of their land as he could get away with. He supposed men like Grover Garcia didn’t hear the word no very often. So, when they refused his offer last year, Grover decided to steal it instead.

“What I worry is that for every attempt we catch, how many he’s getting away with,” Joe said.