Prologue

Friends of Charity Orphan Asylum, 1861

The night was as dark as communion wine, with no moon to be seen. Raymond James Flint gazed out the small window at the cloudy Texas sky. He was a fit lad, tall for his age, with a strong lower jaw. He could be quieter than some of the others, but the dark eyes beneath his raven hair didn’t miss much, even at his young age.

For the past three hours, he’d been waiting—and listening. The young’uns had finally bedded down upstairs, and sour old Black Tom had finished the last of his homilies and ridden off into the night. The other boys in Ray’s bunkroom were settled into a rhythmic chorus of snores, and even Bloody Mary herself had closed her door, letting the night’s weight settle on the old house like a familiar blanket.

Ray picked up his ragged leather boots. They were full of holes and as soulless as a sinner in hell, but they were his only true possession. He wasn’t about to part with them.

He glanced at the cot closest to his, where the dirt-blonde hair of Gregory Travis was just visible above the thin linen sheet. The boy was rough around the fringes, like most others at the orphanage, but decent enough. Ray would have hesitated to call the boy a friend, but he did have a certain respect for him. Still, he decided not to rouse him. As lonely as Ray felt, he believed he had to do this alone.

The journey down to the main floor was slow, but he knew every plank and creak in that orphanage like the scars on his own hide. The toughest part was sneaking past Bloody Mary’s door; the kids had given her the name because she was keen on beating boys till they were bloody, and everyone faced her wrath sooner or later.

Ray’d had his fair share.

Past Mary’s room stood the building’s heavy double doors, made of oak as thick as a bank safe. They were Ray’s gateway to freedom, but they groaned like a dying mule every time someone opened them.

Thankfully, Ray knew the trick. One had to lift and push to keep the rusty joints from rubbing and squealing. The young’uns could never do it, and only the older boys even dared to try. It was a test of strength and will, but Ray had both.

Something scurried past him in the dark, but he ignored it as a sudden crack of lightning momentarily illuminated the Ten Commandments carved into a wooden plaque above the doors. Ray had never been much for reading, but he’d memorized them all; it was a survival skill in a place like this.

His eyes lingered on the eighth one: “Thou shalt not steal.”

A pang of something that was more than just that night’s stew turned his gut. He pulled out the wooden cross hanging around his neck, a gift from the orphanage after his confirmation just three days prior. All the boys were confirmed before the start of their fifteenth year.

They said it meant that you were a man, but all it really meant was that you got a ticket to hard labor on a farm or one of the mills. Ray had heard Black Tom and Bloody Mary talking about it. He was destined for the Galveston Docks, doomed to haul in line, load-up cargo, and suck down salt air for the rest of his life, which might not be very long; most boys didn’t last a year before turning up face-down in the gulf waters.

The cross felt solid, like an anchor in a storm. Ray’s whispered prayer for strength and forgiveness had barely escaped his lips when another bolt of lightning struck, and the resulting crack broke the silence of the night soon after.

“Who’s there?” came the screech from Mary’s door.

Ray’s heart raced as he lunged for cover, wedging himself into the narrow crevice between the lobby’s decrepit bookcase and the masonry of the wall. The shadows swallowed him just in time.

Bloody Mary emerged into the dimly-lit hall, her dressing gown billowing like an angel’s wings, her face aflame with a devil’s fury. She held a candle aloft, its feeble glow revealing the anger etched on her face.

“Tuckerson?” Her voice hissed through the tense air. “O’Connor, you better not be trying to sneak away to that den of sin again . . . If I find whoever is out there, I will bring the plagues of Egypt down on you for being out after curfew.”

The boys tended to believe that Mary was some ageless biblical beast of the pit, but in truth she was of middling age. Small, reedy, with a strong striking wrist, her beak-like nose overshadowed a face that might have otherwise been pleasant, if not for her constant sneer and restless eyes.

The hallway leading to the outer doors was narrow and sparse. Rumor had it, this place had once belonged to some big-shot so-and-so who’d donated the old mansion to the Friends of Charity. Unfortunately, he’d only donated the house and not the furniture, so the only pieces adorning the entranceway were the splintering bookcase, a threadbare carpet, and at least four separate crosses hanging around the place.

That didn’t leave much in the way of hiding spaces.

Ray’s heart pounded, threatening to betray him. Mary’s footsteps drew near, and he dared not even breathe. Unfortunately, the asylum’s resident rat chose that moment to nibble at Ray’s exposed toes. Nibbles turned to biting, and Ray clenched his teeth to stifle a cry.

Salvation arrived in the form of a sudden thud from one of the upper floors. Bloody Mary froze and looked toward the source of the noise. Ray counted each agonizing heartbeat as she ascended the winding staircase.

Once she was good and gone, Ray seized the toe-biting vermin and ended its life with a smack against the unforgiving stone. His feet throbbed, but he slipped them into his boots all the same.

Hobbling out into the night, he was met by Lucifer, the asylum’s menacing mastiff. Thankfully, everyone had their vices, and hers was gluttony. A stolen soup bone from supper served as a peace offering, and the guard dog let him pass into the darkness, leaving the haunting echoes of Bloody Mary’s wrath behind.

He had to work quickly.

The gnarled red cedar loomed ahead, along with the shovel he’d swiped from the back shed. If anyone had cared to inspect the base of the tree, they would have found a mound of freshly-turned soil. Ray had only noticed it because something shiny caught his eye a couple days back.

The thunder overhead cracked again. It felt personal, like a warning—and a promise.

Ray shook off the ominous feeling and dug, guided by the flashes of lightning from above. It only took a few moments before his shovel struck something hard as a rock. A thunderous explosion rattled the ground as he pulled out a sack, and rain poured down as he unwrapped the burlap.

Inside were thirteen luminous gold bars.

Ray hadn’t a clue how long they’d been there or who they belonged to. Maybe Black Tom was stashing away Sunday offerings, or maybe some bloodthirsty gang was hiding their stash, or maybe it had been there since before the house was built.

What he did know was that they weren’t his. The cross around his neck seemed to grow heavy as he stood over them. The Lord’s words echoed in the pattering rain: “Thou shalt not steal.”

Ray tried to tell himself that it wasn’t stealing, but it didn’t ring true. Deep down, he knew it was a sin, and someday, the Lord’s wrath would find him. A cry rang out as the orphanage door swung open, casting the light of a small lantern across the yard.

Mary was coming, and if she found him, he’d be lucky to survive the night.

He wrapped up the bars again, slung them over his shoulder, and disappeared into the night. A last prayer for forgiveness slipped from his lips, but it felt hollow, like nobody was listening.

Chapter One

Lake County, Colorado, 1877

Sixteen years later

Rose whickered as Ray Flint guided her through the pass. The tall boy had grown into an even taller man. His once solid-black hair was turning gray at his temples, but it only served to give him a more distinguished look. Clean-shaven and clear-eyed, Ray had the sort of natural confidence that men gravitate toward. He was known for having a steady hand and a sure stride.

The journey back from Denver had been a long one, so he’d let Rose linger a bit near the trickling stream that made up the eastern fork of the Arkansas River. She wasn’t as flashy as the Arabians that some of his hands rode or as temperamental as Firebrand, the mustang favored by his companion, but she was reliable and strong.

Of course, Ray may have been a bit biased, since he had raised Rose from a foal alongside his daughter, Delilah, who had given the quarter horse her name.

“Looking forward to getting home?” said Greg Travis, riding next to him on Firebrand.

Ray nodded. “I reckon Jacob’s upright by now, walking on his own. Martha’s last letter said he was getting to be quite the little whirlwind.” He let a rare smile escape him at the thought of his son.

The other men he’d hired on for the cattle drive had parted ways with them a couple miles back, but Greg lived in the valley at the small boom town near its edge. He had come searching for riches—just like all the other prospectors.

“Wife, kids, and a few hundred head of cattle to call your own. You did okay for yourself, Flint. I don’t think any of us would have guessed it in the old days.” Greg was about as tall as Ray, but much broader across the chest. His hair was neatly kept, and his eyes shone as blue as the sky. The dimple in his broad chin looked like it could hold more than a few drops of water—or at least tears, from all the broken hearts that he was rumored to have left in his wake.

“I thank God for what I got.” Ray stopped for a moment, watching the last light of day as it danced across the snowy peak of Prospect Mountain, casting colors and hues of all shades around it. The air was crisp; winter was creeping into the valley. It burned real nice in his lungs.

“I think you’re being modest.” Greg pulled his jacket closer around him. He been around long enough to get used to the mountain wind. “From what I hear, you built all this yourself, and an operation like this ain’t cheap. You must have had a rich uncle or something to get it all started.”

“I’m just the same as you, Travis: an orphan. I got no parents and no uncles, rich or otherwise. The only family I got is in that homestead up ahead.”

Driving his cattle to Denver had taken longer than it should have. He’d been away too long. He knew that; then again, he always knew that, and it never stopped him from leaving again. He tried to count how long he’d been gone this time; three months, maybe more? The big city was more than a hundred miles away, and the terrain between wasn’t very forgiving. The journey took time, not to mention how long it took to haggle over prices, and then wait for that darn train. It was always late, with a list of excuses as long as Rose’s leg.

At least the coming snow meant he’d be staying put till the passes thawed out in spring. It meant time with the family, mending fences—both literal and matrimonial—and maybe even taking Delilah and her little brother out for some snowy rides along the back pastures.

“Well, good for you, Flint. Hopefully, if the good Lord wills it, I’ll be as successful as you one day.” Greg urged his mount on. “Thanks again for the job, by the way. I came here hoping to strike it rich, but a few greenbacks herding cattle ain’t a bad start.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ray said, urging Rose to keep up. “You were always one of the good ones back then. I’ll never forget how you stuck up for the smaller kids, or that time you shouted down ol’ Bloody Mary herself for picking on Tommy Toothpick.” He chuckled.

“Oh, Lord, that boy was as skinny as a twig and half as smart,” Greg laughed. “Mary tanned my hide good for that one.”

“Well, I always respected you and everything you did to keep all of us boys going in that hell pit,” Ray said. “So, when I saw you with all the fifty-niners, I knew it was God giving me a chance to repay you for the kindness you showed me back when we were kids. Hiring you was the least I could do.”

Greg stopped and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

Ray nodded.

Smoke.

At first, he thought it might be some of the trees in the high ridgelines burning, but it wasn’t the dry season, and he couldn’t see any dark plumes in that direction. Ray looked to his left, toward the small collection of shacks and tents that crazy Horace Tabor and the other gold panners called a city. He saw some distant cooking fires, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Then he spied it: a long strand of gray-and-black death billowing into the sky ahead of him. Without thinking, he kicked into Rose, clucking her to a full gallop.

“I’ll go get help!” Greg yelled, turning toward town.

As the plume grew in front of him, Ray realized his hands were numb beneath his gloves from squeezing the reins so tight. But he didn’t let up. He pushed hard, even when Rose grew reluctant as they drew closer to the source of the smoke.

The Flint Homestead was large, and it took a long time to ride across the northern pasture; the smoke banked down, turning the violet skies into a hellscape of soot and choking fumes. Everything Ray had built had taken time and patience—years of long, steady work. Greg had been right; Ray had come into some money as a kid, but he’d built his life with his own two hands.

Now it was all going up in flames before his eyes.

They reached the main house at last, and Ray leapt from Rose’s saddle, allowing the panicked animal to flee. He couldn’t blame her.

The house was a roaring inferno, flames erupting from windows and devouring the eaves. Smoldering clouds billowed from the once-strong roof.

“Martha!” Ray called, cupping his hands to be heard over the growl of the fire. “Martha, where are you?” He thought of his wife’s freckled face, framed by hair the color of sunset. She was always warm, in both touch and manner.

“Delilah? Jacob?” he called, running past the side of the house.

He held an image of his two young’uns: Delilah in the blue dress he’d gotten her on her fifth birthday in March, her hair as red as her mother’s but with eyes as green as the fields; Jacob, the spitting image of his father, pale-skinned and dark-haired—not yet two years old, yet as energetic as his big sister, with a smile could shine up a room better than the sun itself.

The flames were less ferocious out back. Ray hastily dipped his jacket into the icy water trough near the hitching post, along with his handkerchief, an embroidered relic crafted by Martha. She had given it to him on their anniversary last November.

“Oh Lord, my God.” Ray clutched the small wooden cross that hung from his neck. It had been his constant companion, guiding him out of the orphanage and across the territories. He’d worn it during the hell of war and in the bliss of marriage. He’d twirled it anxiously when Delilah had arrived, and nearly broke the darn thing in two when Jacob had been born.

Now he clutched it close as he prayed with all his might. “Please, oh Lord, my God. Give me strength. Help me save my family!”

Throwing the icy jacket over his back and pressing the handkerchief to his mouth, Ray kicked in the door, only to be met by a cannonade of flames. He cursed as the blaze forced him back a few steps. After the initial burst of fire had subsided, he pushed ahead, barely able to see or breathe.

The heat and smoke forced him to the ground, so he crawled forward, pulling himself deeper into his house, the one-time sanctuary of his happiness. His memory was the only thing that kept him from getting disoriented or lost.

People said that Ray’s memory was sharper than his eye, which most agreed was keen enough to sight a deer at three hundred yards. Now, he used that memory to recall every creeping inch he moved into the flame-wreathed house.

He looked up; the fire boiled above him like a river of hell. He yelled again, calling for his wife and children, but he could barely get the words out; in any case, there was little hope he’d be heard over the groaning of heavy timber beams. Then, with a sickening crack, something crashed onto his leg, scorching through his woolen clothing. Ray choked and screamed, then fell silent, gritting his teeth.

He was in the back parlor; he felt the old leather on his favorite chair, the singed fur of the rug made from bear he had hunted the previous spring. Everything was familiar, yet foreign all the same. He coughed, choking on the burning smoke. He could barely see, and the heat kissed his ears like the devil himself.

His hand encountered an unexpected object, soft, yet uneven beneath his gloves. He recognized the familiar shape of his wife’s hand instantly, but it lay motionless, unresponsive, so unlike the one that had reached out to him that first night in Salt Lake City.

Part of him wanted to give in, to surrender to the relentless inferno, but Ray had never been a quitter. He’d been many things—a militiaman, a rancher, a deacon, an orphan, a husband, and a father—but never a quitter.

So, with his last bit of strength, he wrenched his leg free and rose to drag the limp form of his wife outside into the snow. It didn’t take long; the back door was agonizingly close. She had almost made it to safety.

When he got outside, he found Jacob in her arms.

Ray cried that night; alone in the snow, illuminated only by the burning house, he cradled the bodies of his dead wife and son as ash and soot fell around him like the first snow of winter.

***

Greg eventually returned with people from the small boom town nearby; however, by the time they got there, there wasn’t much to do other than watch the flames die down and dig through the rubble.

They found Delilah the next day; she had tried to hide in her mother’s bed. She looked like she was sleeping.

Two days later, three graves were dug on his property, one big and two small. Ray fashioned crosses out of wood and pounded them into the ground to mark his family’s final resting places. Pastor Griffin recited the proper words above the plots, and a few residents of the valley mumbled their condolences.

Ray barely felt present for any of it; he was too numb even to notice the cold as the first snow of winter fell on the graves.

“I’m sorry, Ray,” said Horace Tabor, the man who called himself postmaster, mayor, baker—and anything else he could come up with—for the small prospecting town nearby. “Martha was good people.”

Ray nodded. He was wearing a cheap suit that Greg had loaned him. It was the best outfit he had now, as the rest of his clothes had been destroyed in the fire.

“I know it don’t mean much right now, but you’re always welcome in my town. We could use a good man like you.” Horace was as rotund as he was tall, making him resemble a ball of blown glass. His mustache was thin, long in all the wrong places, and his beady eyes looked more sewn-on then naturally attached. His personality was as big as the bald spot creeping up his forehead, but when it came down to it, Ray believed that he was a good person.

“Much appreciated, Horace,” Ray said, looking back at the blackened frame of his once proud home. “I need to rebuild. It’s what she would have wanted.”

“I understand,” Horace said. “Say, did you ever find out what happened? I mean, how did it—the fire—start?”

Ray took a deep breath to steady himself. “County marshall came down the day before last. He thinks it started on the stove; Martha was always leaving it on, having to run off to chase after Jacob. That boy is . . . was . . . a climber, always getting into trouble.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Horace shook his head. “At least it was the smoke that got ‘em, before the flames.”

Ray gave a small nod, and Horace walked away to join the small gaggle of citizens who had come for the service. They mercifully left after only a few more rounds of half-hearted condolences, and Ray Flint was left alone with his thoughts, the charred remains of his life, and three freshly-dug plots.

He knelt, turning the soil over in his hands, and remembered another time, another place, when he had dug in the dirt. He thought of the thirteen gold bars and his terrible certainty that he would be judged for taking them. At the time—with the brashness of youth—he believed that he could swallow whatever the Lord chose to serve; now, with the wisdom and weariness of age, he was no longer sure.

Martha had begged him not to go on the cattle drive. She had pleaded for him to let one of his trusted hands take charge, just this once. Ray hadn’t listened, insisting that he had to be there.

Maybe if he’d listened, things would be different. Maybe he would’ve been able to stop the fire before it grew. He could’ve been there to help with whatever it was that drew her attention away from the stove . . .

Ray shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He knew this ran deeper than just circumstance.

He yanked the wooden cross from around his neck, snapping the cord in two. He had broken a commandment; he knew that, but if God had wanted to teach Ray a lesson, then it should have been him lying in a pine box, buried six feet under. Instead, the Lord had seen fit to take his wrath out on the three most innocent people in Ray’s life.

It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem just.