Prologue

Countryside near Alexandria, Virginia

1863

Yankees!

Lying on his stomach, the tall, broad-shouldered ignored his battling heart as he reached into the pocket of his gray uniform trousers for the cipher hidden in a leather pouch. With a stealthy glance around, his hazel eyes peered at a ridge where he’d seen movement a few minutes earlier. A Union soldier? It was hard to tell.

Making as little noise as possible, the man unfolded a scrap of parchment someone had slipped into his knapsack a few hours earlier. As a courier for the Confederate Army, he’d been trained to decipher and pass along vital information. He’d proudly accepted a position under the command of Brigadier General Thomas Jordan in the unofficial Confederate Secret Service a few years earlier.

George Hart lived on the edge of danger every second and thrived on the adventure.

It was dangerous but exciting work, his life hanging by a thread during several close skirmishes with the Yankees. Other spies had been captured, imprisoned, or executed. So far, he’d been spared similar fates.

This afternoon, at a tavern near Alexandria, he’d been slipped a code to pinpoint the whereabouts of a hidden Union camp. Using his cipher, he decoded the information again to make sure he’d read it correctly the first time. Everything meshed out. According to the cipher, there were two units of Union calvary hidden in a nearby farmyard—vital information to pass along to Brigadier General Jordan or one of his subordinates.

By his estimate, George was about half a mile away from the barn where they waited with a sentry posted somewhere in the woods.

On the ridge? He wished he had someone with him to reconnoiter, to sneak up on the Yankee and take him out.

George cursed the circumstances that had separated him from his comrades. Earlier that week, they’d been ambushed a few miles back by a cavalry unit serving as a scouting party. Knowing he must arrive at the appointed time or miss a vital message, George had parted from his unit to intercept the courier. The others in his unit led the Union soldiers down a different path in the woods.

That had been three days ago.

Since then, George had spent two cold nights scavenging for berries and anything else he could eat without lighting a fire to give away his position. His stomach rumbled and his long legs cramped from having to lie so still.

‘We’ll try to wait for you in the camp we had two nights ago,’ George’s brother, Geoff, had said. Only Geoff and George’s best friend, Lawson, knew his mission.

Lawson had clapped a firm hand on George’s gray uniformed shoulder before they parted, saying, ‘Stay safe.’

George’s pounded-silver belt buckle, inscribed with the letters CSA, pressed into his stomach. He hated lying on the ground like a darned coward, waiting for the blue-bellies to make a move so he could escape.

How did I get in this predicament? George didn’t regret becoming a spy, but he’d become weary of the war. Hiding, spying, at times living on moldy bread and rancid salt pork. Fighting. Killing. Waiting, his stomach in knots.

He’d become disillusioned with the war and the ‘cause.’ How he’d come to hate that word, spouted repeatedly by his fellow confederates. They were fighting for the cause. The only cause George and his brother had been able to figure out was the right to own slaves. While he had to admit some of the slaves they’d come across looked well-cared for, others were more tormented souls.

A year into the war, George had realized that the idea of slavery was abhorrent to him. Still, he could not side with the North.

Joining the Confederate army had been the only possible choice. Geoff and Lawson had both joined; although neither owned slaves—nor thought much of the institution—they figured the north had gotten mighty uppity in telling southerners how to live.

‘Figure folks got a right to decide how they want to live,’ Geoff often said. Living in Virginia, they’d seen how the North tried to squeeze the life out of the south. The wanton rampages of ruined homes and ransacked stores … It rankled.

George had been glad to stay with Geoff and Lawson in the same unit after enlistment—a unit he dearly wished he could return to—once he could escape the watchful scrutiny of the Union soldier hidden on the ridge.

He’d have to pass along his information to another spy, but that could be done easily enough. There was an oak not far from here where they hid messages to one another. It would alert the next man to what he’d find if his unit dared to ride into that farmyard.

“C’mon, Yankee,” George muttered, “make your move.”

He slid his right arm down to touch the butt of his LeMat M1865 revolver, loaded with buckshot. If he could sight the man, dare he risk firing? One shot might bring down ten or more soldiers.

“Alexander!” A voice shouted above on the ridge, “Come on in! We found a nest of vipers and dispatched them. No more Rebs in these woods.” The man laughed gleefully. “Got us a few more mounts too.”

A nest of vipers? George knew enough to understand the Yankees didn’t mean snakes: they were talking about Confederates.

After the Union soldiers had turned toward the farmyard, George began to crawl through the mud, finding a faint path through the woods leading away from the Yankees. He managed to stay hidden as he carefully made his way back to the campsite.

Hours later, footsore and weary, he crawled through a ravine and into a sheltered brushy area. Several dirty white tents were hidden well away from the road. If he hadn’t known they were there, he’d have missed them under their camouflage of branches and leaves.

Home. He chuckled to himself, glad to be back; the first thing he’d do was find Geoff and Lawson. They wouldn’t have a campfire with Yankees around, but a hunk of jerky would go down well after surviving on berries for days. He gave the signal whistle that would alert a sentry to his arrival and waited for a reply.

No answer.

The silence was disturbing. He stared toward the picket line in confusion.

The horses were gone.

His heart stopped and a lump swelled his throat. The Yankees words came back to haunt him. ‘Got us a few more mounts too.’

George stepped forward and tripped over something. Looking down, he saw a leather boot sticking out from a tent flap. The tooling on it was familiar.

Geoff!

He lifted the tent flap and peered inside.

Geoff’s body lay on the ground, a bullet wound in his forehead. His brother’s hazel eyes were glazed, wide and staring. Flies buzzed around, and the stench of death sickened George. He hurried to toss a linen towel over his brother’s lifeless face.

Heartsick, he explored the rest of the tents and found them all: Lawson; the camp cook—Murphy, an Irishman with four children at home; six more men he’d come to consider brothers as they united in the fight. All dead.

No—murdered.

George Hart had always considered himself a Christian man, a God-fearing man, but at that moment, hate swelled in his heart. A burning rage filled him. The only reason he didn’t scream and run toward the Union camp, guns blazing, was his fear of dying before he could exact revenge. Those blue-clad soldiers would pay for this savagery.

They will all die for this.

Chapter One

Oakwood, Texas

1880

“As I walked out in the streets of Laredo, as I walked out in Laredo one day, I spied a dear cowboy wrapped up in white linen; wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay…”

George Hart knew he’d never win any singing contests, but the tune kept his mind occupied as he rode along the fence of his rundown ranch. Singing was better than lingering on the same old miseries that ran through his mind day in and day out. It had been fifteen years since the war, but some days it felt like only minutes.

Still tall and sturdy, George’s lean physique had turned many a lady’s head when he’d proudly worn his Confederate grays. It was only after they’d seen the lines of hardship and determination etched across his rugged face that they’d turned the other way.

Nowadays, the few people he saw when he ventured into Oakwood were more likely to avoid meeting his hazel eyes, dulled with sorrow as they were.

George didn’t care. He spoke to others as little as possible and kept to himself. That was the best way. The only decent way.

Nobody needs to know a man like me. Worthless, that’s what I am. Always was, always will be.

Sitting astride Sampson, the Mustang he’d bought after the war, George rode to another section of fence, then dismounted and went to set a tipsy post straight. His broad shoulders bent to the task in an effortless rhythm.

He’d been out riding since early morning, tightening up the barbed-wire strands that had come loose. Fencing kept the cattle in, but it sure took a long time tending. Not that he had much of anything else to pass the time. Repairing the fence was a time-eating chore that kept his growing herd of cattle from falling down an embankment to the nearby Trinity River.

A calf’s bawling reached his ears as he twisted loose wire around a wooden post. He found a rock and hastily pushed it against the post to steady it before turning in the direction of the noise.

“Well now, what’s that hollering about?”

The calf bawled louder, maybe sensing rescue. Probably Hardcase. A cow’s agitated lowing joined the voice of the calf, confirming his suspicions. Yup, that has to be Clementine. Ever since little Hardcase had been born, he’d caused more trouble than a whole herd of cattle.

Sure enough, as George rode closer, he could see the calf was up to his old tricks. A section of barbed wire had snapped loose, and Hardcase had decided to take a swim in the river. The calf had slid down the muddy embankment and seemed unable to climb back up. His limpid brown eyes stared up at George as he wailed his misery.

“You durn fool calf,” George mumbled as he eased off Samson and pulled a coil of rope from the saddle horn. “I ought to just let you drown.”

But he couldn’t let anything or anyone else die. Did too much of that in the war.

Like always, remembering those years gave him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach and a frantic thundering in his heart. Would he ever be able to shut those memories out? Or would they haunt him forever? The killing, the maiming …

George slid down the embankment, tied the rope around Hardcase’s protesting head, and tugged hard to lead the calf to higher ground. George’s boots slipped in the mud, his brown trousers picking up enough dirt to plant a garden.

“Durn your ornery hide, Hardcase!”

The calf resisted, but George was stronger and eventually managed to tug him back to safety. Clementine bellowed and began to clean the calf with her coarse black tongue.

“You best watch him, Clemmie.” George gave her rump a slap that sent mama and calf ambling across the grass.

It had been a long morning. George had set two loose fence posts back in the ground, putting rocks around them to keep them in place. Now, he did the same where Hardcase had broken free.

“Might just start to make a profit,” he said to himself as he pulled a hammer from the saddle bags, “now I got a few head of cattle.”

If it even mattered.

George sighed. “Reckon there’s some reason for life, God,” he muttered as he jerked the wire around a post and hammered the nail holding it in place.

After he’d ridden another section of fence, he decided to head for home.

He rode toward his barn, glad he’d invested the time into building a solid structure for Sampson and his milk cow, Gertie. After unsaddling Sampson, George watered and grained him, making sure to pull down enough hay for the small herd of longhorns gathered in the fenced pasture for their evening meal.

George shook his head, chuckling, as he saw Hardcase in the lead, looking no worse for wear.

It was a pleasant enough evening, warm but not too hot, and he leaned on the top row of the corral fence to rest. As twilight came on, the familiar sounds of the animals on the Hart Ranch filled his ears: the lowing of the cows as they settled down, Sampson stamping in the barn as he munched his oats, the murmurs and quiet trilling as the chickens found their roosts.

George’s thoughts wandered to his older brother. Geoff used to say that hate was a mighty big word; it turned everything black and disgusting.

‘Reckon love and hate are two different sides of the same coin,’ Geoff would say when they got to talking about life. ‘A man can do one or another—not both. Guess it’s a good thing God loves us even when we go off the straight and narrow and lean toward hate.’

George huffed. God. Even though he believed, George couldn’t bring himself to look God in the face, so to speak.

Not after the war.

What use would God have with a man like George Hart, a man whose hate had led to a burning desire for revenge—an all-consuming hunger that had turned him into a murderer?

Chapter Two

Outlaw Camp

Somewhere near Oakwood, Texas

1880

“Whiskey! Whiskey, woman!”

Sarah Thompson scuttled to the saddlebags and dug around until she found a bottle of whiskey. It had been a dreadful day so far. Some of the men had come back from … somewhere.

Sarah never asked where they went or what they did—not that they would tell her anyway.

She didn’t want to know.

They’d ridden into camp an hour ago, liquored up, arguing and fighting. She could tell it was going to be a rough evening. In the seven years since she and her sister had been captured by the gang, there had been many such evenings.

‘Today is a good day to stay out of the way,’ she’d told Emily earlier. ‘Do your chores and keep as far from the men as you can.’

Sarah did her best to go unnoticed. As one of several women in camp, Sarah figured each day she and Emily were kept only for cooking, washing up, and sewing, they were blessed. Every minute the men considered them as slaves—and not as women—was a reprieve. Every day they were allowed to live was to be cherished, no matter how difficult.

She would never forget the day Mama and Papa had been slaughtered in their own home, she and Emily ripped from their loving arms and taken captive.

We will survive!

Keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, Sarah handed the whiskey to Marcus, the gang’s leader. He snatched it out of her hand and gave her a smack, sending her stumbling toward another man.

“Watch out!” Amos hollered as Sarah landed in his lap. The short, red-whiskered man shoved her rudely aside, and Sarah fell to the ground.

She knew better than to cry, but her amber eyes burned with unshed tears as she crawled away from the men and hurried to join her sister at the washboard they’d set up beside a creek.

“Oh, Sarah,” Emily whispered as she dunked one of the men’s dirty shirts into the cold water. “How long do we have to stay with these men? Why doesn’t someone rescue us? I pray every night.”

“Me too,” Sarah replied, and her heart clenched at her inability to protect Emily.

Seven years they’d been slaves, and for seven years Sarah had prayed every day. Oh, God, please rescue us today!

At first, the men had looked on the sisters only as help. When they’d been captured, Sarah had been just fifteen, her body that of a small, undeveloped child. As the years passed, though, she’d grown into a slender, delicate woman with curves—not something she wanted to show off to these brutal men.

A few times, Sarah had caught a glimpse of herself in the waters of a clear water. The reflection staring back showed her chestnut curls, a heart-shaped face, and honeyed eyes.

I’m pretty, she’d thought, just like Mama.

Living with the gang, Sarah had seen what happened to pretty women. She vowed not to be one of them.

Each time they bathed—which wasn’t often—Sarah made Emily cover her blossoming femininity with a ragged, loose shift. They were given fabric regularly to sew shirts and trousers for the men, and with it, Sarah fashioned unbecoming, baggy dresses for her and Emily. They kept their hair braided tight and covered with kerchiefs. Whenever possible, Sarah smeared dust on her face and instructed Emily to do the same. If they looked like slaves, perhaps the men would ignore their other attributes.

There had been other women in camp who had not been ignored. Sarah had lost count of the women who were captured and abused by the men; their terrified screams would shatter the night as the men laughed and had their way. Sarah had seen their faces wearing broken looks after just a week or two with the men.

Later, they were abandoned, or they died. One girl hung herself from a tree.

Sarah had no idea why she and Emily had been ignored for so long. Dear God, protect us.

Edna, whom the gang had captured about a year ago, was their current prey. However, Edna—Sarah thought the name rather odd for a saloon girl—didn’t seem to mind the men’s attention. She seemed to love nothing better than drinking with the gang and went willingly into any man’s tent.

Sarah tried to cover her ears to block out the sounds that came from the tent, but it had grown harder and harder to soothe Emily’s silent, terrorized tears. Sarah did her chores, always watchful for a chance to escape.

It never came.

Today had been particularly horrible, from start to finish. Edna was sick. Earlier that morning, Sarah had been ordered to tend to the woman. She’d found Edna in her tent, moaning and vomiting all over her bedclothes.

‘I’m not long for this world,’ Edna had groaned. With a surprisingly strong grip, she’d grabbed Sarah’s wrist as she’d bathed Edna’s face with cool water. ‘You best watch out. When they get to drinking like this, they’ll want a woman.’

The warning made Sarah’s heart quail.

All day long, she’d kept busy, cooking up a mess of beans, baking cornbread on the iron skillet set over the campfire, washing the filth from the men’s clothes and hanging them over mesquite bushes to dry. After serving the men and washing up the tin plates, Sarah occupied herself with mending a leather harness. Hands raw from pushing a long needle into the tough leather, she sent Emily to bed early.

After that, all she could do was hope—and pray.

The men ate supper but, denied their usual pleasure with Edna, drank more heavily than usual. Marcus, the leader, was the worst. Long ago, Sarah had learned his nickname: The Snake. It was fitting. He lay in wait, coiled like a rattlesnake, for his next victims—a town, a family, a helpless traveler on the road.

That evening, to Sarah’s dismay, the men noticed her.

“Come ‘ere, girl!” Marcus ordered, his words slurred by drink.

Sarah had no choice but to put down the harness and go.

“Well now,” Marcus caught her hand and pulled her down on his lap. “Well now … I think we may have a companion for the night after all. How about it, boys?”

Before Sarah could protest, Marcus reached up and jerked the kerchief from her hair. Her unruly chestnut curls spiraled out, and Sarah berated her vanity; she should have cut it short long ago.

Marcus’ evil green eyes widened in pleasure.

“Please, let me go. I—I must finish my sewing.”

“Sewing!” He laughed, his whiskery breath brushing her face. His unshaven face and moist lips roamed across her cheek, and her stomach lurched.

No, God, No!

“I think we got better plans for you tonight.”

“Please, no—”

“Oh, she’s a feisty one,” Marcus interrupted. “Yes; since Edna is unable to play, I think we might have some fun with this one.”

“No, please!” Sarah pushed away from Marcus, trembling. “I want to save myself for marriage.”

The men roared with laughter, their greedy eyes and rowdy laughter beating at her ears.

One of them, James, grabbed her at Marcus’ orders and tossed her into a tent. “You stay there! This is your wedding night.”

Their raucous calls beat at Sarah’s ears.

“Let’s drink a toast to our newest bride!”

Her heart quaked, and she clenched her trembling hands in the pockets of her brown shift. Her hands touched metal.

My scissors!

Sarah knew what would happen if she stayed in the tent. She’d seen it before, with Edna; one by one the men would visit the tent, and the next day Edna could scarcely walk. Sarah remembered other, younger girls, their faces wrecked after a night with the gang. Their innocence violated. Their purity stolen.

It would not happen to her!

There was little time to plan. She cut a slit in the tent and listened.

Emily! She should get Emily, but her sister was on the other side of the camp. If I try to save Emily now, we may never have another chance to leave. I must escape if I’m to bring help.

For a few precious minutes she sat, undecided. Go, or risk trying to save Emily—and failing. Stay and be …

Sarah had tried to escape before. She’d borne the whip marks for months afterward as her punishment.

Please, God, tell me what to do. Her hand tightened around the scissors, and she stared at the rusted metal. Maybe God gave me this chance.

Weeping, Sarah widened the hole she’d slit in the canvas and crawled through. Quickly, quietly, she ran and ran and ran until a stitch grew in her side. Maybe the gang would drink themselves into a stupor and not discover her absence until morning.

I must find help!

It was the longest night Sarah had ever endured—even longer than the night the gang had murdered Sarah’s parents and snatched her and Emily from their home. Stunned, beaten, and hoarse from screaming, they’d been thrown into Papa’s wagon and driven miles away.

I should have brought Emily along. I never should have left her!

Twice, Sarah almost turned back, but fear spurned her on. Berating herself, she sobbed as she ran until she couldn’t breathe, slowed to walk awhile, and then ran again.

Despite the harsh heat of a Texas day, the night grew chilly as the moon came out big and bright—almost too bright. Sarah found a stream and drank. She walked miles and miles, stumbling over rocks and uneven ground, stepping on thorns and prickly plants that pierced the soles of her feet.

Even though her feet had grown calloused over the years, now they bled with each labored step. She didn’t know how far she’d gone when she felt she couldn’t take another step. Still, she stumbled a few more feet and ran into something solid.

A fence post. Did that mean a home or ranch nearby? Help?

Parched and dazed, Sarah sank down, her arms around the fence post. She had saved herself from those awful men, but what if they turned instead on Emily?

Have I traded her fate with mine?

Sarah had never felt such despair. Tormented and overwhelmed with grief, she crawled a few feet more and collapsed on the cold grass.

Everything went black.