Prologue

Hollister Ranch, Near Sherman, Texas — 1853

Pa always said that sweat was a prayer the land understood, and Tate took that as gospel.

So, no matter how much the splintered wood chafed his palm, he dug on. Another fence post set, another yard of wire to string. As sweat trickled down his temples, carving paths through the dust caked on his skin, his muscles burned with the strain of good, honest work.

“Hey, Tate.” Wyatt hammered a post next to Tate. “Bet you five cents I can spit farther than you from the top of that there ridge.”

“You ain’t got five cents.”

“Do, too—found it in the pocket of Pa’s old coat. He said I could have it.” Wyatt stretched his lanky limbs and leaned against the newly set post. “What do you say? You chicken?”

Tate laughed. “I know better than to take a bet from you. You’ll find some way to cheat.”

“Fine—I’ve got something better, anyway.” Wyatt’s unruly hair, the color of bleached straw, drank in the sunlight as the wind tousled it. “Pa brought in a new stallion yesterday. Real beauty, black as night.”

Tate straightened and loosened his broad shoulders. “Black, you say?”

Wyatt nodded. “With a little white star on his forehead. Pa’s calling him Midnight. Want to see him?”

“Unless you can convince a sucker to finish this fence, ain’t no way.”

“C’mon, your pa won’t mind if you’re gone a minute. Chore ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Tate frowned and pinched his lower lip.

Pa was out clearing the south pasture and wouldn’t bother to check on Tate until the afternoon, anyway—maybe later, if Ma needed help with the baby.

A few minutes won’t hurt.

He’d just pop off to Wyatt’s, see the horse, and come straight back. Tate’s face had been in the dirt all morning, and the sight of fence was starting to prick his skin.

Tate dropped his hammer. “Alright—but just for a minute.”

As they scrambled onto Sunflower, Wyatt’s swaybacked mare, Tate frowned; the poor beast really shouldn’t carry more than one, but Pa’s Saddlebred only left the stable for work, and Tate had gotten a smack upside his head the one time he’d snuck him out.

Sunflower would have to do.

Wyatt kicked her into a trot. “Heard Pa and Ma talkin’ last night.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Pa says the Comanche are getting bolder. Hit a wagon train two days east of here.”

Tate’s gut twisted. “Pa and the other ranchers’ll handle it.”

“Reckon you’re right.” Wyatt shrugged. “It’s all grown-up business, anyway.”

Yeah, we ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.

Their fathers and the other ranchers worked the land, bending it to their will. What could a handful of Comanche do against men like that? No, all Tate had to worry about was seeing Midnight and rushing back before Pa caught him skipping out on chores.

Midnight was absolutely worth the hassle.

He stood proudly in his corral, all muscle and sinew, his coat drinking the sunlight. Oh, if only Tate had a horse like that! He’d ride across the plains, choose his own destiny beyond anything Pa could ever build for him.

Too soon, though, the thought of his abandoned chores broke into his little fantasy.

“I gotta get back. Pa will have my hide.”

“Take Sunflower.” Wyatt winked at him. “I’ll come by later to get her.”

Tate nodded and swung himself back onto the mare for the short ride home, imagining the scent of Ma’s stew. He still had a lot to do before he could call it a day, but once he did, that savory‍—

Suddenly, a thick, acrid smell punched his nostrils.

The wrong scent.

Smoke…?

Smoke had no business coming from the direction of his house.

He pulled the mare to a halt at the edge of his family’s spread; someone had trampled the fence he’d just raised, shattering the posts like matchsticks. Fighting his rising panic, he spurred Sunflower on, rushing to the cabin—only to find the door ripped off its hinges, the windows smashed, and the roof caved in.

No. This isn’t right. This can’t… I—

A shriek interrupted Tate’s thoughts.

In the doorway, a soldier in a dusty blue coat with a brown beard and thick eyebrows cradled Tate’s ma. In one arm, she clutched the swaddled form of his baby sister, Sarah.

Ma screamed as something dark seeped from her belly and onto the floorboards beneath her, staring at Sarah’s crimson swaddling with tears in her—

Wait… Crimson swaddling…?

Tate jumped from Sunflower’s back and collapsed to his knees in front of the cabin steps. Opening his mouth, he tried to shout, to call for help, then choked as he swallowed a gulp of smog-filled air.

Ma held Sarah tighter, her eyes fluttering closed.

Finding his voice, Tate screamed at the sky.

She’d been right there, and he hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d wasted his chance to tell her he’d loved her. His last chance. Some son he was—some brother—dreaming of horses and freedom while someone killed his baby sister.

Tate looked around, his eyes feeling swollen and raw, as though filled with sand.

Pa lay by the woodpile where he and Tate had spent countless hours splitting firewood, arrows jutting from his torso, head, and throat. His pa—the man who’d been Tate’s whole world—just… gone.

Why?

They’d been good people. Prayed every night. Ma had read from the Good Book, talking about a God who provided a fortress, a shield for the righteous.

Where are you now, Lord? Where’s your shield?

It had been a lie—all of it—a monstrous, cruel lie told to make little ones sleep better at night. Tate had let himself get carried away, still thinking himself one of those little ones, trading work for foolish daydreams.

I should’ve been here—even if it meant dying with the rest of them.

Tate glared at the ground as the soldier approached and pulled him, unresisting, into a rough hug.

Hatred welled up within Tate, fueled by anger at the people who’d done this. He knew even before the soldier told him; the arrows in Pa’s back revealed more than enough.

If God is good, a plague will strike them all down!

It wouldn’t, of course. God had watched Tate’s family die and done nothing. Tate had no reason to hope the ‘good’ Lord would lift a finger now.

As Tate trembled, staring at the red-stained floorboards, the soldier shook him, yelling; finally, several slaps stung Tate’s cheek.

“Tate!”

Tate blinked. Wyatt?

“Tate—snap out of it!”

A lifetime ago, Tate might’ve answered. Now…

What’s the point?

Then, a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around, and Tate fell into Wyatt’s arms.

“They hit us too.” Wyatt sobbed. “Everyone. The whole settlement. They—they got Jacob.”

Wyatt’s older brother.

Of course it hadn’t ended with Sarah, Ma, and Pa.

Why, God? Sarah and Jacob didn’t deserve to die!

***

After everything, the Boone family took Tate in. Wyatt’s parents seemed to have aged a decade in a single afternoon, yet for some reason, they still thanked God that Tate had survived.

That night, lying on Jacob’s bed in Wyatt’s room, Tate stared into the darkness. Once Wyatt had snapped him out of his stupor, the soldier had dragged Tate away, saying he “shouldn’t be watchin’ this” and, “We’ll dig them proper graves, don’t you worry.”

No matter what the soldier said, Tate resolved to go see his family as soon as he could sneak away. He knew he’d never feel anything close to peace if he didn’t pay his respects.

Chapter One

Confederate Camp, Fairfax County, Virginia — 1861

Nine years later

Tate gagged on the taste of gunpowder; its acrid stench filled his nose, its bitter tang coating his tongue. Virginia mud, slick with rain and blood, sucked at his boots as he struggled to make sense of the cacophony.

The high-pitched whine of Minié balls parted the air. Guttural shouts ripped from the throats of men. The wet thud of lead piercing flesh repeated endlessly.

He wouldn’t let the chaos get the better of him.

Not today.

Slamming another cartridge down the barrel of his Enfield, he blinked away the sweat stinging his eyes. Fire. Reload. Fire. Again. Only the rhythm mattered.

At this point, Tate had forgotten any prayer other than begging for his bullets to find their marks.

Though why he prayed in the first place, he had no idea.

To Tate’s right, Wyatt worked his rifle with a smile on his angular face. The war had chiseled away all his baby fat and left behind harsh lines and a man who’d known too little food and too much hardship.

Lord knew he’d complained about it enough.

“Damn Yanks couldn’t wait ’til a man’s had his coffee!” Wyatt griped, reloading. “My gut’s growlin’ louder than this here rifle!”

Tate snickered. “And here I was, thinkin’ you wouldn’t be‍—‍”

Thump.

A force like a blacksmith’s hammer slammed into Tate’s left shoulder. Having never been hit before, Tate expected it to sting worse than a hornet, but it didn’t—not at first, anyway—just a violent shove that spun him half around, his rifle tumbling into the mud. His arm numbed and went slack, a useless weight of meat and bone.

His vision blurred at the edges.

“Stay put, Tate—I’ll hold ’em off!”

As Tate fumbled for his Remington pistol—he’d never trusted Colt’s open frame design—Wyatt moved in front of him and fired without stopping.

Tate groaned. “Wyatt, get down, dagnabbit!”

“Get your head down, and be quiet!”

“I ain’t worth the lead, you stubborn—”

“Shut it!”

Growling, Tate ripped the Remington from its holster. The Bluebellies were now focused on Wyatt, who’d grown tall as a scarecrow and just as conspicuous. Tate had to do something before someone managed to—

A puff of smoke erupted from the tree line.

Maybe because it didn’t hit Tate, this shot didn’t land so loudly, but with the soft whump of a distant axe splitting a log… as if Tate was back on the ranch, preparing firewood for the winter with Pa, and a Billy Yank hadn’t just shot Wyatt.

Yet a wound opened on Wyatt’s chest: a dark circle, no bigger than a coin—much smaller than Tate would’ve expected—blossoming on Wyatt’s uniform and turning light-gray dark… about to take Tate’s brother from him.

Wyatt’s rifle slipped from his grasp. His smile vanished, and he blinked. His eyes, the clear blue of the Texas sky, found Tate’s.

He opened his mouth, and, for a moment, Tate expected him to laugh and move on with the battle.

Instead, a gurgle pushed blood from his lips as he fell.

“Wyatt!” Tate caught him, then cradled Wyatt’s head in his lap. “Look at me!”

A thin trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth, Wyatt’s lips moved again, but only a warble emerged.

Tate leaned in on the slim chance that maybe, just maybe, he’d catch a word or two through the burbling.

“Home…”

“You’ll get there.” Tate gripped the back of Wyatt’s head. “Just hold on. We’ll get you to the sawbones.”

“Jacob…”

“None of that!” Tate’s eyes burned. “You ain’t gonna see Jacob yet!”

“Don’t worry…”

Tate tugged Wyatt’s hair. “Wyatt Boone, I will tan your hide!”

Wyatt’s hand fumbled weakly, and Tate grabbed it. Wyatt’s grasp contained a mere ghost of the strength that had pulled Tate from creeks and clapped him on the back a thousand times. His fingers trembled, his skin cooling, and he barely breathed.

“I’ll say hi… to‍—‍” Wyatt coughed a glob of blood, splattering Tate’s ear and cheek. “Sarah… for you…”

A faint breath shuddered out of his mouth. Then, his chest stopped moving. Light abandoned his eyes, leaving behind only blue glass staring dully at an uncaring sky.

Though reluctant to leave Wyatt in the mud for even a single moment, Tate laid him down gingerly, grabbed his Remington, and rose to his feet. Whatever pain he’d felt in his shoulder faded, an echo from someone else’s body.

Again and again, Tate fired.

Though he should’ve taken careful aim—his unit had been low on ammunition for several weeks—he shot at anything that looked blue; as long as that recoil hit his hand and the Remington flashed, he got what he wanted.

Not much point anyhow.

Even as his unit pushed the Yanks back, Tate still lost. His fellow soldiers could cheer all they wanted; Tate could only weep.

Stumbling back to Wyatt’s side, Tate reached toward his gaunt face, then gently closed his eyes.

The cries of victory mocked Tate.

How could they cheer when Tate would never hear Wyatt laugh—or even complain—again? All Wyatt had wanted was to return home and hug his ma again.

Tate had promised to get him there; he’d promised the same to Mrs. Boone.

He’d failed. Again.

Just like nine years ago… only this time, he had no excuse.

He couldn’t claim he was too young, that he hadn’t been there. Wyatt had died right next to him, shielding him from Union bullets. Wyatt, whose family had taken him in, the friend who’d filled his life with laughter for nine years, even after he’d lost his own brother.

Gone.

Tate had lost the last remnant of his life before the Comanche attack. He had nothing.

Actually, no, he had one thing—one person.

Lynda.

He’d get home to his wife, even if he had to crawl back to Texas on his hands and knees.

***

Chirping crickets replaced roaring rifles.

Tate had never really thought about one noise replacing another before. Now, however, with the camp back in a semblance of order, he couldn’t help but compare. This morning, Wyatt had been telling Tate about the steer he planned to buy once he got back home, and now…

Now, Tate slumped on a fallen log, alone.

Sitting just beyond the ring of firelight, he breathed in the damp Virginia air and winced as the pain in his shoulder flared. The surgeon, a portly man with hands permanently stained the color of rust, had poured whiskey in Tate’s wound, stitched it up with horsehair, and wrapped it with faded bandage he’d claimed had been boiled, but which Tate could swear smelled of dead flesh.

Around the fire, men with hollow faces huddled together. Some cleaned rifles. Others—braver men than Tate—stared into the flames.

He didn’t dare do the same. Wyatt or older ghosts might come looking for him; yet though the sound had changed, pine smoke and wet earth couldn’t disguise the scent of iron and spent powder.

Tate fumbled inside his coat and pulled out Lynda’s latest letter. The creased paper, soft as doeskin, had worn thin over the hundreds of times he’d taken it out and folded it back up. This far from the fire, he couldn’t really see the neat script and graceful loops, but at this point, her words had branded themselves on the inside of his skull.

My Dearest Tate,

The house is quiet as a tomb without you in it.

After weeks of nothing but dust and baked earth, the Lord finally sent us some rain. The whole prairie smells clean. I wish you were here to smell it with me.

Things ain’t right without you. Sometimes, a board will groan, and I’ll look up, expecting you to be standing there in the doorway. Your work coat still hangs by the door. When I miss you the most, I bury my face in it. I swear I can still smell you on the collar.

The bed’s the worst part. I’ll wake in the dead of night, reaching for you, and the empty space beside me feels colder than a banker’s heart. I miss listening to you breathe in the dark. I always slept easy, knowing you stood guard over our world.

This ranch is nothing but dirt and wood without you, so don’t go chasing glory. Mind yourself, and come back in one piece. That’s all the victory I need.

Yours evermore,

Lynda

Tate folded the letter and tucked it back into his breast pocket, placing it over his heart like a poultice.

No other medicine did him any good.

Digging through his rucksack, he found a leather-bound folio, which contained a few sheets of precious paper and a pencil nub, and pulled it out. His shoulder screamed in protest as he balanced the folio on his knee and pressed the nub to the paper.

What do I even write?

Simple words on paper could never convey the burden of the day’s events…. yet he had to try; he owed Wyatt that much, at least. His mother deserved to know. The army could take years to get around to informing her. Briefly, he considered giving her those years. To let her think Wyatt still lived.

Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and abandoned the idea, deciding that delaying the inevitable would only make her grief hit harder in the end.

Dearest Lynda,

I pray this letter finds you well. We saw action today. I’m alright. Took a ball in the shoulder, but it’s not serious. The surgeon says I’ll be fine, so don’t worry.

Yet my hand trembles as I write these next lines.

Wyatt fell today. He shielded me after I was hit. He didn’t suffer, though. It was quick.

That lie, at least, he could tell. Mrs. Boone didn’t need to know how her son had choked on his own blood while the life had drained out of him.

I cannot find the heart to write his ma, my love. I beg you to go to her. Sit with her. Please, don’t let her read it in some cold letter from the army. Tell her he was brave, that he was smiling right to the end, happy he’d get to see Jacob again.

I always imagined us riding home side by side, two brothers, arguing about who’s the better shot. I cannot picture it now. I wish we were together so I could feel your warmth. The world feels cold without you by my side.

His pencil hovered over the paper.

War, with its speeches, flags, and talk of honor and glory… all smoke—lies old men whispered as they sent boys to die in the muck. Even if the Cause won, Tate and his unit would have nothing to show for it save a field of broken bodies and a list of names to carve into tombstones. Even the Yankees they’d killed today had mothers and wives.

Each soldier traded one heartbreak for another, receiving nothing in return.

Tate closed his eyes for a moment before bending back to his letter.

It is only the thought of you that keeps me breathing, Lynda, knowing you wait for me. Without you, I would have nothing left to live for.

I dream of the day I am reunited with you.

With all my heart,

Tate