Chapter One

      Western Kansas 1879

      Sylvia Marks stared at the gold-and-green sign swinging over the Oak Grove mercantile, then dropped her gaze to the corner of the large display window. The crack was still there—a casualty from her last visit before Christmas. Mr. or Mrs. Gallagher, the owners of the store, had stuffed old copies of the Oak Grove Gazette into the opening to keep out the cold. They wouldn’t be excited to see her back again—or Tommy.

      The main street of town was deserted this early, even the livery stable doors were shut tight. She hoped the store would be empty of customers. It was why she had come as soon as the sun rose enough for her to see her way across the river. Most folks were still in bed—at least she hoped they were. It wasn’t herself she worried about. She had long ago grown tough enough to endure their stares and whispers. It was Tommy she worried for.

      She glanced down at her son. She’d wrapped him up as best she could, but at seven years old, he was growing out of near everything he owned. Spring had better hustle along a little faster so that she could see to shearing Jeremy and Petunia. Besides selling the sheep’s wool, she would be able to knit Tommy a larger sweater and make them both new socks and stockings. As it was, snow melted from her worn boots and the wet seeped inside, working its way down through the frayed wool strands and settling against her skin. Guess it was one more thing to make her tough.

      She took a deep breath—best to get this done. She took hold of her son’s hand and strode through the doors of the Oak Grove mercantile. She knew exactly what she had to get: two yards of cheesecloth for rendering her cheese, along with two cases of jars with lids so that she could bottle her honey come late spring. That, and some flour and oats.

      “Be right with you!” a man called out from the back room.

      Her gaze caught on a bowl filled with silk ribbons of every color at the close end of the counter. It looked like the storekeeper had been cutting them into lengths. Large scissors lay beside the bowl. She couldn’t keep herself from touching the length of dark blue silk that shimmered pretty as the night sky. Wouldn’t that feel nice in her hair? She’d always been a fool for pretty things, but in her life pretty always had to walk a step behind practical. A bit of twine worked just as well or better for tying back her hair.

      Mable Gallagher stepped through the curtained doorway.

      Sylvia grabbed her hand back from the ribbons immediately, feeling guilty even though she’d done nothing wrong.

      Mrs. Gallagher’s brows drew together in a frown. “What do you want, Miss Marks?”

      She didn’t sound happy about being pulled from whatever she was doing in the back, or perhaps it was more a matter of Sylvia’s way of doing business that the woman didn’t care for. Out of necessity, Sylvia bartered more than she bought outright. She had precious little coin for any extras...like the ribbon.

      “Just got a few necessities I’m aimin’ to buy. Won’t take but a minute.”

      “See that you hang on to that youngster of yours. I won’t have a repeat of last time.”

      Sylvia tightened her grip on her son’s hand. What had happened was an accident. Tommy had not meant to knock over the tower of canned goods. Mrs. Gallagher should have known better than to stack them so close to the window. Any fool could figure the outcome of that. Children liked to climb things, and Tommy more than most. She leaned down. “Don’t you pay her no mind,” she said softly in her son’s ear. “What’s done is done and a lesson learned. Just stay close.”

      She straightened. “I got my wagon out front. I need a sack of flour and another of oats.”

      “That all?”

      “No. I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars and lids. I got three crocks of sorghum molasses and a dozen eggs to barter.” She set her basket of eggs on the counter.

      “Are these fresh?”

      “Wouldn’t bring them if they weren’t fresh.”

      Mable Gallagher picked the stub of a pencil from over her ear and started tallying up in her ledger.

      Sylvia was halfway through haggling out a satisfactory exchange rate when Mrs. Gallagher stiffened.

      The pungent smell of the stockyards snuck into the room. The hair on the back of Sylvia’s neck stood on end. Only one person could make both Mrs. Gallagher and herself uncomfortable—Tommy’s uncle. She tightened her grip on her son’s hand and turned to face him.

      Carl wore the same brown britches and coarse cotton shirt that he always wore and each time she saw him they were dirtier and smellier than the time before. Looked like his long hair was getting streaks of gray in it. He was young for that to happen and she wondered if Thomas, had he lived, would have grayed early too.

      “Well, well. Who we got here?” He swaggered up to her and stopped too close for comfort, staring down his long nose at her. By the way he acted, she could tell that he’d been into a bottle of spirits already. Being that it was so early could only mean he’d been up half the night drinking.

      She stood as tall and stiff as she could, and still only came up to his chin. “Morning, Carl.”

      “Ain’t you a purty sight this early come to town.”

      His gaze roamed over her, making her queasy in her gut. He must have seen her wagon out on the street. Of all the people in town, he was the last one she wanted to see.

      “Who you got hiding there in your skirts? That my kin? Well, step out here, boy, and let me have a look at you.”

      “We don’t want trouble, Carl,” she said, moving to shield Tommy with her body.

      “Why, I don’t never cause trouble.” The insolent sneer on his face deepened. “Come out here so you can say a proper