Prologue

      Nobody expected the church to be full. At eleventhirty on a rainy Wednesday morning in Crawley, Nebraska, most folks were at work. But the postmistress was there, and the druggist and his wife, and the banker with his wife sat in their usual pew. Many of the county’s farming families were represented, for the families of the bride and the groom were farmers.

      And, of course, the Mortimer twins sat in their usual spots—sixth from the front on the center aisle. Flora and Dora hadn’t missed a wedding in this church for fifty-five years. A little rain couldn’t dampen their enthusiasm.

      “Doesn’t young Spencer look handsome,” Flora whispered.

      Her sister snorted. “Handsome is as handsome does. You can’t tell me that hellion would be up there waiting for his bride if—”

      The postmistress turned around and gave them an admonishing look.

      “Don’t you look at me that way, Emmaline Bradley,” Dora said. “Francis is still on ‘Rock of Ages.’ No reason we can’t talk when she’s still on ‘Rock of Ages.’”

      Flora tugged on her arm. “Look. They’re seating Spencer’s father,” she whispered. “He doesn’t look very happy about the wedding, does he?”

      Dora sniffed. “Frederick Ashton hasn’t been happy since he was weaned. Got two moods, that man—mad and madder. What Pastor Brown was thinking of to make him a deacon…well, that’s beside the point.”

      Lucy Johnson, on the other side of Flora, leaned closer. “At least Frederick made sure his son did right by poor Sally.”

      Flora bobbed her head in agreement like a chicken pecking at the dirt. “Poor Sally. I can see why she fell into temptation. That Ashton boy is so…so…”

      “Handsome,” Dora finished dryly. “I’m not so sure Frederick did Sally any favors.”

      “Oh, Spencer’s just young,” Lucy said. “A touch on the wild side, maybe, but so was my Charlie before we married. And we’ve been together forty-two years now.”

      Emmaline Bradley turned around again. “Shh!”

      Flora flushed, Lucy’s lips thinned and Dora didn’t notice. She was frowning at the back of Frederick Ashton’s head three rows up. There had been rumors that the man used a heavy hand with his sons. He was big, burly and domineering—the kind who liked to say, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Dora was sure neither Spencer nor his brother, David, had been in danger of being spoiled.

      Francis struck the opening chord of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” Here comes the bride…

      At the back of the church, Sally Barnett pressed a hand to her unhappy stomach. The satin wedding gown felt cold and slippery.

      “Butterflies, sweetheart?” her father said.

      More like nausea. But Daddy looked so anxious…surely Mama was right. Spencer would settle down once the babies came. She summoned a smile. “I’m nervous,” she whispered.

      He patted her hand. “You’re supposed to be. This is our cue, honey.”

      Together they stepped out in the stately slow march that would carry them up the aisle to where Spencer waited. Sally’s skirts swished over the carpet and her heart pounded and pounded. She clutched her bouquet so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t squeeze it right in two.

      Spencer looked so wonderful in his tux. So what if they’d had to rent it? She’d told him over and over that didn’t matter…except that it did. To him. He was hungry for things, for the trappings of success. But she understood why. He’d grown up hearing his mother whine about how little they had, how much better things would have been if his father had sold the farm years ago. He’d come to believe that happiness came from things, not people.

      She’d show him differently, she promised herself as her father released her and stepped back. She’d be such a good wife to him that he’d never regret this day.

      Her heart turned over when Spencer took her hand, just as it always had for him. He didn’t love her. Not in the deep, aching way she loved him. But she’d be patient. She’d teach him how to love.

      Nausea forgotten, Sally’s face shone as she listened to the preacher repeat the familiar words. Her young groom stood tall and straight beside her.

      Spencer glanced at Sally. Look at the stupid bitch smile, he thought. Thinks she has me trapped, doesn’t she? The selfish cow had gone crying to her daddy when she found out she was pregnant, and he’d tattled to the old man…A trickle of cold sweat ran down Spencer’s spine.

      “Do you, Spencer Winston Ashton, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?” the preacher said. “To have and to hold…”

      Frederick Ashton was the one person in the world Spencer feared. And however much lip service Frederick paid to the Bible, his real god was his standing in the community. He’d made it clear that Spencer wouldn’t be allowed to tarnish that.

      “…for richer, for poorer…”

      Maybe Sally had won for now, but not for long, he promised himself. He was destined for great things. He’d always known that.

      “…and in health, until death do you part?”

      “I do,” Spencer said solemnly. Someway, somehow, he’d find a way out of this dead-end town, out into the wide world waiting for him.