© 2014 by Melissa Jagears
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6472-5
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author represented by The Natasha Kern Literary Agency
To Easton and other EB Butterflies:
I pray God grants you and your families extraordinary perseverance and wisdom.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
Books by Melissa Jagears
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter 1
KANSAS, 1881
The thwack of the train door jolted Eliza Cantrell upright. Acrid coal smoke whooshed through the muggy passenger car.
“Now, don’t nobody get any ideas,” a menacing voice growled.
The one time she traveled by train, it had to be robbed? Her breath froze like jagged ice in her lungs as she dared to glance over her shoulder.
“We ain’t gonna harm ya none, iffen you cooperate.” A lanky man with a blue bandanna covering his face waved two pistols above the crowded seats. “The train’s near-empty safe didn’t make us happy, so if you’d hand over your money and valuables, we’d be much obliged.”
Two more masked men with their hats pulled low slipped in behind the leader. One was hardly taller than a boy; the other’s wild white eyebrows and whiskers obscured the visible portion of his face.
Eliza gripped the edge of her seat and shot a glance across the aisle toward the Hampdens. Carl hadn’t seemed the heroic type during the hours Eliza had conversed with his wife, but surely concern for his family might bolster him into action?
Carl sat slumped beside Kathleen, who clung to their two children.
Eliza scanned the rest of the crammed seats. No men stood to face the robbers, and at the front, a porter lifted his hands in surrender.
“Let’s do this nice and easy and we’ll leave happy. And you want us happy, unless you fancy ending up like your expressman.” The lines around the lanky leader’s eyes bunched as if he were smiling under his filthy mask. “We tossed him out the window.”
The woman behind Eliza moaned.
Eliza peered down at her handbag and swallowed. Could she hide her money without getting caught?
“I’ll take that wedding band and whatever else you got.” The short robber thrust a bag under the nose of a man sitting across the aisle two rows behind Eliza.
She had to do something quickly. She wore no jewelry, but her every last dollar was in her bag. Her brother certainly wouldn’t cough up more money if she lost what he’d unwillingly given her in the first place, and of course, she wouldn’t bother to ask her mother for any help—not that she even knew where her mother was.
Easing open the clasp of her leather traveling bag, Eliza rocked with the sway of metal wheels whirring over iron rails.
The lips of the elderly woman beside her moved in harried prayer.
Prayer.
God, I know I haven’t been talking to you much, but if you care . . . I need some time.
She looked over her shoulder.
“I’ll take that necklace.” The lead robber pointed at a woman two seats back who whimpered while fiddling with her chain’s clasp.
The short robber was still standing in front of the passengers in the back seats, and the older robber with the shotgun was leaning against the wall keeping an eye on the crowd.
Eliza turned and fished out her money clip with jittery hands. Should she put a few dollars back in the bag for them to find?
The tall robber knocked the back of her seat.
Eliza pushed the entire wad under her leg.
The thief stopped beside her, a gun in one hand, his empty palm out. “Your turn, pretty lady.” His voice was strange and gravelly.
Had he called her pretty? She shoved a soggy wisp of hair off her cheek and anchored it behind her ear, her hands shaking. Turning over her handbag, she dumped out the letters from the soon-to-be husband she’d never met, crackers wrapped in a handkerchief, unfinished needlework, and her embroidered purse. She opened its clasp. Three pennies, a nickel, and a half dollar fell into her lap.
He kicked her foot. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all I have.”
The robber’s eyelids narrowed over his light blue eyes. Blond stubble meandered up the sides of his face above the bandanna. “Fifty-eight cents?” His eyes raked down her body, and she hunched as if she could hide from his licentious leer. “That’s not homespun you’re wearing, though it ain’t pretty.” He leaned closer, his body odor overwhelming. “You got more than that.”
She dug her fingers into the seat cushion. “I’ve got nothing for you.” She pressed her teeth into her lower lip. Surely God would understand her evasiveness.
He squatted, shoved aside her skirt, and glanced under the seat. “No carpetbag?”
“I only have two trunks in the freight car.” She moved her legs farther to the left lest he touch her again—or ask her to move her legs the other way. Despite being covered with layers of skirt, flesh, and bone, the wad of bills felt conspicuous.
The robber stood, swiped the coins off her lap, and deposited her measly change into his breast pocket. He thrust his empty palm toward the old woman beside her. “Stop with the mumbling, lady. Give me your ring.”
Eliza pressed against her seat, creating space between his hot sweaty body and her offended nose.
Mrs. Farthington stopped praying, her damp eyes pleading. “This was my late husband’s. Please, sir, if you’d only allow me—”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me. Just hand it over. Didn’t you hear the part about keeping us happy?” The cheek muscle beneath the robber’s eye jumped.
Eliza tensed. Surely he wouldn’t throw the widow out the window.
“Now, old woman.” He jiggled his open hand.
Eliza stared at the scar beside his pinkie and ran her tongue over her teeth. How she’d like to sink her teeth into the faint half circle.
The widow pulled the thick gold band off her thumb. The robber snatched the pretty piece and slid the ring onto his finger atop two others. “Hand over your cash.”
The old lady fumbled with her reticule’s drawstrings.
He leaned over, reaching for the widow’s purse, but a sudden lurch made him grab for the shelves above them instead.
“What’s this?” His hand grazed Eliza’s leg, and the wad of cash slipped from under her thigh as he pulled out a bill. He waved the dollar in front of her. “No money, eh? Just a poor girl down on her luck?” He grabbed her by the waist and hefted her out of the seat.
She shrieked as he tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a bag of oats.
Holding her with one arm, he dipped down. “Look, fellas. I found the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Let me go!” She flailed her fist at his head, but he dumped her back onto the seat before she could make contact.
His eyebrows rose as he ran his thumb across her thick wad of cash. “Mighty obliged.”
If things didn’t work out in Salt Flatts, what recourse would she have without a penny to her name? She snatched at her money, and the robber gave her a murderous look.
He leaned down until his eyes were so close they seemed to merge into one. “You realize I oughta make an example out of you so others don’t get any funny ideas.”
His hot slop-pot breath made Eliza want to turn away. Instead she narrowed her eyes at the man inches from her face.
He drew back and cocked his head, then gestured with his arm to the other passengers. “I don’t care if you’re a woman, a child, a saint, or a sinner,” his strange, gravelly voice boomed. “You will not hold out on us.”
He raised his hand and cracked his pistol against her cheek, setting fire to her face. Her body hit the plump side of the woman beside her, and the sunlight dimmed. Eliza pressed her palm against the pain, moaning deep and low to keep from crying out.
Across the aisle, the Hampdens’ son, Junior, whimpered.
Eliza forced herself upright.
The robber shouted at the passengers up front. “Now, let that be a lesson to ya. If anybody else don’t cooperate, losing your valuables won’t be the worst thing about today.”
Blood oozed between Eliza’s fingers. Gritting her teeth, she crossed her ankles to keep from kicking the vile man in the shin. The brand-new patch on his trousers would make an excellent target.
The Hampdens’ one-year-old daughter, Gretchen, broke into a full bawl as the man pivoted toward them. Kathleen’s desperate shushing only made the baby’s sobs more frantic.
Eliza ignored the impulse to slam her bootheel down on the robber’s instep before he walked away.
The white-haired bandit stomped forward, the fringe of his leather jacket swaying. “We’re coming up on Solomon’s Bend.”
Through the window, Eliza spied a line of trees on the horizon, indicating a river’s bank. A cluster of saddled, riderless horses grazed in the waist-high prairie grasses.
The small thief rushed to gather the loot from the remaining passengers on the car’s left side while the blond thief made quick work of the right. When they reached the front, the leader drew his hat down farther and tapped his foot impatiently.
Gretchen’s shuddering breaths and the muffled sob of a lady in the back were the only sounds besides the rhythmic chug of the train and the drone of its wheels.
After handing her crying daughter over to her husband, Kathleen reached across the aisle, a handkerchief dangling from her hand. “Here, Eliza.”
Eliza frowned despite the ache in her cheek and took the offered linen square. Blood would ruin its pristine white lace, but she couldn’t find her own handkerchief. “Thank you.”
“You gave it a good try,” Kathleen whispered.
“No, it was stupid,” muttered Carl. “She could have gotten herself killed. Could have gotten us all killed.”
At the front, the littlest robber pocketed his last trinket, and the older robber backed up until he bumped against the other two. “Have a nice trip to Salt Flatts, folks.”
When the train slowed to take a sharp bend, the gang spilled out the front and barred the door. One by one, they jumped and rolled into the sea of green grasses.
Several women burst into sobs, and Mrs. Farthington’s prayers turned grateful.
Eliza put more pressure on her pulsing wound and slumped in the seat. Once again God had seen fit to take away everything she had. Why had she even bothered to pray?
The bell above the door to the Men’s Emporium jangled madly, stealing William Stanton’s attention from replacing a Winchester’s loading gate.
The train depot manager’s son, Oliver, stood out of breath at the front of the store.
Will sighed. Not a customer. Wiping his grimy hands on a towel, he sidled around the ammunition bench at the back of the store. “What can I—”
“Pa needs you at the depot, right quick.” The boy—not much more than a collection of animated elbows and knees—beckoned him, looking ready to dart back outside within a breath. “The train was robbed, and a lady needs you to give her stitches, and then this one old man—”
“Hold it.” Will pointed toward the white stenciled letters on his front window. “Under Men’s Emporium, Purveyor of All Things Gentlemanly, I’ve listed gunsmithing—nothing else.”
“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Stanton. We all know you’re gonna be a doctor someday, even if you don’t put it up there.”
“I’m not practicing. Get Dr. Forsythe.”
“But the lady needs stitches.” He stuck his hands on his hips. “On her face.”
Will gritted his teeth but untied his oil-smudged apron. The county doctor adamantly declared that the best surgeons—whether the surgery was major or minor—were fast surgeons. Coupled with the man’s sorry bedside manners, his speed would ensure the woman’s face would be stitched up in seconds to spare her pain, but the work would be shoddily done and certain to look terrible.
How could he allow a horrible scar to disfigure a woman if he could possibly suture her wound so people wouldn’t stare at her for the rest of her life? He’d learned at his mother’s knee to sew and sew well. “Does she truly need stitches?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy backed out the door. “Mrs. Hampden insisted I get you while Dr. Forsythe cares for the man with chest pains.”
“Anyone else hurt?” Leaving Oliver standing in the doorway, Will strode to the back to grab his medical kit—a small wooden box his father had fashioned with a carving of Jesus’ nail-pierced hands on top.
“No.” The boy placed his hands at his sides, as if he were gripping holstered six-shooters. “I heard Mr. Hampden say the gang tossed the expressman out the window, though. Posse went out to see if he’s still alive before they chase after the gang. Pa says they likely won’t pick up a trail, since they jumped off at the Solomon River. Probably rode through the water a ways.”
Will flipped his sign to Closed and hustled after Oliver, who wove through the onslaught of pedestrians from the train.
“William!” Mrs. Hampden flagged him down from across the street.
Will turned and waited for a wagon to pass. He dodged a donkey cart and almost stepped in the unmentionable pile an animal had left behind on the dusty road. “I was just heading to the depot.”
As soon as both his feet hit the sidewalk, Kathleen pivoted toward her store. “I had Carl bring her to the mercantile. She doesn’t need half the town watching you stitch her up.”
He strode after her, barely nodding at the people passing by. For a short, pregnant woman, Kathleen could sure eat up the ground.
When they entered the mercantile’s back room, instead of climbing the stairs to the family’s apartment, Kathleen led him into the office, whe
re a lady wearing a wrinkled black dress sat on a crate pressing a wad of blood-soaked fabric against her face. The poor thing looked exhausted.
Carl stood by the door jiggling his fussy little girl, his eyes wide with frustration. “I sent Junior upstairs for a nap, but Gretchen won’t lay down without you.”
Kathleen took the one-year-old from his arms and rested a reassuring hand on the injured woman’s shoulder. “Eliza, this is William Stanton. He delivered Gretchen. No finer doctor in the county—even if he is rather young.”
Will frowned, not sure whether he scowled more because she called him a doctor or because she made him sound like a child, though Kathleen was indeed closer to his parents’ age. He sat on a crate next to his patient. The deep red color plumping her cheek made his fists curl. How he’d like to make the perpetrator’s face match hers.
Will forced himself to smile though, knowing his demeanor would affect his patient. “I wasn’t really given a choice in attending Mrs. Hampden. She has a knack for giving birth so quickly that whoever happens to pass by gets the honor of attending the delivery.”
“You’re highly competent, no matter what you say.” Kathleen shook her finger at him, then took a pouting Gretchen out the door.
Carl turned to follow.
“I’ll need your help, Mr. Hampden.” Since he’d run out of cocaine powder, Will grabbed the laudanum from his medical box.
“Um . . .” Carl shifted his weight, taking a long look at the door. “I don’t do well at the sight of blood. . . .”
“You can close your eyes.”
“Or screaming.” He looked a bit pale already.
Will blinked innocently. “I don’t intend to scream.”
Eliza, who looked much calmer than he’d expected, glanced at Carl, a smile tugging at her lips. “Me neither.”
“Great, two jokers.” Carl took a reluctant step closer.
Will winked at Eliza before unscrewing the bottle’s cap and measuring a small dosage. “Unfortunately, all I can do is help you get very relaxed and not notice the pain so much. You’ll still feel every stitch.”
Carl groaned, and Eliza’s face scrunched. Was the needle he’d pulled from his kit making her anxious or was it Carl’s unmanly apprehension?
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