© 2016 by Karen Witemeyer
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 2016
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 978-1-4412-6942-3
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 is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.
To one of the strongest women I know,
my grandma—Vera Burgess.
Nearly a century old and still ready to take on the world. From her blackberry jam to her persimmon cookies, she filled my childhood with sweet memories, and her never-quit attitude has given me an example of fortitude and perseverance I aspire to duplicate.
I love you, Grandma!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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About the Author
Books by Karen Witemeyer
Back Ads
Back Cover
What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? can faith save him? If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit? Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.
James 2:14–17
Prologue
WINTER 1882
COOKE COUNTY, TEXAS
Malachi Shaw made the arduous climb back into consciousness with great effort. But everything Mal had accomplished so far in his thirteen years of life had required great effort. Not that he had achieved anything worth bragging about. Orphaned. Starving. And . . . cold.
That’s what his senses picked up first. The cold. And not just the huddling-under-the-saloon-stairs-in-a-too-thin-coat-during-a-blue-norther kind of cold. No. This was a cold so harsh it burned. Which made exactly zero sense.
With a groan, Mal lifted his head and tried to draw his arms beneath him to push himself up. That’s when the rest of the pain hit. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs ached, and his head felt as if it had collided with a train. Oh, that’s right. It had.
Memories swirled through his mind as he slowly crawled out of the snowdrift that must have broken his fall. He’d hopped the train, just as he’d done a half dozen times over the month since his drunk of a father finally got himself killed—run over by a wagon while trying to cross the street. The old man hadn’t been good for much, leaving Mal to scrounge for food in garbage bins while he spent whatever coins he managed to earn at the card tables on whiskey. But at least he’d kept a roof over their heads—a run-down, leaky roof supported by slanted, rickety walls that couldn’t even hold the wind out, but a roof nonetheless.
The morning after they’d laid his father in the ground, the lady who owned the shack kicked Mal out on his ear. Barely gave him time to gather his one pathetic sack of belongings. A sack, Mal discovered as he frantically searched the area around him, that was nowhere to be found.
“No!” He slammed his fist into the frozen earth near his hip, then slumped forward.
What had he expected? That God would suddenly remember he existed and lift a finger to help him? Ha! Not likely. The Big Man had never cared a fig for him before. Why start now? Much better to sit back in heaven and get a good laugh watching poor Malachi Shaw fumble around. Taking his ma so early, Mal couldn’t even remember what she looked like. Giving him a father who cared more about his next drink than his own flesh and blood. Then even taking that much from him. Leaving him alone. No home. No one willing to give him work. Leaving him no option but to ride the rails, looking for some place, any place, that would give him a fair shake.
And what had that gotten him? A run-in with a gang of boxcar riders who hadn’t appreciated him infringing on their territory. Mal reached up to rub the painful knot on his forehead. There’d been four of them. All twice his size. Each taking his turn. Until the last fella slammed Mal’s head against the steel doorframe.
Malachi didn’t remember anything after that. Obviously, they’d thrown him off. He could barely make out the tracks at the top of the long embankment. It was too bad God hadn’t just let him break his neck in the fall. But then, where would be the fun in that?
“Gotta keep the entertainment around, don’tcha?” He scowled up at the gray sky that would soon be deepening to black. “Wouldn’t want you and the angels gettin’ bored up there.”
Mal brushed the snow from his hair and arms with jerky movements and pushed to his feet. He beat at his pants, dusting the snow from the front and back as he ground his teeth. His fingers burned as if someone were holding them to a flame. His ears and nose stung, as well. He couldn’t feel his feet at all. Not good.
He stomped a few steps until most of the white had fallen away from the laces of his boots. Cupping his hands near his mouth, he huffed warm air into them. Not that it helped much. The only thing that would keep him from turning into a boy-sized icicle was shelter. And a fire. And a coat. The thick flannel shirt he’d gotten from the poor box at the church did little to cut the wind. And now that it was wet from the snow, it chilled him more than protected him.
At least there weren’t any holes in his shoe leather. The soles were thin but solid. If he were to count his blessings, like the preacher who’d given him the clothes advised, he’d at least have one. Better than nothin’, he supposed.
If only those fellas had left him his sack. No sack meant no food, no dry clothes, no flint for a fire.
“Quit your whining, Mal,” he muttered to himself. “Groanin’ won’t fill yer belly. If ya wanna get warm, do somethin’ about it.”
Straightening his shoulders, Malachi lifted his head and scanned the landscape, looking for any hint of a building in the area. A barn with animals heating the air would be best. But there was nothing. Nothing but snow-dusted prairie grass with a few random post oaks sticking their heads up e
very now and again.
What’d he expect? For a closed carriage to show up with one of them fancy drivers who’d call him sir and ask him where he’d like to go?
Take me to the nearest barn, my good man, Malachi imagined saying. And don’t spare the horses.
With a snort, Mal flipped up the collar of his shirt, stuffed his stinging hands in his pockets, and started trudging east. Gainesville shouldn’t be too far away. That’s where he’d been when he got the brilliant idea to hitch a ride in the third boxcar from the end. Not his best decision. But the fellas already occupying the car had jumped on him pretty fast. The train couldn’t have traveled too many miles from town before he’d been tossed. Surely there’d be a farm or ranch nearby with a barn he could hunker down in for a night or two. All he had to do was find it before full dark hit.
By the time he came across the first structure, Mal was shivering so hard, he could barely keep his balance. The wind pounding him from the north kept pushing him off track, making him fight to walk a straight line. But, hey, at least it wasn’t snowing. That preacher man would be proud of him. He’d just doubled the size of his blessing list.
Mal chuckled, but the expulsion of air turned into a cough. One that made his chest ache. Hunching his shoulders, he ducked his head and turned full into the wind, cutting across a field to shorten his path to the barn.
Light glowed from the windows of the house that stood a short distance away. Smoke blew out the chimney at a sharp angle, as much a slave to the wind as he was. He usually took steps to avoid people, but in this instance, he was too cold to even consider looking for a more suitable hideout. If he could just bed down in some straw for the night and get warm, he could be away before the owners woke up in the morning.
Suddenly thankful for the encroaching darkness, Malachi flattened himself against the far side of the barn and inched his way around until he reached the doors at the front. Opening the one closest to him just enough to squeeze through, he slipped inside and held the door, fighting the tug of the wind in order to close it quietly. The last thing he needed was for the slam of a door to bring the farmer running. Farmers tended to carry shotguns, and Mal wasn’t too fond of buckshot.
He peered through the crack he’d left open and watched the house, ready to make a run for the field, if necessary. But no one came out to challenge him. He released the breath he’d been holding and closed the door the rest of the way. Looked like his blessing list was up to three now. Mal grinned and trudged to the darkest corner he could find.
The smell of hay tickled his nose, but he was too happy to be out of the wind to pay it any mind. With numb, shaky fingers, he managed to undo the buttons on his flannel shirt. He removed it along with the long-sleeved wool undershirt he wore and stretched both over the empty stall door. He tried to undo the laces of his shoes, but his fingers were too stiff to pick the knots free. His feet would have to wait until he regained some feeling in his hands.
He huffed his breath over his cupped hands, then moved into the stall and buried himself in the pile of straw. He lay still for a long time, his bony arms curled in front of his thin chest, his knees pulled up tight. The dampness of his trousers caused his teeth to chatter uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and imagined everything warm he could think of. A roaring fire. A wool blanket—no, not one of those scratchy things. A quilt. A thick, soft, down-filled quilt with lace at the edges like he saw in a shop window once. A steaming bowl of barley soup.
The pang hit his stomach hard. Great. He knew better than to think about food. Now he wasn’t gonna be able to think about anything else. Mal opened his eyes and squinted through the shadows. Maybe there was some feed in the corncrib he’d passed on the way in. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a dinner of field corn pilfered from a bunch of livestock. Awful stuff. Hard and dry, and it always stuck in his teeth. But it would hold back the gnawing in his belly and maybe even let him sleep.
Reluctantly, Malachi unfolded himself and brushed off the straw. He clenched his jaw to still the chattering of his teeth and slowly made his way to where he recalled seeing the crib. One of the horses snorted as he passed and kicked at his stall door.
“Easy, boy,” Mal murmured in a soft voice. “No reason to get worked up. I ain’t gonna hurt nuthin’.”
In the dwindling light coming through one of the windows, the horse watched him with big, brown eyes that made Mal’s neck itch, but the beast quit his bangin’. Malachi eased past, keeping his gaze on the horse, not liking the way he stared at him. Down his long horse nose. All snooty. Like the shopkeeper’s wife who used to shoo him with her broom every time she caught him going through the garbage bins behind the store. As if he were a rat or some other kind of vermin.
Caught up in his thoughts, Mal didn’t see the shovel until his shoe collided with it. It toppled to the floor with a clatter that echoed off the rafters. Mal froze, his heart thumping harder than a blacksmith’s hammer.
A hinge creaked. He spun to face the sound. On his left. Toward the front. Between him and the door.
Footsteps.
Malachi snatched the fallen shovel and pulled it back, ready to strike. He’d smash and run. As soon as the farmer showed himself.
A figure emerged from inside a front stall. A tiny figure with round green eyes and a halo of curly black hair standing out around her head. Pale skin. Plump, rosy cheeks.
Mal slowly dropped his arms and set the shovel aside. There’d be no smashing and running. Not when God had sent him an angel.
“Who are you?” the angel asked, her childish voice holding only curiosity. No accusation.
Mal couldn’t say a word.
The angel didn’t ask another question. Just stared back at him. Only then did Mal remember he didn’t have a shirt on. He circled his arms around his middle, trying to hide his scrawny, naked chest. He didn’t want to offend the angel. Or have her see the bones that showed through his skin. A man had his pride, after all.
“You must be cold,” she said at last. Then she started unbuttoning her coat, and before he knew what she was about, she had the thing off and was wrapping it around his shoulders.
The heavy wool felt like heaven, still warm from her body. Heat seeped into his frost-nipped skin, thawing him until he thought he might melt like candle wax in an oven.
“Don’t just stand there gawking like you’ve never seen a girl before,” she demanded. “Put your arms in the sleeves.”
His angel scowled at him, her lower lip protruding in an exasperated pout as she lectured him. Then, because he obviously wasn’t moving fast enough for her liking, she reached out and did it for him. Peeled his arms apart and stuffed them in the too-short coat sleeves.
“You’re near to frozen,” she complained when her hand first touched his wrist, but the observation didn’t cause her to slow down at all. She just reached for the buttons next, did them up, then started rubbing his arms up and down through the sleeves, the friction heating his skin even more. He stared down at the top of her head while she worked. She only came up to about his chin. Tiny little thing, his angel. Bossy, too.
She pulled away after a moment. “Hmm. This isn’t good enough.” She stalked over to a sawhorse situated near the tack wall, threw the bridle that had been sitting atop it to the ground, and grabbed hold of the striped saddle blanket draped across its middle.
“Sit down,” she ordered as she dragged the thick blanket over to him. Once he complied, she flopped the blanket onto his lap. She stared at him again, all thoughtful-like. Her gaze hesitated at the ends of the coat sleeves, where his wrists and hands hung uncovered. “Oh! My mittens!” A grin broke out across her face and she bounded away, into the stall that she’d emerged from earlier.
She hurried back and thrust a pair of bright red mittens at him. “Here. Put these on.” Her face clouded again for a minute, then cleared. “And my scarf!” She unwrapped the long knitted strip from around her neck and twined it about his, wrapping it up over his ears and head,
as well. “That’s better.” The triumph in her voice made him smile.
She examined him again, the frown lines reappearing above her pert little nose. He was beginning to feel a bit like one of those snowmen the kids liked to build by the schoolhouse when the weather turned wintry. He half expected her to fetch a carrot and jab it against his nose. Not that he would have minded. A carrot would taste a fair sight better than cow corn.
“Your feet,” she said at last. “There’s still snow crusted in your laces. Aunt Henry is always fussing at me to get out of my wet boots and stockings before my feet shrivel. If you were walking around in the snow out there, though, we’ve got more to worry about than wrinkled toes.”
Aunt Henry? What kind of person was that?
The girl glanced up at him. “Old Man Tarleton got lost in a blizzard a couple years back, and his feet got so cold, they froze solid. Three of his toes turned black and fell off.” She reported that grisly piece of news with a decidedly non-angelic degree of enthusiasm. “So we better get those shoes off.”
She sat down in front of him and started picking at his laces.
Enough was enough. He couldn’t let his angel touch his stinky feet. There was no telling what muck he might have stepped in.
“I’ll do it,” he groused. He tried to push her away and take off the fuzzy red mittens, but she wouldn’t let him.
“Keep those mittens on!” She glared at him so fiercely he didn’t dare argue. “I’ll not have you catching your death on my watch.”
Why was she doing this? Helping him instead of calling her father to send him away. Giving him her own clothing. Talking to him as if he were any other person. Not the piece of gutter trash he knew himself to be.
She finally got the laces undone and gently tugged his shoes off. He tried to pull his feet beneath the horse blanket before she saw the sorry state of his socks, but she wouldn’t let him. She peeled the hole-riddled stockings from his feet one at a time, tsking over how icy his toes felt. He was just happy to see they weren’t black like Old Man Tarleton’s. They were filthy, though. Ugly. He pulled them away from her clean white hands and did his best to hide them under the saddle blanket.
No Other Will Do Page 1
