Chapter 1

Kara stood at the window of her room, looking out at the dusty main street below. The setting sun was bathing everything in shades of rose gold, giving the two-story buildings lining each side of the street a magical glow. Beyond them she could just make out the ridge of the mountains rising in the distance. The town looked so calm and peaceful, exactly what she'd hoped to find, and yet…

Before she could delve further into the reason for her doubts she spotted Lucas Trask striding down the street, his dark hair slicked back and a smug look on his face. She knew that look all too well - the one that said he was convinced he was going to get what he wanted. Her hands tightened on the window sill before she stood a quick step back from the glass, but she kept a wary eye on him as he paused outside the boarding house.

He scanned the facade as if searching for something - or someone - and her heart skipped a beat. Did he know she was here? She ducked behind the tattered lace curtain, eyeing his calculating expression. What did he want now? Was this another attempt to cajole her into his bed? She'd hoped he'd given up, but she should have known he wasn't the type to give up easily.

He stepped up on the wooden sidewalk, out of her view, but his disappearance was immediately followed by a hard, peremptory knock on the door below. She instinctively crossed to her own door, checking the warped doorknob to reassure herself it was still locked. While she'd done her best to make it clear she wasn't interested, Lucas didn't take no for an answer. The memory of his condescending smile and grasping hands still made her skin crawl.

Her fingers tightened around the doorknob as she strained to hear the muffled conversation from downstairs. The words "thief" and "stole" drifted up, and her heart sank. His voice dripped with malice, and she was afraid she knew exactly what he was trying to do. The boarding house's old floors creaked beneath her feet as she crept out onto the landing, listening to the exchange between Lucas and her landlady, Mrs. Hargrove.

"…a valuable family heirloom," he was saying, his tone full of righteous indignation. "I specifically remember Kara admiring it at the gathering last week. She must have seen an opportunity and?—"

Her face flashed hot with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she peered down at the two people in the front hall. Mrs. Hargrove was a kind, older woman, but would she believe Lucas's lies? The landlady's expression, usually warm and welcoming, had turned uncertain, her brows furrowed in concern.

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Trask," Mrs. Hargrove said, her voice hesitant. "Miss Dalton has always been a respectable boarder… but if you're certain?—"

"Respectable?" Lucas gave a cold, mirthless laugh. "You don't know the girl, Mrs. Hargrove. She's been trouble since the day she arrived in Wainwright. Mark my words, she'll bring ruin to this town if you don't keep a close eye on her."

Her nails dug into her palms as she fought the urge to storm downstairs and confront him. She was afraid that confronting him would only play into his hands, giving him exactly the reaction he was angling for. But oh, how she wanted to defend herself, to shout her innocence to the rooftops.

Instead, she crept back to her room, the gentle creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet like a sigh of resignation. The dimly lit space seemed to close in around her, the shadows like dark tentacles reaching out to snatch her last thread of hope.

As she slumped onto the bed, her eyes darted around the small room. She'd tried to make it her sanctuary, the home she so desperately wanted, but the bunch of wildflowers in a jar on the small table and the colorful patchwork quilt on the narrow bed weren't enough to overcome the general air of fading grandeur. The once-pretty wallpaper was beginning to peel and the flowered carpet on the floor was faded and worn. At least Mrs. Hargrove kept it spotlessly clean.

How fitting that such a sad little room should be all she had to show for her hopes of a new start in Wainwright. Not that she'd expected luxury - she knew the small town wasn't exactly prosperous - but she'd at least hoped for friendship. Instead she'd encountered a distinct reserve whenever she'd approached the other women in town. At first she'd put it down to the fact that she'd only arrived in town two months ago. But after Lucas started pursuing her, she was afraid that he'd spread his poison throughout the town, and now it looked like he would finally succeed in chasing her away.

Her gaze drifted to the small, worn trunk in the corner, its weathered surface a testament to the countless times it had been lugged from one place to another. Her eyes stung as memories flooded her mind – the series of foster homes after her parents died, each more inhospitable than the last, where she'd been shuffled from one temporary family to another like a pawn in a game of mercy. The jobs that paid just enough to survive, but never enough to thrive. The endless uncertainty that had dogged her every step.

And yet, despite it all, she had managed to maintain hope, a belief that somewhere out there was a place where she would belong. She'd desperately hoped that Wainwright would be that place, a chance to leave the past behind and forge a new path. But now, with Lucas's accusations hanging over her, that chance was slipping through her fingers.

She swiped at the tears on her cheeks - crying wasn't going to solve anything - and kneeled in front of the trunk, her fingers finding comfort in the familiar contours. A few precious belongings were nestled inside – a faded photograph of her parents, a tattered diary, a silver locket given to her by a kind-hearted teacher. Tokens of a few brief happy moments, of the kind of life she'd never really known, but had always longed for.

The sound of Mrs. Hargrove's hesitant voice broke the spell, and she forced her mind back to the present. What would the landlady do? Would she believe Lucas's lies? Kara had always done her best to be polite and friendly - and to pay her rent on time - but she was still a stranger in town and Lucas had a lot of influence.

I can't take that chance. I have to get out of town.

She couldn't carry the trunk for any distance. She would have to leave it behind. Fighting back the urge to cry, she pulled out her worn leather satchel instead and started throwing things into it. Her hands threatened to tremble as she cinched the leather straps tight, and then closed the trunk, the familiar creak of the old wood a bitter reminder of all she was leaving behind. The faint scent of lavender wafted up, transporting her back to the comfort of her childhood blankets, but there was no time for nostalgia now.

Taking a deep breath, she slung the satchel over her shoulder and opened the window that overlooked the alley. Outside, the wooden siding creaked beneath her fingers as she cautiously climbed down. She'd climbed down these walls before, escaping into the night when the loneliness became too much to bear.

As she descended, Lucas's muffled voice drifted from the hallway, his words indistinguishable but his anger palpable. Mrs. Hargrove's hesitant responses were lost beneath his strident voice, but she didn't linger to eavesdrop. She made her way quickly down the alley, the cool evening air enveloping her like a shroud.

Wainwright was a small town - only a few streets lay between her and the open countryside. The streets were mainly residential, the lights already on inside the houses as families gathered for their evening meals. She should be grateful that no one was around to spot her flight through the gathering dusk. Instead she cast them an envious glance, swallowing hard against the loneliness that threatened to overwhelm her.

There was no point in regretting what might have been. She needed to focus on staying one step ahead of Lucas. The sun disappeared below the horizon as she reached the outskirts of town and the surrounding countryside swallowed her whole. She didn't look back, didn't dare, her eyes fixed on the horizon as she fled Wainwright and Lucas's poisonous accusations. The only sound was the soft crunch of her boots on the dry grass, a counterpoint to the pounding of her heart.

When she reached the tree line, she paused, panting and listened to the night. The distant chirp of some night insect, the rustle of leaves – no sound of pursuit. Not yet, at least. She wasn't sure how far he was prepared to go but she'd learned long ago not to underestimate a vindictive man.

The first of Cresca's two moons began to rise, allowing her enough light to see her way. Taking a deep breath, she started walking again, the weight of her satchel bumping against her hip. She was determined to get as far away from Wainwright as possible before morning.

By the time the sun rose, she was exhausted, her feet aching from the hours spent stumbling over rocks despite the moonlight. Her legs trembled from the strain, her arms tight and sore from gripping the satchel strap. The land had been opening up for some time, the trees disappearing and replaced by wide stretches of what appeared to have been farmland at one time. The open ground made her uneasy and she headed for a small patch of woods instead.

As she pushed through the thick underbrush between the trees, an old farmhouse materialized before her, its weathered wooden boards seeming to sag beneath the weight of years. She hesitated at the edge of the clearing, but the house was clearly abandoned, the roof sagging and the porch cluttered with leaves and branches. She hesitated, then her leaden legs stumbled toward the crooked porch.

She dropped her satchel on the creaking planks, the sound echoing through the morning stillness like a gunshot as she studied the house. The once-white paint had long since peeled, revealing the grey wood beneath, like the skin of some ancient, diseased creature.

The front door hung askew, its hinges worn, creaking softly in the gentle morning breeze. Her hand closed around the rusty door handle, the metal still reassuringly solid despite the rust, and managed to wrestle the door open. The air inside was stale and musty, but the space was also dry and sheltered – a refuge, no matter how temporary.

Her footsteps echoed off the worn wooden floors as she explored. The living room was a jumble of old furniture, some pieces overturned, others propped against the walls as if their owners had simply vanished in mid-stride. On one wall a stone fireplace yawned like an empty mouth, a rusty grate hanging crookedly within.

She discovered a dusty old armchair, its upholstery frayed and worn, and dropped into it, ignoring the cloud of dust as her exhaustion-cramped muscles relaxed into its worn contours. For a moment, she simply sat, her eyes closed, the silence oddly comforting.

As her breathing steadied she studied the room, taking in the stains where photographs had once adorned the walls and the faded floral curtains that hung like limp flags. This was someone's past, abandoned, forgotten – like her own. The thought created a fragile sense of solidarity, of kinship with the unknown former occupants of this forsaken place.

The stillness of the abandoned farmhouse seeped into her bones as she sat, calming the turbulent muddle of her thoughts, her tired brain slowly grasping the reality of her situation. She was alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life. No foster parents, no landlords, no employer - and no Lucas Trasks looming over her shoulder, waiting to pounce.

But as she sat in the silence, something within her began to shift. The weight of her past, the accumulated burdens of her foster homes and dead-end jobs, started to lift, ever so slightly. It was as if this abandoned farmhouse, with its air of neglect and decay, was somehow releasing her from the grip of her own despair.

Finally she stood, her joints creaking in protest, and wandered into the kitchen. The air was stale here too and the faucet didn't work, but there was a rusty old pump next to the sink as well, its wooden handle worn smooth from use. She worked the handle and a moment later water came rushing out, the sound unexpectedly loud in the surrounding silence. She drank thirstily, then splashed water over her face, the cool liquid cleansing her parched skin and washing away the grime of her journey.

Water dripped from her chin as she straightened, her eyes roving over the kitchen. An old wooden table, scarred and gouged, dominated the center of the room. She ran her fingers over the marks, feeling an inexplicable connection to the unknown people who'd laughed, argued, and loved around this very table. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt a spark of belonging – fragile, perhaps, but real.