Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Fort Harrod, Kentucky

March 18, 1784

M uireall's hands flew to her mouth, stifling the scream that came as a scraggly man leapt from within the branches of a red maple as her sister passed. Green leaves rustled as he landed upon her sister's lean form, his momentum toppling them both to the ground. Margaret scrambled out from under him, but he grabbed her ankles and yanked her back. Meanwhile, tears streamed down Muireall's face, for she knew no matter how hard she attempted to move, she was bound in place.

Muireall bolted upright, but darkness enveloped her. She swiped at the tears on her face and gasped for breath. The room seemed as devoid of air as it was of light. Clambering to the head of her cot, she located the candle on the bedside table and fumbled to light it. Finally, a small flame broke through the inky black, and her breathing began to slow. 'Twas only a dream. The same dream that had plagued her every night for two weeks—but still, only a dream.

Why was she afflicted with these nightmares now, nearly four years after she and her sister were attacked in their own home? Because something was terribly wrong. A shiver ran through Muireall.

Nay. She shook her head and moved to start a fire in the hearth, as if the movement could shake the trepidation from her bones. Margaret was safe, living in the home their father had built near the Green River. A tear slipped down her cheek. How could she know that for sure?

Muireall had not received a single word from Margaret in the time since her sister returned home. There was no mail service on the frontier, after all. One rarely even had visitors. With this knowledge, Muireall had been forced to assume Margaret and her husband had made it safely home, where they started their family. And she had lived peacefully with that assumption...until the nightmares came. Dread swirled in her stomach.

Once Muireall had coaxed the flames to life and hung a kettle of water over the fire, she wrapped herself in a wool shawl and threw open the door. A cold breeze greeted her, the chill of night not yet having been pushed out by the sun's warmth. Though the world outside was a blur, a smudge of pink on the horizon revealed that soon, all would be bathed in light. Hopefully, it would edge the gloominess out of her soul.

Still, there was a portion of Muireall that longed to return to her sister's side, to ensure that all was well with her only remaining relation. A frown tugged the edges of her mouth downward. She could never do that. Traveling back into the wilderness would mean enlisting the aid of someone who could see more than five inches in front of their own face. And she could never let anyone know her secret. Margaret was not even aware of her blemish. Nay, Muireall's mither had made it clear that should anyone find out, it would ruin her chances at marriage.

As it was, her beauty and skill with a needle should result in a match. At least, that was what Ma had iterated time and time again. Yet here she was at twenty-one years of age, with not a single prospect. Of course, she kept mostly to herself, sewing and caring for Petunia. It was much easier to keep her distance from strangers. Less chance of revealing her secret. But it was a lonely existence.

With that thought, Muireall closed the door against the chilly March morning and glanced toward the bed where Petunia continued to slumber. Her chest squeezed as she conjured an image of the elderly woman's bony features. When she and her sister had arrived at the fort, Petunia had taken Muireall under her wing and helped her find some worth in her abilities, particularly those involving needle and thread, outside of marriage. Not only had she shared her home, but under her tutelage, Muireall had bloomed.

Over the past winter, though, Petunia's health had declined. Now it was she that needed Muireall. No matter how pressing the sensation that her sister was in danger, she could never leave the person to whom she owed so much.

J ohn passed the bounds of the fort and slipped over to the nearest oak. There, he leaned against the trunk with arms crossed and hat pulled low over his face while he waited for Hodges and Rollinson. Why did it have to be those two vermin from his past who held the key to finding his father? The men were acquaintances from what seemed a lifetime ago. Worthless rabble-rousers who enjoyed their women, liquor, and thievery. John thought he had left that life behind him when he came west. But here it was, swaggering toward him in the form of a lanky blonde and a stocky redhead.

"Jude Browne. You sure are a sight for sore eyes." Hodges's gaze landed on the leather eyepatch covering John's useless right eye before he snickered at Rollinson, the taller of the two men. John's body tensed at the use of his given name, and his fingers dug into his arms through his shirtsleeves. He forced them to relax and lifted a smile to the newcomers. He needed them on his side, for now.

"Could say the same of the two of you."

Rollinson released a steely laugh that could curdle blood. His blue eyes narrowed on John. "I hear people around here call you by John."

"Yes." John tried to keep the bite from his voice, but his jaw clenched. Rollinson had the power to bring the new life he had built crashing down around him. Only, he would have to bring himself down in the process. But a man like him might believe he was immune, so John had better tread lightly. "It is simpler for folk around here." He gave a one-shoulder shrug.

Rollinson eyed him a moment longer before he spat into the greening grass of the coming spring. "What do you want, Jude?"

Thankful the man preferred to cut to the chase, John breathed a sigh of relief. If he could resolve this business and retreat to his cabin before anyone ventured by, perhaps his fa?ade would remain intact. "I need a map to Pitman Station."

"Plan on going on a trip?" Hodges raised bushy red eyebrows over beady brown eyes.

"I have business there."

Hodges and Rollinson exchanged conspiratorial glances, and though John kept his expression blank, his insides began to crawl. Perhaps this had not been his brightest idea, involving these two. But despite all his faults, Rollinson was a gifted cartographer. Why the man had taken to carousing instead of pursuing the use of his gift, John would never know. But he supposed everyone had skeletons from their past. He certainly had his own, and this conversation was living, breathing proof. Still, with a map of Rollinson's creation in John's hand, he could not go astray as he continued his hunt for his father. As long as it was accurate and Rollinson did not attempt to purposefully deceive him. Jude shifted, sizing up the man he once worked alongside.

"What is in it for us?"

Jude was prepared for Rollinson's question. He withdrew a hefty bag of coins from his pocket and tossed it in the air before catching it again and stuffing it back into place. "I will pay a handsome sum." Perhaps the money would be incentive to keep Rollinson honest in his map-making.

He would not need much on the frontier, anyway. Only what supplies he could carry. He had heard Pitman Station was only a week's journey by foot, so he did not even intend to buy a horse. The less to tend to, the better. No ties, nothing to weigh him down or trip him up, as he searched for the man who had left his mother before John was ever born. Maybe then he would know who he truly was.

Rollinson's lips tipped up. "I will have it for you in two days' time."

"Good." This time, a genuine smile spread across John's lips. He pushed himself from the tree and gave a tip of his hat. After six years of waiting and searching, finally, he had a substantial lead…and a way to track it down.

M uireall covered her mouth as she stifled a yawn.

"Still having nightmares?" Concern laced Betty Davidson's voice. Her best friend sat at the table with her, sipping a cup of tea. Her frizzy brown waves were tucked into a knot at her nape, and the worry in her equally brown eyes matched her voice.

"Aye." Muireall glanced toward the bed to ensure that Petunia still slumbered, the elderly woman having laid back down after a bit of porridge and an hour spent sewing. Thankfully, she slept soundly. Though Petunia had been a wise and trusted confidante over the past few years, Muireall did not wish to burden her with her troubles, not with the precarious state of her health.

The scraping of Betty's chair against the floor drew her attention back to her friend. "Come along. Let us take a walk. 'Tis a bright, beautiful day—if a bit chilly." Betty took her elbow and coaxed her toward the open door.

Muireall smiled. After her own health scare the autumn after they arrived at the fort, Betty had roped her into taking daily constitutionals. And despite her aversion to the outdoors, Muireall had to admit, the fresh air and sunshine always brightened her spirits. It was also thanks to her friend that she and Petunia worked with their door propped open as often as not.

Truly, Muireall enjoyed their time outside on days such as this. A cool breeze ruffled her hair while the sun warmed her cheeks. Only, life was safer in her and Petunia's little cabin. She knew the location of each item and usually, all she needed was within her reach. There was no risk of her blundering in an unfamiliar environment and revealing her secret.

"It still seems strange that the nightmares would come now, years after you were attacked." Betty led her out onto the worn path that stretched in front of the row of matching cabins.

"I know." Trauma was the most logical explanation, though. The only other explanation was that the dreams were an omen. Muireall shivered.

"Have you considered going to your sister?"

Muireall's gaze snapped to her blurry friend. Betty did not beat around the bush. "Oh, I could never leave Petunia. Her health is too unstable these days. She needs me." The first person who ever had. Normally, she was the one in need. And the scales would tip back to their normal balance should she traipse into the wilderness.

"True." Betty paused. "But if you are honest with yourself, if you had no obligations here, would you go?"

Muireall tipped her chin as she considered. She would be sorely tempted. But there was still the issue of her eyesight and her need for a guide. There was simply no way such a trip would ever be possible. No matter how her stomach tightened with concern for her sister.

But what if her nightmares truly meant something deeper? Would her sister not come for her? After all, her sister had married a stranger, left her home, and uprooted her entire life for Muireall's safety only four years prior. She had made the journey and nearly lost her new husband in the process.

Margaret had always been the stronger of the two of them.

"I would love to be able to go to her, to ensure her safety. But 'tis not that simple." Muireall gave a shrug.

Betty sighed. "Yes. I only hate to see you sufferin' so." She squeezed Muireall's arm. "I will pray that you are able to find some peace."

"I appreciate it."

Silence fell over them as they soaked in the sun's rays. But it only lasted so long as it took them to reach the end of the row of cabins. No sooner than they turned around and Betty gasped. Muireall turned wide eyes upon her.

"Did you hear? Mrs. Cooper is expecting!" With her own womb barren, Betty took even greater pleasure than most in the arrival of young ones in Harrodstown.

"Oh, how wonderful." Without a doubt, Muireall would find herself sewing a gown for the bairn, whether on commission or simply as a gift to the new parents.

A figure approached down the path, and Muireall sidled closer to Betty. She scrutinized the newcomer, but it was no use. The man wore a hat and dressed in dark clothing, just as most of the men in the area did. She prayed that Betty would recognize the neighbor and greet them so that she might be able to do so without blunder. The man kept his head down, but as he neared, he gave them a quick glance and nod. Was he wearing an eyepatch?

"Good afternoon, Mr. Browne." Betty waved cheerfully. But the man continued marching down the path, past them, his head bent as though he was on an important mission. "Such a strange man," her friend added, without a hint of judgement.

"Mhmm." Muireall murmured her agreement as she reluctantly moved her attention from his retreating form.

Betty prattled on about the gorgeous weather with which they had been blessed and how planting would soon begin, but Muireall found it difficult to focus on her words. Instead, she worked to tamp down the strange sensation that swirled in her middle.

Finally, she and Betty had made their way back to the cabin. Maybe all would be better once she put needle to cloth. There was such a soothing rhythm to sewing.

As soon as the two stepped into the dim cabin, Muireall's heart dropped. Something was amiss. Eerie silence filled the room and threatened to drown her in its wake. Immediately, she went to Petunia's side. Her hand trembled as she placed it upon the elderly woman's chest. There was no rise and fall.

"No!" The word came out as a garbled sob as she doubled over upon herself.

"Oh, honey." Betty was by her side in an instant, her arm around her shoulder, supporting her.

Murieall's only companion in life was gone. And suddenly, the tables had shifted.