Chapter One

November 1873

Somewhere in Lincoln County, Nebraska

Matilda Youngerman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tried to ignore her brother George as he leaned his head out the window of the coach. With nothing around for miles on the open prairie, she didn’t know who or what he was looking for. She clenched her jaw as she followed her brother’s erratic movements.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, then back out the window, apprehension clear in the tense set of his shoulders and darting eyes. His low mutterings about someone following them reached her ears. She rolled her eyes, her annoyance with him rising. He had been saying the same thing since they left Texas.

She glanced at the woman sitting across from them in the dimly lit coach. The woman wore a plain black dress with a threadbare hem and a worn, but kind expression that didn’t quite reach her dark eyes. Tillie forced a small grin and looked away. The woman’s smile made Tillie apprehensive. The woman hadn’t done or said anything. There was just something Tillie couldn’t put her finger on.

Groaning to herself, she shook her red curls and nudged George with her elbow. His lunacy was rubbing off on her. Trying to ignore the woman, Tillie placed a hand on her belly, wondering why George didn’t get them anything to eat when they disembarked the train in Grand Platte. Her brother was tight and wouldn’t spend on necessities: food, clothing, rent. He insisted they share a cold sandwich on the train, balking at the prices for refreshments at the few stops from Texas to Nebraska.

Honestly, it surprised Tillie he even paid for train tickets for them to travel north, but George was in a hurry to get out of town. The train was a luxury that Tillie was grateful for. The thought of walking all that distance as part of a cattle train held no appeal—especially with all those cowboys. Tillie gave a shudder.

As Papa would say, “Why borrow trouble?” But Papa wasn’t here, was he? she thought. As she rubbed her tired and red eyes, the memories came flooding back. Papa dying, the foreclosure notice nailed to the door, the auction of their belongings, and finally the fire in the backyard where everything that was left, including Papa’s favorite armchair, went up in flames. She had nothing left, and it was George’s fault.

If he hadn’t spent Papa’s savings, Papa wouldn’t have gone into debt trying to cover George’s schemes. If Papa hadn’t died, they could have kept ahead of the payments.

If. If. If. She repeated the words in time with the horse’s hooves hitting the ground.

It was after the auction when George blurted out the words, “We need to find Sawyer.”

Tillie hadn’t seen Sawyer in ages, but she could still remember her brother as being kind and compassionate. All the traits George was missing. Unfortunately, she didn’t know where to even start searching for Sawyer. The last they had heard, he was foreman on a ranch somewhere on the western side of the state.

George started traveling from town to town, dragging Tillie with him as he looked for Sawyer. Sometimes they would stay in a town for a few weeks and then George would insist that they leave. Tillie preferred it when they didn’t have to leave in the middle of the night.

“George, close that shade. It is letting the cold air in.” She glanced at the woman once more, who had shifted her attention to the loose thread on her sleeve cuff. Tillie watched as the woman’s dirty fingers delicately traced the fibers.

The leather curtain snapped as George released it, bouncing off the side of the coach with a dull thwap. The worn material moved in a slow, lazy motion before settling against the windowpane. He cleared his throat and leaned back in the worn seat, which groaned in protest under the weight of the passengers.

The stagecoach rattled and swayed as it lumbered along the dusty trail. With each rock or rut the wheels met, the curtain would lift slightly, carrying dust into the small compartment, along with a burst of icy air, before connecting again with the window’s edge.

Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

Cold air stung Tillie’s cheeks and her fingers went numb from gripping the stiff seats as the bumpy ride jostled her around. She tried to hold on, but with a final lurch, she lost her balance and tumbled into the seat across from her. Instinctively, she grabbed onto the arm of the woman sitting there. Startled and embarrassed, she quickly apologized before pushing herself back to her seat and glaring at George, annoyed that he had put them in this predicament. She should be at home in her comfortable bed. Not bouncing along to Heaven-knows-where with her reckless brother.

George met Tillie’s accusing gaze with a defiant stare of his own, his eyes ablaze with a wild determination that unsettled her. “I’m telling you, Till, someone’s been tailing us since we left Denver. I’ve seen the same people following our trail for days now,” he insisted, his voice low but urgent.

Tillie’s patience wore thin as her frustration simmered beneath the surface. Clutching her worn shawl tightly around her shoulders, she mustered her resolve and shot back, “Nobody is following us. We were on a train all the way to whatever the last town was. Don’t you think that if they were following us, they would have joined us on the ride to… where is this stage going?”

George ignored her and lifted the curtain again, peeking out the window. She let out a long, shaky breath, and a loose strand of hair floated upwards before falling back into place against her cheek.

“Flat River.”

Tillie’s gaze shot up to the woman across from her. “Excuse me?”

“The stage is going to Flat River. After that, it travels north to Lancaster.”

“You mean Lincoln,” George murmured.

“That’s right. They changed its name to Lincoln. It’s been a while since I’ve been this way.”

“Are you from this area Mrs.…?” Tillie asked.

“Call me Ma Richards. I was a long time ago.”

“What brings you back, Ma Richards?”

“I’m just looking for my daughter.”

“Isn’t that peculiar, George? Ma Richards is looking for her daughter and we are looking for…”

“Our cousin,” George snapped.

“That’s not…”

“A distant cousin.” George’s glare was enough to convey his message without a single word. Tillie quickly abandoned any thoughts of arguing with him.

“It’s a big country.” Mrs. Richards pulled her traveling bag onto her lap. “People move around all the time.”

“Have you been looking for your daughter for long?”

Mrs. Richards’ shoulders lifted slightly; her arms pulled in closer to her body. Her face remained neutral, almost indifferent. “About six years. She moved after my son died.”

“I am so sorry,” Tillie murmured.

“I have family in Lincoln. So, I’m going to stay with them. They’ll help me look.” Mrs. Richards’ voice was like ice, slicing through the tension in the coach. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, sending a chill down Tillie’s spine. She couldn’t help but shiver under Mrs. Richards’ sharp gaze.

Tillie shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her clothes were fine for the weather in Texas, but not for the cooler temperatures in Nebraska.

“Where’s your coat, child?” Mrs. Richards asked.

“I must have left it in my luggage.” She prayed Mrs. Richards didn’t see through her lie.

“It’s November. You didn’t think you’d need it in Denver?” The older woman’s gray eyes narrowed, studying Tillie from head to toe, before the corners of her mouth turned down in a subtle frown.

“It was very warm when we left Texas.” Tillie tugged on George’s coat sleeve. “Can you please close the window, George? I’m getting cold.”

George, with a grunt, closed the window, shutting out the gusts of stiff wind that had been creeping in. He turned to Tillie with an exasperated expression, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.

Tillie’s stomach rumbled loudly, a reminder of how long it had been since their last meal. She leaned over to George. “I’m hungry,” she whispered.

“You’ll have to wait until we find him,” he hissed.

“You don’t know where he is,” she hissed in return.

Mrs. Richards, who had been observing the exchange from her seat, reached into her traveling bag and pulled out a small, wrapped package. Without a word, she handed it to Tillie.

“What’s this?” Tillie asked, eyeing the package warily.

“Food,” Mrs. Richards replied simply. “You should have picked up something before you boarded. That is why the mercantile was right there.”

George’s hand reached out towards the package, but Tillie instinctively turned her body to shield it from view. Her arm cradled it protectively as she cautiously unwrapped the package to reveal a few crackers and a piece of cheese. Her stomach growled even louder at the sight of food. She thanked Mrs. Richards profusely and eagerly bit into one of the crackers, scattering crumbs down the front of her dress.

“Slow down,” George chided, as she devoured the small meal.

“I’m sorry,” Tillie mumbled through a mouthful of cracker crumbs. Mrs. Richards reached into her worn leather bag and pulled out a shiny red apple. She offered it to George, but he shook his head and looked away. Undeterred, she turned to Tillie, who eagerly snatched the apple from her hand and hugged it to her chest. “Fank few.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mrs. Richards watched Tillie and George for a moment before reaching into her bag once more. She pulled out a second apple and took a bite. Lifting her hand, she waved the fruit at the siblings. “You two seem close.”

“We’re cousins,” George replied curtly.

“Hmmm. Cousins.” Mrs. Richards sat with her arms crossed, a stern expression on her face. Tillie could feel the weight of her disapproval, and she hastily stuffed another cracker in her mouth to avoid having to explain herself. Thankfully, Mrs. Richards didn’t press any further, sparing Tillie from an uncomfortable conversation.

The last crumbs of cracker and cheese fell onto her skirt as she finished the snack. She shook out the handkerchief that had held the food, wiping the apple with it before taking a juicy bite. The tangy sweetness dripped down her chin, but she didn’t mind as she devoured the fruit, leaving only a small core behind.

She returned the handkerchief to Ma Richards, before pulling another from her pocket to clean her sticky fingers and face, before neatly wrapping up the core and tucking it into her reticule. As the stagecoach jostled along the uneven road, Tillie’s eyelids grew heavy. The gentle rocking and the warmth from the apple she had devoured combined to lull her into a drowsy state. She leaned her head against the hard wall of the carriage and caught glimpses of the prairie passing by.

The land was mostly flat, with gentle slips and occasional hills. Watching the passing scenery of barren trees and rocky outcrops, Tillie shivered, pulling her legs up next to her on the bench. She wrapped her arms around her middle, using her legs as protection from the cold air.

She heard George say something to her, but she was too drowsy to make out his words. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road acted as a lullaby, lulling her further into sleep.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, the rhythmic sound of the coach wheels on the rugged terrain fading into the background. Tillie’s breathing slowed, deepening as she succumbed to exhaustion.

As she drifted in and out of consciousness, fleeting images of her childhood home flashed through her mind. The grand estate, now a distant memory, echoed with laughter and warmth. She saw her mother’s gentle smile, felt the rough texture of her father’s work-worn hands. But loss tinged each memory, reminding her of everything that had been taken from her.

A sudden jolt and the rattle of the stagecoach snapped Tillie awake, her heart pounding as she glanced around in confusion. George was staring at her, annoyance clear in his eyes.

“We’re here,” he snarled.

She groggily stretched her legs, feeling the stiffness from sitting in the same position for hours. “How long was I out?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes before looking around to assess her surroundings.

The stagecoach had come to a halt in front of a small, dusty building. Mrs. Richards had already exited the stagecoach, so it was just Tillie and George in the carriage.

“We will get off here and stretch our legs.”

“Do you think Sawyer is here?”

“I don’t know. We can find someone to ask.” George quickly disembarked and reached for her hand to help Tillie from the coach.

The cold quickly seeped into her bones. She tucked her hands underneath her armpits and hopped from one foot to the next. As George talked to the driver, Tillie blinked at the sight of Flat River. There was nothing remarkable about the town.

It was a small, dusty settlement with buildings that looked weathered from years of exposure to the harsh elements. Tillie’s eyes flitted from the ramshackle structures to the few people milling about the street.

The atmosphere felt heavy and damp, like it could snow at any moment. A faint aroma of dust and manure tickled her nostrils, causing her to wrinkle her nose.

George returned to her side; his expression was grim. “The marshal’s office is across the street. I can ask over there.” Tillie snorted; she knew George wouldn’t ask anything from a lawman. “They need to change the team on the stage. We can wait here.”

“What about the mercantile?” The building with the large, worn wooden walls and welcoming sign stood in the twilight. Warm lamplight glowed from within, casting a golden hue into the sky. “Over there,” she nodded towards the store, her voice hoarse. “We could use some warmth.”

George hesitated, his eyes narrowed as they darted back and forth, scouring for unseen threats. But the bite of the wind urged him forward, and with a grunt of acknowledgment, he started toward the mercantile, Tillie trailing behind.

They approached the door, the wooden sign above creaking on its hinges, the word ‘Mercantile’ etched in faded paint. Hand on the handle, Tillie paused, a prayer fluttering silently from her heart to the heavens. She wasn’t asking for miracles—just enough grace to carry them through another night.

“Touch nothing. We’ll just go inside and get warm for a bit.”

She nodded and sent a silent prayer that they would soon find Sawyer and she could get away from George.