I’ve read L.M. Montgomery books since I was about 8 years old, and that feel—a cozy community, where people look out for each other, in a time when work was difficult but you could find beauty everywhere, when characters truly want to become better people and antagonists were held accountable—lives deep in my bones.

My new series—Juniper Falls—is my attempt to create something similar.

Book one releases August 28, 2025, with many more to come.

Preorder your books here: http://atbutler.com/jf-series

One of the things that is different in this series, versus my earlier books, is that we will have four point of view characters.

Today, let's talk about the other two women who will be prominent in the first three books.

Lillian Frye is the schoolteacher in Juniper Falls. When her husband wanted a fresh start and to start his hardware store, they moved west with Lilian's younger sister for the opportunities the frontier provides. Once settled in their new life, however, Lillian finds that not everything is going to plan.

Edith Bennett has run a boarding house in Juniper Falls for about ten years. When the McBrides arrive to run the only hotel in town, she has to choose between supporting the newcomers and shunning her competition.

Together, all of these women find themselves and their roles in the frontier town of Juniper Falls, Wyoming Territory.

For more of a glimpse into the kinds of characters that live in this town, including Edith, download my FREE short story collection HERE.

Lillian's husband and sister also appear very briefly in the men's action novel Hawke's Revenge.

P.S. The link again to the first four books in the new Juniper Falls series is http://atbutler.com/JF-series — and don’t forget to claim your preorder bonus

One of the things that is different in this series, versus my earlier books, is that we will have four point of view characters.

This week, let's talk about the McBride family.

The McBride family – Charlotte and her husband Henry – decide they need a change from their life in Philadelphia. Henry had been a lawyer, and is tired of being stuck behind a desk. Though their children are all grown, they're still young enough that a new occupation in a new town sounds like the change they need. Though Charlotte is worried about what could go wrong, she's proud to be able to support her husband in his dream.

Their youngest daughter Mattie (her mother insists on Matilda) accompanies them, mostly because she doesn't have much else to do. Her sweetheart in Philadelphia is not ready to marry her yet and she has no interest in moving in with an older sibling. Instead, the adventure of a frontier town seems like a good distraction until the rest of her life starts. She's only in town a day or two before she finds some new friend, new activity to keep her busy.

I'll write more about this another time, but I chose to place Juniper Falls in the Wyoming Territory, because that is the first state that gave women the right to vote. It seems like a fascinating social development to explore through the eyes of characters like this.

For more of a glimpse into these two characters specifically, read the Juniper Falls prequel story.

You can download the FREE story Traveling to Juniper Falls here: https://atbutler.com/jf-free

There are two other point of view characters in these first three books that I will introduce you to soon! In the meantime, I hope you have a beautiful reading weekend.

P.S. The link again to the first four books in the new Juniper Falls series is http://atbutler.com/JF-series

Caroline Harper graciously accepted her tea with one sugar and sat back in her chair in the Pratts’ formal sitting room. With the sounds of clinking china and the other guests murmuring around her, Caroline kept her attention focused on her posture, smoothing down her violet silk dress, and making sure she remained as prim and ladylike as possible for the man sitting on her left.

Her host, the pastor’s wife Mrs. Pratt, had invited her for the afternoon, ostensibly as a social gathering with her daughter—Caroline’s best friend, Esther. But all the women in the room recognized this tea for what it truly was—an opportunity to introduce Caroline to the new family with the handsome, wealthy, eligible son that had only recently begun attending their church. Caroline had noticed the young man as soon as she had entered the room, and now she wanted nothing more than for him to notice her too.

“It is such a shame your brother wasn’t able to come, Caroline,” Mrs. Pratt said. “The Ross family would have so loved to meet him.”

Caroline smiled. While, yes, she had been loath to go out unaccompanied, she’d not had much choice. Her brother had been invited, but not responded to the missive. The truth was she wasn’t even sure where John was at this moment. Two days previously, when Caroline had received the invitation by post, she had been so excited and honored to be included. She had immediately run to her brother’s office to tell him all about it. John had looked at her blankly, stammered, and made some excuse about having to work.

Caroline had never before suspected her older brother of hiding anything from her, but the more peculiarly he acted, the more she had reason to doubt his words. She’d been almost tempted to surprise him at the family business one of these days, just for her own reassurance that everything was as it should be. John had always been the more responsible of the Harper siblings, joining their father’s company at a young age. Caroline could still remember the confident twenty-year-old John assuring his sister that he would always take care of her, and she never would want for anything.

She believed him.

That promise of protection that John had consistently given her was what had offered her security and confidence even long after their parents’ death. Caroline trusted John to look after their family business, their home, and their estate. She trusted him to look after her, at least until she was married. And she trusted him to look after himself.

Which was why, though he hadn’t seemed much like himself lately, she didn’t worry. John hadn’t been keeping normal work hours for months, and he dodged all her questions about it. But she had given up trying to understand her brother or even show an interest in the family business. He paid the bills, after all. She always got what she wanted, and that had to be enough for her.

So, instead, Caroline had attended the Pratts’ tea on her own. This was a position she’d found herself in more and more, she reminded herself when she had timidly knocked on their front door earlier. Her best friend, Esther Pratt, would be on the other side of the door, and Caroline would be just fine, looked after by the Pratts and safe. She was admired and wanted and could carry off the afternoon with grace.

After passing over her tea, Mrs. Pratt had turned her attention to the young man seated on Caroline’s left. As their host served each person, Caroline had a chance to look around the formal sitting room. The Pratts, the pastor’s family, were always at the latest edge of fashion. There were those in the congregation—uncharitable, selfish people, Caroline thought—who whispered about the impropriety of a man of God being so intent on the trappings of this world. Caroline shut her ears to it. Instead, whenever she was fortunate enough to visit Rosehurst, the Pratt family townhouse in Washington Square, she soaked in every detail of culture and luxury that Mrs. Pratt had recently acquired.

This time, Caroline’s eyes were drawn to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that stood on either side of the marble fireplace. It seemed as though every time she visited the family had added to their collection. The books, in fact, were on display both here in the sitting room and in the library on the second floor. Over the years, Mrs. Pratt had been kind enough to allow Caroline to borrow whatever she liked. Even now, she could feel her palms itching to get a hold of the fine leather-bound literature, though she knew she should focus on the conversation around her.

Her brother John claimed to disapprove of her reading novels, but he had long given up trying to raise Caroline to any proper kind of young lady. She had been only ten when their parents died—drowned at sea on their way home from Europe. He had been twenty and old enough to take charge of the household. Through his half-hearted, though kind, attention, and the strictness of a series of housekeepers, Caroline had managed to learn all the rules of decorum that she needed to know for a girl of her position.

As a Harper, she had certain responsibilities. The family had long owned a growing ship-building business in New York City. Though both siblings were ostensibly owners, John ran it completely. He had started as a clerk at the age of fifteen and quickly learned the business. He was more than ready to take charge when called to after their parents’ death. For her part, Caroline was required for various social events, fundraisers, and functions throughout the year on behalf of the Harpers.

This was part of why she had been invited to the Pratt home. Over the course of an afternoon tea, she could get to know one of the families new to the church, but in addition to that said family could meet both of the Harpers.

Only, John had disappeared, so Caroline was bound to represent the family on her own. She was more than up to the task, always happy to do her duty as the young, glamorous Miss Harper.

“What do you think, Miss Harper?” the young man next to her said, interrupting her thoughts.

She started. “Oh! I’m sorry, I…”

She trailed off helplessly and took a nervous sip of her tea. The young man smiled warmly at her; he had noticed her and kindly picked up the thread of conversation to cover her confusion.

“We were just talking about theater. Have you seen The Tempest?”

She blinked in surprise and stammered. “No, I’m sorry, it’s been an age since I’ve been to the theater. My brother so rarely has time to accompany me. Especially since the Astor Place Riots.”

He nodded. “Of course. Well, perhaps you will allow me to accompany you some time. If you think your brother will not object.”

“Perhaps,” she responded with a smile that promised more.

The rest of the conversation continued throughout the room without them, while Caroline and the young man focused on each other.

“You’re Miss Caroline Harper, aren’t you?” He offered his hand. “Philip Ross. Those are my parents.” He pointed across the room to the fine-looking couple talking to Mrs. Pratt and her daughter, Esther.

Esther kept glancing at Caroline, smiling mischievously when she caught her eye. The two young ladies had spoken at length about Philip Ross over the previous week. This had been before they even had a chance to meet him, going over what each had heard about him, his business, his prospects, his rumors of attachments. Banking, extensive, and none, respectively.

“He’s sure to make a beeline right to you, lucky Miss Caroline Harper,” Esther had said teasingly. “You’re quite the catch—rich, beautiful heiress that you are. He’s sure to fall in love with you immediately. Remember me when he whisks you away to Europe for your honeymoon.”

But now, sitting next to Philip Ross, all thoughts or suspicions as to his motives went right out the window. He seemed completely sincere in his interest in the arts, in theater at least, with no apparent hidden agenda.

The two spent the next hour in a cocoon of their own creation, discussing the latest plays and novels to come over from London. He was less of a reader than Caroline was but seemed more than happy to listen to her extol the virtues of Mr. Irving or Mr. Poe. There was something delightful about the horror of such tales that she could not get enough of, and when she started talking about them, she found she had plenty to say.

She, in turn, returned questions back to him. In his early twenties, Philip Ross was not much older than she was, and had graduated from Columbia College the previous spring. He had taken a position at his father’s bank and told her he was learning the business quickly. She admired how he spoke about the opportunities afforded to men in his line of work.

“There are empires still to be built, Miss Harper,” he told her.

Caroline also admired his splendid chin as he spoke to her of his ambitions.

“And finance is the backbone of such empire-building. I’m proud to be part of an institution that can help leverage the American spirit and grow our influence all over the globe. Why, even now, men are darting all over the continent in hopes of building their own small empires in California or Oregon.”

The clock on the mantle chimed six o’clock.

Caroline looked around, stunned that the time had passed so quickly.

“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Ross. I’m sorry, Mrs. Pratt. I need to be getting home.” Caroline stood, smoothing down her silk skirt. She moved to the door to gather her gloves, shawl, and bonnet. “My brother will be expecting me.”

“Let me have Arthur drive you,” she said, moving to signal to the butler.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. A walk at this time of day seems just the thing.”

“I’d be honored if you’d allow me to walk you home,” Philip said, also standing.

Caroline could feel herself blush, though this had been exactly what she was hoping for. She ducked her head and said in what she hoped was a demure voice, “That would be ideal, Mr. Ross.”

Grab your copy of Westward Courage on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited and in print: ATButler.com/OT01

Print books, however, we can do whatever we like with.

This means that you can order print copies of my books from Amazon, Bookshop, Waterstones and more. You can ask your local independent bookstore to order them for you, or you could even ask your librarian to use some of their budget to keep these books on their shelves.

All you need to do that is the specific ISBN for the book.

The ISBN is different for each format of each book, and I’ve listed them all here. Take what you need to line your shelves with your favorite historical fiction.

This list will be updated as more books are published. You can bookmark it for later access.

Courage on the Oregon Trail Series

• Westward Courage

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-28-6

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-30-9

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-29-3

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-31-6

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

• Faithful Trail

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-37-8

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-38-5

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-39-2

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-40-8

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

• Frontier Sisters

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-41-5

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-42-2

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-43-9

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-44-6

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

• Unyielding Heart

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-45-3

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-46-0

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-47-7

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-48-4

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

• Wild Promise

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-50-7

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-51-4

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-52-1

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-53-8

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

• Fierce Dreams

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-54-5

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-55-2

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-56-9

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-57-6

• Seeking Home

  • 5x8 paperback :

  • 6x9 hardcover :

  • 6x9 large print paperback :

  • 6x9 large print hardcover :

Oregon At Last Series

• Journey’s End

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-25-5

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-24-8

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-26-2

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-32-3

• Christmas in Oregon

  • 5x8 paperback : 978-1-949153-33-0

  • 6x9 hardcover : 978-1-949153-35-4

  • 6x9 large print paperback : 978-1-949153-34-7

  • 6x9 large print hardcover : 978-1-949153-36-1

Juniper Falls Series

• The Juniper Hotel

  • 5x8 paperback :

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover :

  • 6x9 large print paperback :

  • 6x9 large print hardcover :

Jacob Payne, Bounty Hunter Series

• Trouble by Any Name

  • 5x8 paperback :

    • Ingram Spark | Amazon | Bookshop | Barnes & Noble | Waterstone

  • 6x9 hardcover :

  • 6x9 large print paperback :

  • 6x9 large print hardcover :

I tend to start thinking about goals and intentions for the new year in October or November, then as the year closes and I reassess what is actually possible and actually important, I usually have decided on a plan of attack by the last week of December.

This year, I had my cover designer make me new covers months in advance. It helps me to know what I’m writing to as well as to visualize what will happen in future months. I feel very prepared and very excited to jump into the new year.

In 2025 we are publishing SIX new books! Including launching TWO new series.

(There is a tiny possibility it may be more, but it is far more likely that if I have the extra time I will use it to get ahead of my 2026 book plans)

I have to be honest — in the 6+ years I’ve been publishing I have never put out that many books in a calendar year. I am slightly anxious about it, but I am even more energized. A lot of things in my personal life have changed over those six years, and the fact that I am fully confident I can hit these preorder deadlines says a lot more about the peace and stability in my life now than about anything.

Books to look for in 2025:

(all of these are currently available for preorder, but will also be in Kindle Unlimited upon release)

Summer of Promise: Book 7 of Oregon At Last (May 29, 2025)

Marrying a Sweet Sister: Clean Historical Romance series

1. The Sweetest Bond (January 30, 2025)

2. The Sweetest Spark (July 31, 2025

Juniper Falls: Wholesome Historical Women’s Fiction series

1. The Juniper Hotel (August 28, 2025)

2. Building the Dream (September 25, 2025)

3. Snowflakes and Sugar Cookies (October 30, 2025)

In addition to new books:

Creating new books is always the priority, both for you and for me. I will be spending more of this year writing than any other year in the past. While I’m not sure how much extra work time I will have (outside writing new books and my normal admin and marketing tasks), there are several ideas…

• post here at HistoricalWomensFiction.com (once each week, if possible)

• write more short stories that are linked to my various characters and towns

• record my own audio books (possibly to sell, possibly to post on YouTube or as a podcast)

• finish getting the Oregon books into print

• redesign my website (I have been putting this off for… a while)

Social media has never really been my thing, but these more long-form content opportunities like this blog post is where I would love to spend my time to help new readers find me. (feel free to send this link to any friends who love historical fiction. They can get a taste without having to buy a book immediately)

In 2026 and beyond…

I know, I know, maybe I’m biting off more than I can chew, but I am genuinely so excited about my plans and my books that I wish I could write even faster. I want to hang out with these characters as much as you do.

Assuming all goes well this year, in 2026, I’d like to

• Publish book 8 (Eden Valley Sunrise) of Oregon At Last series

• Publish books 3 and 4 (The Sweetest Shelter and The Sweetest Gamble) of the Marrying a Sweet Sister series

• Publish books 4 and 5 (currently untitled) of the Juniper Falls series

And then in 2027 I think we might be back to launching a new series, probably a spin-off of either the Oregon series or the Juniper Fall series, but who knows. I could come up with forty-five new ideas by then. haha!

I think that’s everything for now… Let me know what you are most excited for in the new year!

Thank you for being here! I appreciate you more than you know. I hope you have a wonderful reading week and a very happy new year! ❤️

As an author, one can generally choose between setting stories in real-life places or making up the place entirely. Stories like Star Wars or Game of Thrones, for example, are set in places that do not exist in real life. Or on the opposite end of the spectrum there are stories like Sleepless in Seattle or When Harry Met Sally that take place in Seattle and New York (respectively), with real-life streets, real-life airports, and more.

When I wrote my first series—Jacob Payne, Bounty Hunter—I included a mix of real places and made-up towns in the Arizona Territory. My second series—Courage on the Oregon Trail—necessitated using real places, as the entire premise of the books was that the characters are doing this actually historically verifiable thing (traveling west on the Oregon Trail).

The next series, however, was different. The premise of Oregon At Last is to follow the characters as they settle the frontier, starting from the very basics of digging wells all the way to (eventually, one day) building a bustling hotel where they can house visitors. It may be a generation or more (of fictional characters), but that has been the plan.

To that end, I decided that my fictional characters would be establishing a fictional town. It needed to be based roughly in a real location, geographically speaking. Somewhere that made logical sense for a settlement. Somewhere not too populated in the 21st century. Somewhere near water.

I looked over a map of current-day Oregon to find the perfect spot.

Very very very roughly, Eden Valley is around Oral Hull Park, in Sandy, Oregon.

There’s a river that runs roughly east to west. It’s not terribly far from Fort Vancouver. And there’s very little settlement in that part of the state now, so I am unlikely to run into logistics that affect a reader’s suspension of disbelief.

I do plan on one day creating a map of (settled, finished) Eden Valley. We’ll have to decide where the streets go, how many bridges are going to go over the river, where the proper center of town is, and more details.

But in the meantime, this is a lovely landscape on which to project all of my imagination.

Images taken from Google Street View:

On (real-life) Marmot Road, north of the river:

Green and lush and rolling hills and mountains in the distance.

On (real-life) Oral Hull Road, south of the river:

At the time of writing this, I have been to Oregon but not this part of the state. It would be so much fun to spend some time driving around the neighborhoods there and really envisioning where my characters can settle in, building out their homesteads and creating farms that will last for generations.

Eden Valley is a fictional town set in the Oregon Territory, and established fall of 1850. For all the stories of the brave pioneers that are settling Eden Valley, check out the historical women’s fiction series Oregon At Last by A.T. Butler.

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When Hannah Sullivan’s family decides to head west to the Oregon Territory, she’s exhilarated. The small town where she grew up was fine when that’s all she had to choose from, but as soon as the horizons and opportunities open up, Hannah finds a whole new world, just built for someone as competent, kind and warm as she is.

Hannah’s Hope is part of the Courage on the Oregon Trail series from author A.T. Butler.

Sign up for A.T. Butler's mailing list today and receive Hannah's Hope for free! Dive into a story where romance blossoms against all odds, and be the first to hear about new releases, exclusive content, and special offers. Don’t miss this chance to fall in love with Hannah and Benjamin’s story.

Hannah Sullivan clasped her hands to her bosom to calm her beating heart. Maybe if she stood still, her pulse would stop racing so, maybe she could catch her breath. As she looked down the crowded main street of Independence, Missouri, only weeks away from heading farther west into the frontier, she felt as though the entire world was opening up to her. That she was on the very precipice of a whole new life. As excited and hopeful as she was, the possibilities overwhelmed her. She could almost cry from the maelstrom of feelings within her.

Though it was bright and sunny on that April afternoon, it had been raining on and off for weeks and the mud was ever-present. While the frontier town had a number of hotels and boarding houses to shelter the hundreds of travelers that were expected each spring, not all of the families had the money to pay for them. Instead, people like Hannah’s family were camping at a site just outside of town, and with that came all the filth and nuisance of a rainy season out-of-doors.

“I suppose one nice thing about no longer having a parlor is that I won’t have to clean the floor after all this mud,” Mrs. Emerson said.

Hannah laughed, tossing her heavy blond braid over her shoulder. She was grateful to not be alone in this chaos; a neighboring family with young children had traveled all eight hundred miles with the Sullivans, and would continue the next two thousand miles as well.

Ohio had only become a state a few years before Hannah was born, and though she hadn’t had anything to compare it to, she’d always suspected that towns back east, in longer-settled states, had more polish and grace. Now standing in wild Independence, where French trappers with matted hair leered at her and Mexican men held loud conversations in their lilting language and she had not once but twice had had to step out of the way of an American soldier spitting tobacco juice, she realized Ohio had been a haven compared to this.

Before the Sullivans had left Steubenville earlier in the year, Hannah’s parents had sat her down, along with her four younger siblings, to tell them about the momentous decision. She had been suspecting some kind of big news from her parents for several weeks—they’d’ been acting secretive—but never would she have dreamt that they were planning to move the whole family to the Oregon Territory. When the news got out to the rest of their community, the Emerson family who Hannah had known most of her life decided they wanted to come too.

Both families had sold their homes, their livestock, and most of their possessions before packing what few effects they were keeping into covered wagons. They’d left as soon as the snow showed signs of melting, heading west to connect with larger wagon trains for the full journey across the plains. It had taken the families about six weeks, before they settled on the outskirts of town. They had spent the last several weeks in the jumping-off town from the States into the territories and every day was full of buying supplies, and making connections with other emigrants to prepare for their six-month-long journey along the Oregon Trail.

“Did you happen to see the clerk at the general store when we were there yesterday?” Mrs. Emerson asked. “Goodness, I’m so glad that’s not my job. He looked like he was going to cry when he had to tell a woman that her order of supplies wasn’t ready yet.”

“I know that getting enough pounds of flour or beans or something could be a difference between life and death on the trail, but I don’t know that yelling at a clerk will do anything about that.”

“I agree with you,” Mrs. Emerson said. “But people deal with stress in their own way. I pity that woman’s husband.”

At the mention of a husband, Hannah involuntarily blushed. Though it had nothing to do with her, though Mrs. Emerson wasn’t even looking at her, though Hannah Sullivan had never had a beau in her life, she couldn’t help but cherish the small flame of her secret hope: that this journey to the Oregon Territory would introduce her to her future husband. She was not precious about how they would meet, or how their courtship would progress, but all Hannah had wanted since she was a little girl was to be a wife and mother. Surely some of that had to do with being the oldest child, a daughter with four younger siblings to look after, but even if all that was stripped away Hannah knew she would want as big of a family as she could have.

And she had a feeling this grand adventure would set her on that path.

But she kept that small hope to herself. For now at least. Perhaps when they had actually joined a wagon company and she had a better idea of who they would be spending the next several months with she might open up about it.

“Have you not started yet?”

Hannah turned to see that her mother had joined herself and Mrs. Emerson on the boardwalk outside the barbershop on the main street of Independence. Her expression was tired but happy, and Hannah could sense she had something to say.

“Where are the girls?”

“I left Junior in charge back at the camp site.” Hannah’s mother waved carelessly behind her, indicating the wide swath of dirt just past the last street in town where more than a dozen families had been camping as they waited for the caravans to be formed.

“Junior?” Mrs. Emerson said with a smirk. “How does a sixteen-year-old boy feel about playing mother for an afternoon?”

“Well, it helps that I didn’t word it like that.” Mrs. Sullivan smiled. “Honestly, I think he’ll probably just let them wrestle him and climb all over him, until they wear themselves out. I expect to return to find an absolute mess, though as long as no one gets hurt I will be happy. Now, tell me. Did you get to anything on the list yet?”

“No.” Hannah shook her head. “I got distracted. I’m sorry. I’ll go now.”

“Wait a moment.” Mrs. Sullivan put her hand on Hannah’s arm before the young woman could leave. “I had something I wanted to tell both of you.”

Mrs. Emerson’s face lit up. “You have news?”

“The best news. Better than we had even hoped.”

Hannah’s mind jumped to several possibilities in just the short moment before her mother continued.

“Your father has joined a wagon company, set to leave Independence in about two weeks.”

“That’s wonderful—” Hannah began, before her mother held up a hand to cut her off.

“Not only has he joined a wagon company,” she said, looking between Hannah and Mrs. Emerson, “but because of his experience in political organization he has teamed up with a man named George Mills and the two men are going to captain a large caravan of emigrants together.” She beamed at her daughter. “We will be part of the Sullivan-Mills wagon company.”

Hannah’s mouth fell open in surprise. Her father had been a supporter of John Quincy Adams a decade or so earlier, despite the tide of support that President Jackson had received from all over the country. He had been idealistic and energetic, though ultimately defeated. William Sullivan was not ashamed of his previous experience in drumming up support for a politician. All the same, this wasn’t information he regularly volunteered. Hannah had been a child at the time, and barely remembered her father’s exuberance, but she wasn’t even certain if any of her siblings knew this small fact about their father’s past.

“William has experience in politics?” Mrs. Emerson asked.

“Some,” Mrs. Sullivan said, ignoring the disbelieving tone in the other woman’s voice. “Primarily it was his experience in relating to large groups, and organizing them toward a common goal that the other wagon captain was interested in. Politics was just the venue.”

“That certainly does sound like your husband,” Mrs. Emerson said admiringly. “He has a gift for getting people to agree with him without them even recognizing they are having their minds changed. He should have been a politician himself.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mrs. Sullivan said with a laugh. “But I am very proud of him. This is so much more than even I expected. And apparently this Mills family is herding cattle west, so perhaps we’ll even have a chance for fresh meat.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Mrs. Emerson said. “Will they have room for us too?”

“I’m certain William must have mentioned you all. He wouldn’t leave you in Independence. He also said Captain Mills has pages of notes and letters from a cousin in California. All his tips and suggestions that are probably more up to date than the guidebook. There’s a pastor and his wife who will be in our company, and he said he’s close to convincing a doctor to join our caravan too. We’re quite lucky.”

“Will we need to do anything special?” Hannah asked. “What all is Pa in charge of?”

“I’m not sure they have decided anything specifically. But I will say we need to be sure that we have everything we need ready when it is time to go. Other folks will be looking to our family to set the example.”

“And so I should get to this list you gave me,” Hannah supplied with a guilty grin.

Her mother only looked pointedly at her before Hannah dashed away down the street to the pharmacist, her mind full of this new range of possibilities.

A little more than two weeks later, the Sullivan family had packed both of their covered wagons as full as possible—hundreds of pounds of flour, cornmeal, means, bacon, rice, sugar, coffee, tools, clothing for all seasons, medicine, and all the other bits and bobs the travel guides recommended emigrants carry to get safely over the Blue Mountains before winter arrived in the Oregon Territory. The other captain of the company, George Mills and his family from Georgia, had led his own wagon from outside Atlanta, while his adult son led the team of oxen pulling the family’s second wagon. They waited as they watched wagons pass on the road leading out of town.

“When is it our turn?” Patience asked, a slight whine in her question.

Hannah’s father put his worn, broad hand on the top of his daughter’s head. “Patience,” he said.

“Yes?”

He chuckled.

“Will you ever get tired of that joke?” Hannah asked.

He turned to his younger daughter. “No, Patience, I mean you need to have patience. Our wagons will be in the middle of the caravan so the families in the back can more easily reach someone in charge. So we have to wait for other members of the company to follow behind the Mills family. Probably a couple dozen or so, and then it will be our turn.”

Hannah listened to all of this with her eyes on the crowd around her. The company had attracted nearly fifty families, and a good number of those families were bringing two wagons to Oregon. And that was just their own company. New caravans were leaving Independence every day. And even more from other jumping-off towns like St. Joseph and Omaha. It seemed unbelievable that the territories would stay empty for long, with all this excitement headed their way.

As they watched, Hannah’s father pointed out the families he had met, along with whatever small details he had learned. The Findleys who were good friends with the Millses. The Waters family with half a dozen grown boys accompanying their parents. The Kirks with half a dozen young boys accompanying their parents. As they watched, her father reminded Hannah how much work there would be to do every day.

“The families without children old enough to help will need support from their neighbors,” he said. “It would make me proud if you could help too.”

When the Harpers—a brother and sister from New York City, who Hannah’s father called a “china doll”—passed, there was a gap and it was finally the Sullivans’ turn. William drove the lead wagon, while Junior drove the second Sullivan wagon and slowly the wheels turned, bringing them into line on the wide dirt road with the rest of their caravan.

They were on their way.

She spent the afternoon walking in the tall prairie grass that ran on either side of the now well-worn trail that led out of Independence. There were approximately ten miles before that first water source, where nearly a dozen wagon companies would all stop to congregate, wait for stragglers, and get all their families organized. When the Sullivan-Mills caravan first reached that campsite an hour or so before sunset, Hannah was stunned to see the white-topped wagons stretching for what seemed like miles. Animals everywhere snorted their dissatisfaction with the scraggly grass, already wearing thin from the wagon trains that had come before.

Once the wagons had stopped, and her father and Junior had unhitched the animals, Hannah took the brief chance to climb up on to the wagon’s seat to get a better glimpse of the camp. Somewhere in the distance the tentative sounds of a fiddler warming up his instrument floated over the throng.

The life that she had left behind in Ohio was pleasant, but incomplete somehow. Steubenville was the fourth home that Hannah had lived in over the only nineteen years of her life. Her father had a streak of restlessness in him, and Hannah had never really felt at home in any of the places they had lived. Everything was changing all of the time. In the few months since they had left Ohio, Hannah had seen three more states, made new friends, heard Spanish being spoken for the first time and a dozen other brand-new experiences.

It was exciting and stimulating and the whole time all Hannah could think about was how badly she wanted to put down roots of her own. Once she was married, she would no longer have to move again if her father got the itch.

The rest of the way to the Oregon Territory would be difficult. Though she didn’t want to think about it, she knew there would likely be injuries and illnesses, and that her father would be involved in much of the hardest things the people in their caravan would be going through.

But Hannah kept her focus on the possibilities. Of the support of neighbors and the chance and at a new love and at the very least seeing more of this beautiful continent. The next six months would be among the best of her entire life, she was sure of it. And at the end of it she could finally settle in one place for as long as she wanted.

She hoped.

“Hannah! Come help with supper please?” her mother called from the back of the family’s supply wagon.

Their first night on the Oregon Trail would be similar to all the nights they camped outside of Independence. Hannah was capable and prepared and she had no fear about what would be required of her over the next few months. She hopped down off the wagon seat and ran to help her mother.

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When I was about nine or ten, I went through an intense baking phase, and my parents were delightfully supportive. I made chocolate chip cookies often enough that I had the Nestle recipe memorized. I got an Anne-of-Green-Gables-style cookbook and tried new recipes like shortbread. Over several years, my main hobbies were reading and baking1.

But on top of that, my mom’s best friend also loved to bake. Every time we traveled to visit them there was always some batch of cookies in the oven, or on the cooling rack (or both). She’s the one that taught me the magic of using a Kitchen Aid mixer.

One of her staple recipes was for molasses cookies, also called ginger creams. She wrote out the instructions for my mother, and we still have the same recipe card 30+ years later.

Here’s what I love about this recipe card:

• handwritten by someone I adore and whose writing I know well

• the vintage stove illustration

• the small grease and molasses stains that show this card was pulled out and used

• the simple instructions. Nothing fancy.

Which is why I chose this recipe to highlight in Reluctant Spring, a novel that takes place in the Oregon Territory, in 1851, when the main characters would be doing most if not all of their cooking in a big stone fireplace, with limited ingredients.

FULL RECIPE for molasses cookies:

Mix:

• 1/4 cup soft shortening

• 1/2 cup sugar

• 1 small egg

• 1/3 cup molasses

Stir in: 1 tsp baking soda dissolved in 1/2 cup hot water

Sift together and stir in:

• 2 cups sifted flour

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 1 tsp ground ginger

• 1/2 tsp nutmeg

• 1/2 tsp cloves

• 1/2 tsp cinnamon

Preheat oven to 400 degrees

Chill dough. Drop rounded teaspoons on lightly greased baking sheet.

Bake for 7 - 8 minutes.2

Reluctant Spring by A.T. Butler is book six of the Oregon At Last series of books. The characters in that novel enjoy molasses cookies several times; in their case they forage for wild ginger, but otherwise most of the ingredients would have been available in the Oregon Territory in 1851.

I haven’t been able to find research definitively about some of these spices, but let’s pretend Rebecca brought them all the way from Indiana if necessary. For example, nutmeg was planted in British colonies… maybe that means someone brought it in a wagon to the Oregon Territory too.

That said, after spending nearly six weeks in the wild—on the prairies, in the mountains and forests of the west—it was time again for Jack to make his way to town and to what passed for civilization on the frontier. It was time for a proper shave, a warm meal, a shot of whiskey, and maybe even the company of a pretty woman.

Mostly the shave and the meal, though, Jack thought. Of the domestic life, that was what he missed most. He could roast up a rabbit over the campfire as well as anyone, but sometimes a person sure did miss butter. Jack had a pocket full of gold nuggets that he was looking to cash in, and then he’d be back out on his own to seek more of his fortune.

His horse, an elegant red-brown gelding he had named Fireball, had been his only company the whole time. Though he had been in and near Indian country, not once had Jack come in contact with any of the natives. Whether that was by luck or by design, he didn’t know.

What he did know was he was dying to talk to another human being. Fireball was a fine horse but not much of a conversationalist.

The horse walked steadfastly on, following the dirt track worn through the tall prairie grass. The last time he had passed through this part of the territory, Jack had not allowed his mind to stray from his destination. Now he let his gaze wander.

The narrow path wound around low hills and stands of pine trees. Jack took a deep breath in; the scent of a cold creek met his nose. It was a familiar, almost metallic scent, the melted snow carrying minerals down from the mountains.

Amidst these thoughts, and among the greens and browns and blues of the prairie around him, Jack’s attention was suddenly seized by a flash of red.

But not just any red; it was a deep brown, rust-colored red.

Jack reined his horse, pausing to look. From this distance, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He nudged Fireball closer, off the road, through the knee-high wildflowers that grew as far as he could see. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe the deep red color he had glimpsed was just another flower in the myriad.

But as he and his steed drew closer, Jack knew it was no mistake. The brick-red spot, the blood, spread over several feet; curves of a familiar figure were covered with the arresting shade. Jack’s heart leapt to his throat. It was a body. He had come across a woman, injured, abandoned, and lying, apparently unconscious, off the road.

At least, he hoped she was just unconscious. There was a strong possibility that he was too late, that she was already dead, but he put that thought resolutely from his mind.

Jack nudged Fireball slightly closer, but dismounted before he could startle the woman. After tying the horse to a nearby tree, he cautiously inched his way toward the prone body.

“Ma’am,” he said gently. 

She was a slight thing, delicate, with an alabaster pallor that belied all the time she must have spent beneath the brazen sun. Jack was just guessing, but she seemed a few years older than him. She reminded him of his sister, in fact, whom he hadn’t seen since he left Ohio several years before. Maybe it was this personal connection that made him want to smooth down the mess of curly auburn hair and hold a canteen of water to her lips, but for now he resisted.

“Ma’am?” When there was again no response, he knelt down and reached out to gently shake her shoulder. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

The woman opened her brown eyes slowly, then jerked back, scrambling in the grass away from him.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said hurriedly, holding his hands up as though in surrender. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to check that you’re okay. You’ve been bleeding pretty bad, looks like.”

The blood-soaked dress she wore was still damp in spots, though enough had dried that Jack guessed she had been lying there for a few hours. The woman began to examine herself, putting a delicate finger to the long gash that ran the length of her leg. Her hands cautiously found the bruises, broken ribs, and deep knife wounds along her torso, and the tears that flowed broke Jack’s heart.

“Ma’am,” he said again. “Do you know how you got here? What’s your name?”

She looked at him suspiciously and backed up in the grass another couple feet before answering.

“Marjorie,” she whispered. “Marjorie Cantwell.”

“All right, Mrs.—is it missus?—Cantwell. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Jack spoke slowly. He felt as if he were dealing with a wild creature that might spook if he moved too quickly. “My name is Jack Hamilton. I’ve just been riding by and spotted you over here, injured.”

She continued to search her person. Jack wondered if she had lost her memory. She seemed to be able to hear him, at least. That was something.

“I can see that you’re hurt, ma’am,” he said, as she ran her fingers along her scalp under her dirty and blood-matted hair. “Can you tell me if you have any broken bones or still-bleeding wounds? Is there anything I can help you bandage up now?”

Her gaze, panicked and agitated, darted to his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands again and leaning back on his feet. “I mean you no harm, ma’am. I just want to help.”

Her breath became more frantic, and she cried out in pain, putting a hand to her side.

“They kicked me,” she said softly. “Here. I think …”

“You might have a broken rib or two, that’s certain,” Jack said. “Hopefully you’re not bleeding inside, but I’m not one to know. We should get you to a doctor right soon.”

She burst into tears again, her petite frame shaking with sobs. Jack wanted to comfort her, but his instincts told him that whoever had caused these injuries had frightened her terribly; he didn’t want to add to her trauma. He waited quietly while she composed herself.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “How can I help you?”

“We were …” she began. She paused to clear her throat and push her hair off her face. “My family and I were moving. My husband had gotten a position as an overseer on a fellow’s ranch and we were meant to live there.”

“Was that near here?”

She looked around, dazed. “I don’t know.”

“All right, never mind that now. I know where we are and I can get you to where you need to be. What happened?”

Her eyes unfocused and she looked off into the distance, remembering. “The first night … we hadn’t even made very good distance that day. That first night, I was putting the little ones to bed, and …”

Once more, tears overcame her.

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Cantwell?”

“Three. We had three,” she choked out. “Three beautiful angels that now …”

Jack was at a loss. Comforting a woman in such grief was near impossible. All he could do was be here for her when she was ready. Minutes passed as she remembered her children and let herself be taken by sorrow. 

When she seemed to be calming a little, Jack asked another guiding question. He hated to have to put her through this, but if there was a chance the children were still alive he needed to know.

“Mrs. Cantwell, can you tell me what else you remember? Where the camp was and what happened there?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t say. It was south of Denver, but that’s all I know. I’ve been …” She wiped her tears away again and tried to continue. “I’ve been walking all night, I think, trying to … trying to just survive.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t appear to hear him, but continued with her story in a dazed manner.

“I was putting the little ones to bed and heard … it sounded like war whoops, or what I’ve been told are Indian calls. I … now that it’s all over, I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure that’s what you heard?”

“Oh, no. I know what I heard, but thinking back … I’m not sure any of the men who attacked us were natives.”

Jack’s mouth fell open in shock. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Cantwell composed herself further, taking steadying breaths, and said, “A group of half a dozen men attacked our camp, turning over our wagon … murdering my husband and children … stealing the few valuables we had with us, and leaving me for dead. I’m sure I heard the hoots and hollers that I’ve always been told were from the savages, but I’m also sure that all the men I saw attacking us were white.”

“You think they wanted to make it seem like Indians?”

She nodded, then suddenly wailed, “Why would they do such a thing?”

Jack thought quietly for a moment while she cried. What kind of low-down, despicable man would not only attack a nearly helpless family but also try to blame it on a blameless party? Were they trying to start a war? Did they leave this woman alive deliberately so she could report that she was attacked by savages? This was something he was determined to get to the bottom of. He couldn’t let any other families be at risk if he himself could have done something about it.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’m sorry. There are some truly awful men in this world.”

“And one less good one,” she cried. 

“Let me help,” he said gently, offering her his hand. “We can be in Denver before dark. I’ll get you to a doctor, to someplace safe. You don’t have to spend another night out here, that is my promise.”

She swallowed and brushed away a tear but remained where she lay.

Jack watched her carefully, not daring to get any closer. What trauma she must have suffered at the hands of those men. What memories she would carry with her.

“I have an idea,” he said.

Jack returned to where Fireball was contentedly munching on the grass that lined the creek. His saddlebags were full to bursting, but Jack knew exactly what he was looking for. One of the smaller packs, near the back of the load, held his derringer and extra bullets.

He pulled out the dirty shirt and mostly empty sack of dried corn piled on top, and withdrew the extra gun from the careful padding he kept it wrapped in. Jack turned back toward where Marjorie was still seated in the dirt watching him. Moving slowly and deliberately, intent on her seeing every movement, Jack opened the gun and held it high, showing her there were no bullets loaded. He walked cautiously back over to her, until he was once more kneeled in the grass in front of her.

“Have you ever fired a gun?” he asked her.

She nodded, her eyes wide as she watched him.

He held out the small gun, letting it rest in the palm of his hand. She hesitated only briefly before snatching it from him. 

“Do you know how to load it?” he asked, and he held out a couple bullets in the palm of his other hand.

She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on him, and reached for the bullets more cautiously.

“I do,” she said. “That was one of the things my husband insisted on. So if he …” Her voice trailed off as another wave of tears overcame her.

Jack waited quietly. He could sense this woman’s backbone of steel. She didn’t need to be coddled or pitied. He knew that, given the chance, she would find the strength she needed to continue. Jack was determined to be that chance.

Marjorie pressed a palm to her face, holding it there for just a moment before wiping away more tears and sitting up a bit straighter.

“My husband insisted I learn how to load and clean his derringer, so if anything ever happened to him I’d have some means of protection.”

“Sounds like he was a smart and caring man,” Jack said.

She nodded and finally met Jack’s eyes again. “He was an incredible man.”

“I was thinking, Mrs. Cantwell, that if you had a weapon of your own you might see your way to trusting me. I mean you no harm, but I know that sometimes words ring empty.”

“Thank you.”

They sat silently for another few moments; Marjorie examined the gun, loading it carefully and weighing the balance in her hand.

“Whenever you’re ready, ma’am. If Denver hasn’t changed too much from when I was there a couple months ago, I know just the place for you to rest up. Dr. Courtney is a kindhearted older man who will take good care of you.”

She nodded.

“I just need you to trust me enough to get you there.”

Jack stood and offered his hand to the admirable woman. Holding tight to the loaded gun in one hand, she took his with her other and stood with him.

“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I trust you. Thank you.”

A chill hung in the air as she gazed out over the main street of her small town. Summer was fading, and the cold that crept in as soon as the sun set promised a cozy autumn. The trees that remained on the main street were slowly dropping the first of their leaves. Hitching posts lined either side of the dirt road, where horses and wagons were parked. Shoppers milled about, their collars turned up against the late afternoon cold, while children gleefully chased one another in the dust. Before her, the small ranching town of Juniper Falls, in the Wyoming Territory, bustled with the activity of a Wednesday afternoon as families headed home for the night.

Edith had moved to Juniper Falls ten years earlier, when there was little more than two or three land claims spread across the countryside. Her husband had been injured in the war between the states and had wanted a fresh start on the frontier. She still remembered that journey west with a shuddering horror: trying to help him drive the wagon, for he had only one arm, at the same time that she had to cook over a campfire and keep them fed, through the stark prairie.

Coming west to the frontier had not been her choice. She would have been perfectly satisfied to stay in Baltimore, where they had friends and her older brother, but her husband, Horace, had been so miserable after coming home from the war that she had quickly given in to his plan. He only lived another year after they arrived in the territories, though. While he had managed to build her a house in that time—with help from several of their new neighbors—by his death their savings were nearly depleted. Left alone, Edith had few options. With what little money she had remaining, Edith hired local men to make the improvements needed to her small home and she set herself up with a boarding house.

It was sheer luck that as Juniper Falls grew and more pioneers moved to town, Edith’s boarding house happened to be situated on the main street of town. It was practically one of the first buildings to welcome newcomers as they arrived.

“Evening, Mrs. Bennett,” Silas called as he climbed the porch steps after a long day. “Sorry to miss supper.” The young man’s attire was dusty, but his face and hands were clean. He had not come straight from building fences or herding cattle.

“Did you eat with your uncle, or do you want me to fix up a plate for you?”

Silas Denbow, one of her long-term tenants, worked as a ranch hand at his uncle’s ranch just outside of town. The last Edith had heard, Silas was saving up for his own ranch, but how close he had come to that goal she had no idea. In the meantime she got to mother this young man a little bit, make sure he had clean shirts and didn’t get into too much trouble.

“I ate there. Thank you, though.”

She pushed a stray wisp of graying hair out of her face. “My boy, you are one of the best paying boarders I’ve ever heard of with as much as you eat at the ranch.”

Silas chuckled and tipped his hat. “You have a good evening.”

“You too, son.”

She turned back to watch out over the main street as she heard Silas climb the stairs inside.

At first, Edith had been overwhelmed by the prospect of running a boarding house on her own. She’d never done anything like this before and didn’t know where to begin. But with determination and hard work she had been able to turn the small house into a comfortable place for visitors to stay. She slowly added on to it—as her finances allowed—and this year would be the first time that she needed to make repairs to the existing structure, rather than expand it as she had in the past.

The thought of providing shelter for weary travelers from all over made Edith feel proud; it was something tangible that she could do in memory of her late husband. She had been the first boarding house in the booming town, and though she now had competition, Edith thought she had retained her position as the best. Over the years she had quickly developed a reputation as one of Juniper Falls’ best known hosts—always willing to lend an ear or offer advice when needed.

It seemed to Edith that there was nothing quite like the feeling of giving back to those who needed it most—even if just in small ways, such as through conversation or shared meals at her table. Though she and Horace had not been blessed with children, Edith saw no reason why that should stop her from taking care of others when she had the means. She budgeted for a few extra meals every month, for when one of her tenants brought home a stray or when she learned about a young man down on his luck. The community she had built up around her made her appreciate why she started her life at Juniper Falls with such vigor and dedication. She certainly didn’t regret it now; here in this bustling little frontier town, Edith Bennett felt at home for the first time since saying goodbye to her beloved husband years before.

The evening chill was biting, as it often was in the high mountains of Wyoming after the sun went down, but Edith was not paying much attention to the cold. She had turned to watch Silas enter the house, but the sound of more steps approaching had seized her attention.

Edith turned back to the street to see a gaunt, disheveled young woman stumbling up the dirt road toward her.

“Ma’am?” Edith called, alert and standing up straighter. “Are you all right?”

The young woman kept her head down, as though she didn’t hear. Her dark blond hair was in tangled cascades down her shoulders, and though she had a patched shawl wrapped around her, she wore no gloves or hat against the cold. Most of the townsfolk had disappeared into their own homes by this time of late afternoon, so there was no one but Edith to witness the stranger approaching.

“Ma’am?”

The young woman reached the bottom of Edith’s steps and looked up at her with an expression of such desperate hope that the older woman’s breath caught in her throat.

“What do you need?” she asked.

But instead of an answer, the strange woman swayed on her feet for a short moment before fainting dead away in the dirt.

Edith quickly descended the steps and looked over the unconscious woman in shock, her heart racing. She had never seen anyone like this before; Juniper Falls folks took care of their own, and if this woman was local things never would have gotten to this state. She couldn’t believe it was happening right on the doorstep of her boarding house. Edith felt a strange connection to the woman, and bent down to get a better look at her.

As Edith inspected her, she quickly determined that the stranger seemed to have dressed in a hurry—she wore only cursory layers, and her boots were already coming untied.

Though not dressed for traveling, the woman carried a small satchel that had hung over one shoulder. It now lay in the dirt beside her. Edith checked the satchel and found that it was empty save for a few coins and a bit of bread. Juniper Falls was small enough that she could identify most citizens by sight, but she had never seen this woman before. Where had she come from?

Edith looked up at the sky and saw the last of the day’s sun sinking below the far mountains. The light glinted off the woman’s face, making her look even more pale and fragile. Edith felt a wave of pity wash over her. She could not turn the woman away.

The stranger’s skin was pale, and her lips were slightly parted as if she were deep in a dreamless sleep. She was quite a rumpled figure. Her clothes were tattered and soiled, her eyes were red from crying, and she looked as though she had not had a good square meal in a week.

Edith noticed scratches along her neck and arms, but there was something else, too, a familiarity that Edith couldn’t explain. The two women shared something, even if it was just a sense of being alone in the world. Edith had no idea who this woman was. She had never seen her before and could not fathom why she had chosen Edith’s porch as a place of refuge, but she wouldn’t let her suffer any longer.

Who was this woman, and what had driven her to Juniper Falls? Was she running from something? Was she looking for something? Edith wanted to know, but the woman was in no state to tell her anything. The first thing Edith needed to do was see to the stranger’s health. No facts would be forthcoming as long as she was unconscious.

At that moment, the last of her boarders, Jack, ran up the darkening dirt road toward the boarding house.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Jack called. “I couldn’t leave any of the stalls not mucked out. I don’t suppose there’s any supper left, is there?”

“I’ll get you all the supper you want if you help me get this woman into the house. I can’t lift her by myself.”

Jack sprinted toward Edith with an urgency that she hadn’t seen before. “What do you need me to do?” he asked breathlessly.

“Let’s grab her arms and legs, and carry her into the house together,” Edith instructed.

The two of them carefully lifted the woman and quickly brought her into the warm comfort of the house. Once inside, they laid the unconscious woman down on the large sitting room couch.

“Go fetch some water and more firewood, would you, please?” Edith asked Jack.

He nodded and darted out again, this time through to the kitchen and the back of the house. Edith leaned over the strange woman and ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to comfort her. Whatever else she did, Edith wanted to make sure that this poor woman felt safe. She was still breathing. That was something.

“What happened?”

Young Mrs. Mullins stood in the doorway to the dining room, wringing her hands with worry. She and her husband were renting a room from Edith while their own house was being built, and while this woman was sweet, she was more often than not underfoot.

“Could I possibly ask you . . .” Edith said, in an attempt to make Mrs. Mullins useful instead of simply fretting. “Upstairs in my room, there’s a quilt laid across the foot of the bed. Could you grab that for me and bring it back down?”

Mrs. Mullins nodded and peeked at the unconscious woman over Edith’s shoulder.

“Who is that?”

“The quilt, please, Mrs. Mullins? We need to get her warm.”

But as her tenant climbed the stairs to the floor above, Edith knew that the woman needed more than just a comfortable bed. She was still unconscious and showed no signs of waking any time soon. She gently touched the woman’s cheek with the back of her hand; she seemed a bit more flushed than a person should be.

She heard the kitchen door open and close in the back, announcing Jack’s return. In moments he had brought an armful of firewood into the sitting room and knelt down to feed the fire.

“Has she stirred?”

“Not yet,” Edith said with a sigh. “I’m hopeful she’s just hungry, and it’s not anything more serious.”

“Should I fetch Dr. Gilpin?”

“Oh, would you? I was just thinking that perhaps I sensed a fever.”

“Of course, Mrs. Bennett. I’ll be right back.”

Jack quickly departed, and Mrs. Mullins brought the requested quilt. Edith despaired of finding another chore to distract the other woman, and was grateful when Mr. Mullins arrived home and the two settled into their room for the evening.

“You’ll call me if she wakes, won’t you? If you need any help?”

Only after Edith assured her she would did the young couple leave her in peace. She sat in the armchair across from the couch to watch her strange guest, wondering what could have happened to her.

She didn’t have long to worry. Within minutes, Dr. Gilpin arrived at the Bennett boarding house with his medical bag in hand. He gave Edith a warm embrace.

“Jack told me some of what we’re dealing with,” the doctor said kindly. “Why don’t you show me to the patient. She still hasn’t woken?”

The doctor got to work examining the strange woman on her couch. With intense concentration, he checked her pulse, pupils, breathing, and other signs to get some answers about what might be wrong with her body.

“No, not even a flutter of her eyes when we laid her down,” Edith responded. “She seems awfully pale to me, and I’ve been worried there may be something really wrong with her. Why would she leave her home without a hat and coat like that?”

After what seemed like hours but was really only minutes, Dr. Gilpin finished his examination.

“As far as I can tell, this woman is suffering from simple exhaustion. She must have suffered some extreme stress over an extended period of time. And if she hasn’t been able to eat in the meantime, no wonder her body has shut down. The best thing we can do is let her rest. If you can provide her with this spot to get some restful sleep, she should wake up soon enough, and then we can get her some nourishment. I don’t think we’ll see any further issues. With her health, at least. We’ll see what she has to say when she wakes.”

Edith breathed a sigh of relief hearing this news. Whatever secret this mysterious stranger carried with her, it wasn’t of a life-threatening nature. She could care for her until she woke, and then together they could decide what the woman needed.

The doctor advised Edith to keep the woman comfortable and hydrated at least until she regained consciousness. Edith took that advice, bringing her blankets and pillows from her own bed, as well as a bowl of warm soup in case the stranger awoke with an appetite.

She pulled the blanket up to the woman’s chin and turned to see Jack standing, waiting for her.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting that supper now?”

He grinned. “If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Not at all. Come along.”

She ushered him into the dining room, with one final look over her shoulder at the new guest. As long as she did not wake in the night and immediately leave, all could eventually be sorted out.

The next morning, the woman still hadn’t woken up. Edith was growing increasingly worried, but she continued to look after her guest’s needs—tucking in the blankets around her body so she would stay warm and making sure that there was always a glass and pitcher of water by her side just in case she woke thirsty. Mrs. Mullins asked more than once what she could do to help, but at this point it seemed like all they could do was wait.

After she finished washing the breakfast dishes, Edith looked into the sitting room again and was relieved to see that the woman seemed to be coming out of her deep sleep. The morning sun was peeking through the curtains as the woman rubbed her face. As she slowly blinked and stirred, Edith held her breath, watching. She waited patiently for the woman to wake fully, trying not to startle her though her heart beat fast in anticipation.

The woman finally opened her eyes, taking in her surroundings with a bewildered look on her face. Her gaze fell on her hostess, and an expression of confusion and shame crossed her face.

“You’re safe,” Edith said, moving closer. “My name is Edith Bennett, and you’re in my boarding house. You collapsed outside my home last night and—well, I couldn’t leave you out there.” She laughed self-consciously. “We brought you in and I called for the doctor . . .”

Edith trailed off. The woman had moved fully to sitting now, her feet on the floor as she looked around at the siting room.

The couch where she had been sleeping was particularly cozy; it was a beautiful blend of light blues and whites, with soft cushions that provided a gentle embrace. It was perfect for snuggling up in front of the fireplace on those cold winter nights, or simply relaxing after a hard day’s work. The walls were adorned with colorful tapestries which added a layer of warmth to the already cozy atmosphere of the room. It truly felt like home for Edith here, and she hoped it would be just as welcoming for this mysterious stranger who had suddenly appeared on her doorstep.

The stranger looked around this room with confusion, but not fear.

“Are you all right? How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

The stranger finally turned back to Edith. There was exhaustion in the young woman’s eyes. “My name is Daisy Lambert,” she whispered softly. “Thank you for helping me. I was running away from . . . from something terrible. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t eaten in . . .”

“Never mind that now, dear,” Edith said. “You get strong again first, and only then will we worry about decisions. I’ve left broth on the table next to you, but I can heat it up again if you’d like.”

Daisy picked up the bowl in both hands with a hungry expression, shook her head, and took a long draught directly from the bowl, heedless of the spoon sitting next to it.

Edith stared, alarmed, as Daisy scarfed down the meager breakfast.

“Once you’re feeling more yourself,” she told her guest, “I can make you a more substantial meal. How are you feeling now that you’ve had some rest?”

What she wanted most was to offer this young woman a bath, clean clothes, a brush for her hair. That maternal instinct that made Edith such a good boarding house landlady had her worrying about this newcomer as much as she might her own daughter.

As soon as she had finished the last of the broth, Daisy poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher next to her and sat back on the couch. She sighed and met Edith’s eye. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for.”

“No. I want to. You’ve been so kind to me, and I think maybe . . . I hope I can trust you. I don’t have anyone else.”

“Of course you can, dear. Please.”

Daisy’s story tumbled out in fits and starts, punctuated by long pauses as if she were afraid of revealing too much. Occasionally she would pause, sip her water, and consider her next words. It was clear that what she had been through had been far more trying and extensive than her short description now could demonstrate. She told Edith that she had been on the run for at least a week, but had lost track of the days.

“Someone is . . . I don’t want to say too much. I’m afraid I will have to go back, and I don’t want to rope you into anything dangerous. But the fact is that I had to run for my life. I was in a situation that was . . .” She cleared her throat, as though pushing down the tears. “It just has gotten worse and worse over the years, and finally, a week or so ago, I saw a chance to escape, and I just went. With only the clothes on my back. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I didn’t think this all through. But I know that if I had not run when I had the chance I might never have forgiven myself for that.”

Edith listened intently as Daisy talked, a spark of determination lighting up her face. She knew that whatever trouble Daisy had gotten herself into, they would figure out a way to get through it together.

“So thank you for your help,” Daisy concluded. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t even know what town this is. Where I am.”

“You’re in Juniper Falls,” Edith said gently. “A few hours from Laramie?”

Daisy nodded. “That makes sense. I was trying to go away from the bigger towns. I imagine most folks running away would get on the train in Cheyenne, and I wanted to throw him off.”

Edith did not yet ask who the “him” was that Daisy referred to. The young woman would tell her if she was ready. Instead, she offered to let Daisy stay with her at the boarding house until she could find a more permanent solution.

“I only have one room available at the moment, and it’s quite small, but—”

“Oh, thank you,” Daisy gushed. “I don’t mind small. It must be better than sleeping on the ground. Or up in a tree one night. I heard wolves and . . .” She shuddered at the recollection. “And once I’m a little bit stronger, please let me help you here. I can do laundry and cook and sew. I know I look scrawny, but I’m quite capable.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment. Any woman who could live on the road for a week like you’ve done could likely handle anything. Although, I do think you could probably use a bigger breakfast. How does that sound?”

Daisy smiled gratefully and stood, carrying her broth bowl into the kitchen after Edith. “I cannot thank you enough.”

The two women chatted as Edith cooked. She told Daisy about the town, and about the upcoming harvest festival in a few weeks. She kept talking, in fact, about anything that came to mind—her other tenants, her plans to fix the porch—in an effort to help Daisy not feel as though she were put on the spot. Edith could not imagine what the poor woman had gone through, and forcing her to relive it by talking about it would not be helpful.

Soon the meal was cooked, and Edith set a single place for her guest. Despite her weakened state, Daisy ate two eggs, three strips of bacon, and four pieces of buttered toast. She apologized when she noticed that Edith had to toast more bread than had been originally prepared, but Edith just laughed.

“Wait until you meet the ranch hands that also rent rooms here. Your appetite is nothing compared to theirs.”

Once Daisy had eaten her fill, with that taken care of, Edith helped her new guest to settle in more comfortably. She heated water so Daisy could have a bath and hunted up some clean clothes she could borrow, promising to take her to the store later in the week for some new things just for her.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she said, handing her guest a clean towel. “Come find me downstairs when you’re ready, but there’s no rush. You just rest as long as you need to.”

As Daisy washed up, Edith tried to distract herself with housework. The young woman would talk when she was ready, and pushing her to reveal what she did not want to would help no one. Whatever she had been through, Edith could not blame her for being reticent among strangers. She would just be patient and let Daisy open up in her own time.

Less than an hour later, Daisy cautiously walked back down the boarding house staircase, looking around as though not sure she was in the right place. She wore one of Edith’s own dresses, but it hung off of her like a sack, cinched at the waist only through the aid of the apron she had donned.

“How was everything?” Edith asked when Daisy entered the sitting room. “Is there anything else you need?”

Daisy shook her head and sat again on the couch where she had slept overnight.

“I’m so sorry I don’t have anything that fits you better. We’ll get you something else as soon as we can.”

Daisy shook her head again. “This is far too generous already.”

“Well. That may be. But I still want to do what I can. You don’t have to say anything,” Edith said gently. “But if you need a listening ear I’m happy to be that for you. You can imagine the stories I’ve heard with all the folks that have come through here over the years.”

“Thank you,” Daisy said softly. “I’m not sure I know where to start. I’m so embarrassed.”

Edith eyed the bruise and scratches peeking out of Daisy’s collar. “I can’t imagine you have anything to be embarrassed about.”

Daisy looked at her hands. “It’s just that . . . he’s my husband. You would have thought that I would have known better than to marry him in the first place.”

Edith’s heart dropped. The “him” that Daisy had been trying to escape was her own husband.

As she continued, again in stumbles and starts, Daisy described the last four years of her life, from being swept off her feet, induced to marry this dreadful man, to the beginnings of his violence, to finally the climax of his brutality ten days ago. From what Edith could gather from her broken sentences and tears of sadness, Daisy had realized almost as soon as she had been married that it was a mistake, but what choice did she have then?

It seemed that after her husband had “accidentally” let her fall down the stairs, Daisy had finally reached the end of her rope. She had run away that night when he was sleeping, and that was just over a week before she came stumbling onto Edith’s doorstep in a desperate attempt to find refuge.

After hearing her story, Edith felt immense sorrow for the woman. She could not even imagine being in such a position.

“I will help you,” she vowed. “Please allow me to. This isn’t something anyone should have to endure on their own. You can stay here as long as you need to. We can keep it quiet in case he comes looking for you. You deserve safety and comfort, and I believe God brought you to my front porch for a reason.”

She suggested that they try to find further information about her abusive husband, in order to gain a better understanding of the situation and what it might take to rescue Daisy from it.

“We could send one of the boys—Silas or Jack, maybe—to your town to look in on him. To make sure he hasn’t come after you.”

Daisy shook her head. “Not yet. Please. I’m not ready. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here, or about the mess I’ve gotten myself into. If we can keep it quiet that I’m here a little longer, that will give me time to . . . I don’t know. Rest. Figure out what to do next.”

“You know this is not your fault,” Edith said gently.

“I made him angry. I wasn’t paying attention and I burned supper, and I know how mad that makes him. He hates waste, you see.”

“Daisy . . . you could have dumped supper on his lap and that still would not be a reason for him to try to injure you the way he did.”

She could not quite bring herself to suggest that Daisy’s husband had been trying to kill her. The young woman did not seem to have the ability to mentally handle such a thing. But what she had revealed to Edith was frightening.

“Maybe. But I’m still not ready to do anything yet. Could you . . . maybe you could just give me chores to do? I can earn my keep, and such distractions will help keep me from thinking too much about what Abe might be doing, or how he might be looking for me.”

“Certainly. If that’s what you feel you need, that’s where we will start. As long as you promise not to forget my offer. I guarantee the people of Juniper Falls would be happy to protect and look after you, too.”

Edith knew better than to push the matter any further. One of the many things she had learned from her years in hospitality was that folks opened up on their own schedule. There was no point in rushing them.

And so it was settled: Daisy would stay with Edith at the boarding house and help out around the house while she recovered. And then, when she was ready, they could search out further information. Whatever happened, Edith was determined that this sweet young woman would not be delivered back into the hands of such an uncaring man. She prayed everything would work out, but was resolved to do her part to make it so.

Daisy settled into her new role quite seamlessly. She made no complaints about the loud, smelly boys that shared the boarding house, and even took to teasing Silas about his sweetheart. She perfected her biscuit recipe, and Edith handed over that task to Daisy completely. She accepted each assignment Edith gave her cheerfully, and seemed constantly grateful for this new opportunity offered her.

But with each passing day, Daisy couldn’t help but wonder why her husband had not come after her yet. He must have been livid when he woke to find her gone. What was it that kept him away from this place and from the woman he supposedly loved so much? Edith assured her that no matter what happened, she would always be there for her; Daisy would always have a home there. But that didn’t stop Daisy from wondering about the man she’d once known as a partner in life.

As they settled into a day-to-day life, the mystery of Daisy’s husband made them more uneasy with every day. Even though Edith tried her best to lend an understanding ear and provide as much comfort as she could, there was something unspoken that hung in the air between them. Surely the man must have noticed his wife was gone. Surely he must have searched for her. Had he gone toward Cheyenne and lost the trail as Daisy had hoped, or had he perhaps found her in Juniper Falls and was simply biding his time to surprise her at the opportune moment?

Daisy did not leave the boarding house for the first two weeks she was there. She was too afraid of being seen in public and recognized. If word got back to Abe where she was before Daisy herself was ready to deal with it, that would make the entire situation that much more difficult.

As the weeks went by, Edith and Daisy grew closer. It was comforting for both of them to have someone to lean on in this confusing and frightening time. Eventually Daisy even felt safe leaving the boarding house and would do some of the shopping, giving Edith a break from that chore after ten long years. After a few weeks, Edith wondered how she had managed to run the boarding house by herself at all. The time before Daisy had arrived seemed to belong to someone else’s life. She did not know how she could go back to being alone if Daisy had to leave.

After a full month, as the two women walked home from Juniper Falls’ autumn harvest festival, Edith cautiously voiced her suspicions.

“May, I know that this idea seems too good to be true, but I am beginning to wonder if perhaps Abe isn’t coming after you at all. Is that possible?”

“That doesn’t seem like him at all. If anything, his inability to find me would make him more determined to do so. He is not a man that can stand not having control in any circumstance. There must be a reason we have not seen him yet.”

“Maybe we should do something, then. I’m not sure what.” Edith looked up into the twilight as though for answers. “Maybe the waiting is causing us more stress than him finding you would.”

“I’ve been thinking something like that,” Daisy admitted. “Every time I leave the house I expect to see Abe’s face coming around every corner. I just want this to be over.”

“So we’ll finish it, then. We’ll end it. You and me. If Abe is not going to come looking for you, what if I go looking for him?”

“I can’t let you do that, Edith. Absolutely not. He’s my husband. My problem.”

Edith sighed. She heard the determination in her friend’s voice and was not going to try to talk her out of it.

“But what if you go with me?” Daisy continued.

Edith looked at her sharply. “You mean that?”

Daisy looked at the road ahead, as though she might lose her nerve if she had to look directly at Edith. She nodded, chin firm, shoulders back.

“Yes, I do. It’s time I took my life back. I’m healed and fed now, thanks to you, and as long as I don’t have to confront him on my own, I think this might be the only way for me to be truly free of him. Otherwise he will simply haunt me forever, affecting my choices and filling my life with fear.”

“All right. Of course I will go with you. But we need to be smart about this. We need to be careful. From everything you have told me, it would not surprise me if he considered my presence there no obstacle at all.”

Daisy agreed, and the two made a plan to head back to Daisy’s home in the neighboring town of Ryder in three days.

Before they set out, Edith asked Jack if he could take a day or two off to accompany them for safety as they traveled south to the next town. She had long ago learned how to shoot and clean her gun, but the presence of a tall, strong young man would do wonders to help both Edith and Daisy feel safer.

“Are you ready?” Edith asked Daisy as they packed their satchels for the journey. “I just want to remind you that Jack and me can go without you. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger unnecessarily.”

“I’m determined to face it. I mean, thank you. And I’ll tell Jack thank you. I absolutely could not do any of this without you. Without your help at every step. With the two of you by my side it doesn’t feel nearly as dangerous as it might be.”

“I’ve actually had another thought in the last few days.”

“Oh?”

“I think maybe we need more help. We should stop and talk to the sheriff when we get to your town. Get him to come with us, too. Jack will be good security, but if we can get the law as well—”

Daisy laughed heartily, a sound that Edith had only heard once the woman had been living there for two full weeks.

“I was thinking the same thing, to be honest.”

It was decided. With a bit of determination and a lot of courage, Edith, Daisy, and Jack left the next morning from Juniper Falls, heading southeast to the smaller town of Ryder. They were determined to find out what had become of Daisy’s husband, and hopefully bring relief from this dreadful situation once and for all.

Though it had taken Daisy a full week to stumble to Edith’s door, that had been after deliberate wandering in the wilderness, trying to hide her trail and with no idea where she wanted to end up. For their journey straight back, Daisy was in her hometown in only a few hours. With each step forward came a sense of hope that this difficult journey would soon be over and they could find the answers they sought.

In the midafternoon of a cool October day, the three friends rode into Ryder, a bustling community where many people were still friendly and welcoming. Edith sensed the incongruity—she had been thinking of Daisy’s home as the place where bad things happened, but now she could see such an impression was unfair. Perhaps none of the Lamberts’ neighbors had noticed anything. Perhaps one of them had, and had stopped Abe from doing anything further. But these flights of imagination were futile. There was no point in wondering anything. They had come to seek answers, not create more questions.

As they slowly rode down the main street of Ryder on their way to the sheriff’s office, Edith encouraged Daisy to ask around for some information from her husband’s old neighbors.

“Maybe they saw something or heard something in the time since you’ve been gone,” she suggested. “It wouldn’t hurt to have more information before we go to confront him.”

“I’m not sure . . .” Daisy smiled hesitantly at the older woman coming out of the general store, and turned back to Edith. “I ran away without saying goodbye to anyone. What if none of them are willing to talk to me? What if he made them think it’s all my fault?”

“I know men like that,” Jack muttered angrily. “Makes me want to tear them limb from limb. On top of all the other ways he’s a heel, the man can’t even take responsibility for his own actions.”

Edith reflected again what a smart idea it would be to have the sheriff with them. Jack already seemed furious enough to cause some damage, and the last thing they needed was for the situation to get violent.

“All right. You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, whether that’s talking to a neighbor or staying with Abe or anything else, all right?”

Edith looked hard at Daisy, waiting for the other woman to agree.

“Daisy, do you understand me? Jack and I are here to help you. We’re not going to let you down.”

“All right.” Daisy nodded solemnly.

“I see the sheriff’s office just up ahead,” Jack said as he nudged his horse into a trot and led the way.

Daisy glanced at Edith, and the latter sent her an encouraging smile.

Jack had waited outside for them, and helped each woman off her horse as well as took care of hitching the animals to the posts that lined the street. Edith thanked Jack under her breath, seeing that Daisy was far too distracted to focus on something as mundane as caring for her horse.

“We’ll go see the sheriff and ask him or a deputy to come out to your farm, and then we’ll have some answers.”

Daisy nodded. Edith rested a hand gently on her friend’s back and walked into the office with her. It was bigger than Edith expected, bright with the afternoon sun streaming through the front window.

The man sitting at the desk looked up, a questioning expression on his face.

“Can I help you ladies?”

Daisy seemed to have frozen. When Edith glanced down, she noticed her friend’s hands were shaking. She stepped forward to tell him what they had come for.

“Sir, my friend and I . . . we need to speak to her husband, but we were wondering if perhaps we could get you or one of your deputies to come with us. It’s a question of safety, you see. We’re concerned he . . .”

But she could see he wasn’t quite listening to her. His eyes had not left Daisy’s face.

“I swear I know you from somewhere,” he said with a smile. “Did you used to live around here?”

Daisy cleared her throat nervously. “My name is . . . um . . . my name is Daisy Lambert. My husband is Abe Lambert. But I haven’t . . . I left him about a month ago. I left home about a month ago. He is why we’ve come back to town. And why I need your help.”

It all fell into place for the sheriff when he heard the name. His eyes widened with recognition. He paused for a moment, and then his expression changed from one of curiosity to one of deep sorrow. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” he stated solemnly, “but your husband passed away some weeks ago due to an unknown illness.”

“What? When?”

“I can check with the undertaker if you would like. My understanding is he had already been dead a few days when he was found by your neighbors. Folks have been wondering where you’ve been, I won’t lie. It’s good that you’ve come back so we can get his estate all settled.”

Daisy broke down crying in that moment; all the pain and grief she had been holding on to for weeks suddenly came pouring out like an avalanche.

“But we don’t have to do any of that this second,” he amended, nervously eyeing the crying woman.

“That all can wait,” Edith told him, before turning to her friend.

They had been through so much together already; the unknowns and the silence and the wondering had brought Daisy finally to this place of certainty. No matter what had happened to Abe, she never had to fear him again. She had a new place to live, new friends, and a new purpose.

And Edith was there beside her, lending an understanding ear and providing as much comfort as she could. Although it would take time to heal from this experience entirely, Edith knew her friend was well on her way.

She could see the next few weeks, months, years, so clearly. Daisy would mourn her husband—she had loved some part of him once—and sell the farm here in Ryder. They could run the boarding house together. They could live their days peacefully, without worry of some attacker or surprise.

But the first thing to do was to see to Daisy in this moment. She still had a long way to go before she would feel completely settled in her new life.

“Are you ready to go home?” Edith asked gently.

Daisy nodded, brushing away her tears. “Let’s go home.”

This short story and two others are available for free on the book retailer of your choice. Grab Stories from Juniper Falls by A.T. Butler here:

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It was so long, in fact, that his landlady, Mrs. Bennett, had stopped asking him to join her. He had seen her disappointment, felt the weight of her worry and disapproval, yet he had never been able to explain why he no longer went. It had started out as exhaustion; he put in so much time and hard labor on his uncle’s ranch through the spring and summer. When Sundays came, Silas could not give up the one chance each week to sleep past sunrise while his body recovered.

But after enough time passed during which he had not shown his face, embarrassment and shame began to take over his thoughts when Sunday rolled around again. He missed the community and friends that he had made at church—he had been going there for years, after all. He could finally admit that he missed the welcoming interaction on Sundays. How many other people from church had noticed that it had been months since he had appeared? How many of them now worried about his immortal soul because of it?

As the fall weather descended on Juniper Falls, and the days grew shorter, there was less and less work to do at the ranch. As he got more rest during the week, Silas willed himself to make the effort on Sunday morning. A couple of Sundays went by in which he procrastinated and made excuses to himself, staying home while everyone else, it seemed, had gone on without him. Finally, on a weekend in late October, after weeks of this, he had had enough. To hold himself accountable, Silas sought out Mrs. Bennett late on the Saturday afternoon.

“Supper will be ready at the usual time, boy,” she said playfully when Silas wandered into the kitchen. “There are cold biscuits in the bread box if you need something now, though.”

As she lifted the lid on the Dutch oven to check the pot roast, Silas waited by the doorway, almost changing his mind again when he thought about how big of a deal his choice could be interpreted as.

“Actually, um . . .” he began. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Mrs. Bennett closed the oven again and turned to him with a curious expression.

“Can I walk to church with you tomorrow?” he blurted out in a rush, anxious to say it all before he could talk himself out of it again.

His landlady smiled, but seemed to sense Silas’s discomfort. All she said was, “Of course. Be ready at half-past eight.”

He nodded, turned abruptly without saying anything more, and headed upstairs to his bedroom to wait for supper. Now he would have to go. He would have to suffer through whatever uncomfortable looks or perceived judgments. But Silas knew he was being silly; everyone at church had always been so welcoming. He could almost talk himself out of his worry.

Almost.

The only way out was through, and by this time tomorrow, he would have done the hardest part in making himself leave the house and attend a service again for the first time since the spring.

The next morning, at half-past eight, Silas stepped onto the wide front porch of his boarding house to find Mrs. Bennett, as well as two fellow lodgers—Jack and Daisy—waiting for him.

The other three went on ahead, talking animatedly about what they should do about the barn cat that had suddenly taken up residence with them a week earlier. Mrs. Bennett looked over her shoulder a couple times, as though to make sure Silas was still following, but she did not force him to talk or even walk with them.

Their boarding house was at the far end of the main road in town, the Everlasting Grace Church near the other far end of the same street and was close enough to walk to. As the group walked through Juniper Falls, Silas noticed the quietness of the place. The only other sounds were the birds singing in the trees, and the occasional muffled steps as the group walked down the center of the dirt road. The usually bustling town was peaceful this morning, and Silas wondered how many similar mornings he had missed by sleeping.

Dozens more citizens of Juniper Falls streamed toward the church from all corners of the town, some walking, some riding horses or in wagons. Older folks who didn’t get out much, and young families with toddlers running chaotically ahead. They wore their Sunday best, pressed suits and freshly starched collars; it was evident that the Sunday worship service was a weekly highlight for many of them. The closer they got to the church the more familiar faces Silas saw, each and every one of them both delighted and surprised to see him. With each old friend he greeted, Silas relaxed more and more.

He had lived in Juniper Falls for several years, coming west as a young man with his uncle and family. Many of the families he was in church with that day had seen him grow up, seen him strike out on his own, had watched him become the man he was today. Many of those same families had likely noticed when he had stopped coming to church, but none of them now made him feel badly for it.

Mrs. Bennett, Daisy, and Jack went on ahead as Silas dawdled in the street. Finally, as the bell in the church steeple rang out, calling all to come, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. Not wanting to be the last to enter, he walked up the steps and through the large wooden doors.

Mr. Bullock, the banker who was one of the ushers here on Sunday mornings, nodded to Silas as he entered. Other folks were finding seats, greeting their neighbors, and the organist continued to play in the final minutes before the service started.

Silas looked around, taking in all the details of the familiar sanctuary, light streaming in the big stained-glass window above the altar. The last time Silas had attended church, there had been discussions of purchasing more stained glass to line the walls of the sanctuary, but that was a big investment that they evidently had not yet reached the budget for.

As Silas looked around the room, his gaze fell on a beautiful young woman around his own age, dressed in a simple sky-blue cotton dress and standing in the center aisle in conversation. Her dark brown hair had been swept up in a bun and her light blue eyes sparkled. He had never seen her before, and more than any other reason, that one fact was enough to make him regret missing church for the previous months. This beautiful young woman must be new to Juniper Falls, and he had missed out on meeting her until right now.

She caught his eye, noticing him staring at her. Without interrupting her conversation with the older couple that stood in the aisle with her, the young woman smiled at Silas before looking away again.

Before he could decide what to do—introduce himself? Ask his landlady who this stranger was?—Pastor Langdon walked up the steps to his pulpit and the congregation began to find their seats.

Suddenly feeling out of place, Silas turned away and made his way to a pew near the back of the room. He sat down and watched as people entered and filled up the sanctuary. Each one greeted him with a smile or a nod as they passed by, and the room quieted as the pastor began that week’s service.

Along with the rest of the congregation, Silas bowed his head in reverence during the sermon, and closed his eyes in prayer. When the choir began singing, he let his voice join the chorus and felt his faith swell up inside him. He settled into the rhythm of the service, feeling a sense of peace and contentment.

But he could not stop thinking about the beautiful young woman in blue. She had sat in a pew on the left side of the center aisle, about a third of the way back from the altar. From where Silas sat, he could see the back of her head but nothing else. Though he tried not to stare, he found himself getting distracted from the worship service more than once in his wondering who this stranger was.

Silas found himself settling into the rhythms of the service. He listened attentively to the sermon and sang along with the hymns, a wave of peace and contentment washing over him as he embraced his faith anew.

Silas Denbow had not been to church in a long time, but that Sunday morning, he felt he had returned home.

When the service was over, Silas stood awkwardly, making small talk with other men and women who had been sitting near him. He wanted to meet that beautiful young woman but was nervous about presenting himself to her. And yet, he did not want to let her get away without learning her name. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and when she stood alone for a brief moment, he made abrupt excuses to the man he had been talking to and headed down the aisle to the young woman.

Silas’s heart beat rapidly as he crossed the room and stood before her. She clutched her Bible to her chest with one hand as she smoothed down her skirt with the other.

“Hello,” Silas said, his voice a little shaky.

“Hello,” she responded warmly. “Are you new here? I’m happy to introduce you to the pastor, if you like.”

He cleared his throat. “Uh . . . no. Actually, um . . .” Silas felt his face burning with embarrassment. “I used to come every week, in fact, but I haven’t been in a while. I’m sure I would have remembered you.”

“Oh! Yes, well, my sister and her husband and I came to Juniper Falls a few months ago.”

“Ah . . . well, I’m here now. My name is Silas. Silas Denbow.”

“Mary Ann Whitaker,” she said, offering her hand to him to shake. “I’m glad you came back to church, if only so I could get to meet you.”

“Really?” He grinned, reminding himself that she was just being friendly, that she did not know him at all, that he should not interpret anything additional in her words. But he could not help but feel excited about the possibility of seeing this woman again. “Right, yes, me too. That is, I’m glad I came back to church too. And I’m really glad I got to meet you. Really glad.”

The woman smiled warmly at him, revealing dimples on both of her cheeks.

Silas felt as if his heart were about to burst from his chest. They shared a long look, neither of them saying a word, until finally Silas managed to find his voice and said, “I’d love to walk you home. If you want. If that’s okay.”

Mary Ann opened her mouth to respond, but looked around her first. “Are you . . . here by yourself?”

Silas silently berated himself for being too forward. This young woman did not know him from the outlaw in the next town; why on earth would she permit him to walk her home without any kind of protection or vouching for his character?

“Mrs. Bennett!” Silas called out.

His landlady generally sat near the front of the sanctuary, and he spotted her walking back to the front door of the church. She turned when she heard her name and he waved her over.

“I came with Mrs. Bennett,” Silas explained to Mary Ann. “I’m one of her boarders. Known her for years, in fact.” The older woman had reached them as he said this, and he turned to her. “Mrs. Bennett, do you know Mary Ann Whitaker?”

“I do.” She nodded and smiled at him knowingly. “Mary Ann and I met a month or so earlier at the bake sale to raise money for the new windows. She makes a very tasty raspberry tart.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I missed that.”

Suddenly, there was nothing Silas wanted more than to have a chance to try Mary Ann’s raspberry tart. He would have to work up to that, though. He could not recall what he had been doing when Mrs. Bennett was at the church bake sale, but whatever it was he now regretted.

“You’re very kind,” Mary Ann said, warming under the praise. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Silas, me and the others are heading back. Do you want to walk with us?”

“Actually, Silas just promised to walk me to my home,” Mary Ann said, smiling up at him.

“Right. That’s right,” he said, unable to keep the jubilant grin from his face. “I’ll be home in a bit, but I’m going to walk Mary Ann first.”

“All right,” Mrs. Bennett said. “Lunch will be ready when you get back.”

She continued on down the aisle to the front doors of the church that had been thrown open as the congregation poured out. Though she was in silhouette, Silas thought he recognized Daisy waiting for Mrs. Bennett so they could walk home together.

He turned back to Mary Ann. “I’m honored. Really. I’m so glad I came this morning to meet you.”

“And worship God,” she said, teasing.

“Sure, that too.” Silas chuckled, pleased that her sense of humor was so close to his own.

She held his elbow lightly as he led her through the crowd and out to the street. He felt as though he had blinders on; he did not register the faces or greetings of any other member of the congregation, so focused was he on getting Mary Ann alone where he could get to know her better.

When they reached the street, she sketched out a short description of where she lived and they began a slow stroll in that direction. As they walked down the street, Silas listened intently as she talked about coming to Juniper Falls with her sister after their parents’ death. He asked her questions and listened as she answered, learning quickly that he had found somebody special in Mary Ann.

She gently guided him the couple turns deeper into the neighborhood where she lived, until finally—too quickly, Silas thought—they had reached her front door. There were sounds coming from inside, indicating Mary Ann’s sister and her husband had reached home first.

“You’re not late, I hope,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

Mary Ann smiled. “Oh, they won’t eat without me. But I didn’t realize how slow we were walking. The time seems like it passed in a flash.”

“I agree. I feel like I could continue talking to you for hours yet.”

She smiled again and took a deep breath. “I think I would like that. Sometime in the future.”

Silas nodded, not dropping her gaze. He understood from her comment that he was being invited to call on her again. Now was not the time; he did not want to press or move too fast.

“Until then,” he said, tipping his hat and backing up one step.

Mary Ann turned to enter her home. Silas watched her disappear behind the front door, feeling like he had been blessed with a glimpse of heaven itself.

As he walked back toward his boarding house, he looked up at the sky, where thick white clouds promised a chilly afternoon. He was glad he had made himself go back to church that morning, glad that he had no longer dragged his feet to return to the routine that had cheered him so in the past.

Silas had known that returning to the supportive, compassionate community of Christians at Everlasting Grace Church would be good for him, but he had never anticipated how much it would change his life. Though he had yet to have more than one entire conversation with Mary Ann Whitaker, somehow he sensed that his future—his destiny—would be with her.

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He had been grateful to have her, and she had settled in easily to keeping house on her own. Getting out from her mother’s hovering and her father’s subtle critique had given Martha space to blossom. They fell into an easy rhythm, and a few years after that Bertie got married. While that had been a trying transition, Martha and her sister-in-law, Jennie, had always been friends. No one had even implied Martha should return to her parents’ house.

The children came in the years after that—Albie, Micah, Ellen, Otis, and Susie—and Jennie needed all the help she could get.

And now, twenty years later, Martha was just as much a member of the Wright family as any of them. She was never left out of holidays, never asked to make herself scarce when guests visited, the way other hired girls might be. She had a bedroom to herself, was afforded time off when she needed it, and was depended on by the children nearly as much as were their own parents. For Martha, this arrangement had turned out to be just as good as marrying and having a home of her own.

Truthfully, perhaps better, Martha reflected as she floured her cutter and began to cut out the doughnuts from the rolled dough.

Bertie and Jennie were still very much in love almost twenty years after marrying, but like all couples they fought occasionally. Bertie watched what Jennie spent closely, and that could become an argument. Jennie resented Bertie going to the Golden Eagle Saloon too often, and that could become an argument. But Martha did not have to deal with any of that. All she had to do was retreat when the tension was high and wait for it to blow over while she kneaded her bread or hung the sheets to dry on the clothesline.

She had space when she needed it and support when she needed it.

No, whenever she thought about it, to Martha’s eyes she got all the benefits of being a married woman without any of the headaches she associated with men. What more could she want, really?

“Aunt Martha!”

Otis came dashing into the kitchen from outdoors, seemingly unable to arrest his momentum. At six years old, he was not yet going to school every day with his older siblings, but Martha and Jennie were running out of ways to keep him entertained for hours at a time. He missed his older siblings, his primary playmates, but Bertie had decided that his youngest son was still too restless to be able to sit still indoors all day. She would be grateful when he was out of the house and under the tutelage of Mrs. Frye come the fall.

“Aunt Martha,” he repeated when she waited too long to respond.

“What are you up to, young sir?” she asked as she wiped her hands on her apron.

He had been going so fast he ran into the back of Martha’s legs, but he bounced off and was now standing somberly with his back to the counter. He pushed his strawlike hair out of his face and looked up at her with wide eyes.

“I have three things I wanted to say.” He held up three fingers before scrunching up his nose as though trying to remember them. “Um . . .”

Martha waited patiently. It had taken Otis longer than his siblings to speak—his father postulated that perhaps it was because Ellen spoke far too much—but when he finally did it was in complete sentences. He took his communication very seriously, and if occasionally Martha needed to wait quietly for Otis to carefully choose his words, it was worth it to see him blossom into the young man he was becoming.

“Okay. Right.” He nodded to himself. “The first one is . . . um, when will the doughnuts be ready?”

“Not long, love. I’m cutting the dough now while the oil heats, and then I’ll fry them and glaze them, and then they will cool while I make supper.”

“This is not one of my three things, but could I have a doughnut with supper, please?”

“You can ask your mother, but I think she’ll probably say you need to wait until after supper. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

She grinned at her little nephew, and he grinned back, in no way ashamed of getting caught in his machinations.

“What’s the second thing, love?”

“Um, well, you know how I was catching grasshoppers yesterday?”

She nodded.

“Do you think the grasshoppers are sad to be in my jar?”

“Oh. Well . . .”

Two days earlier, he had begged her to both give him one of her jars and help him punch holes in the lid so the insects could get air. Martha had been hesitant at first, not because of the jar—she had plenty of those and could easily get another—but because she worried about Otis’s sensitive heart if any of the grasshoppers died while in his care.

Her brother had overheard the conversation and stepped in, explaining to Otis what could happen when he trapped the insects and making him promise that he would be a big boy if anything should happen to them. Such talking-to was a tactic that had worked well enough for Otis’s older brothers in similar scenarios, but Martha was not certain that Otis could keep his promise.

She wished Bertie were here now to have the conversation with his son.

“You know, Otis,” she said, squatting down to be at eye level with him. “There are some animals that thrive in captivity, and some that do not. Like Milky?” The Wright children had been given the privilege of naming the farm animals, with predictable results. “Cows like to have people nearby to help milk them. You don’t normally see cows wandering around in the wilderness like you might buffalo or wolves, right?”

Otis nodded, looking thoughtful. “Which one is a grasshopper?”

“I think a grasshopper might be more like a wolf. Just less dangerous. They hop around a bit, right? I don’t think many insects are used to being confined in a small space like yours are in that jar. Some creatures just like their freedom.”

“But are they sad?”

“Have you been watching and studying them the way you planned to?”

He nodded.

“Then you probably know better than I do,” she said. “Would you like my advice?”

“Yes, please.”

“I think if it was me,” Martha said, standing again and addressing her small nephew as though he were a parent himself or one of the elders at church, “what I would do is watch them again for a little while and determine if they seem more or less energetic than when you first captured them. Compare and look for any changes.”

“What does that mean? ‘Determine’?”

“Oh, it means . . . decide. Watch them, and based on what you see, you can decide if you think the grasshoppers are sad or not.”

“How long should I watch them for?”

“Until you think you have enough information.”

He nodded soberly and looked down at his hands. “Aunt Martha? If I de—determine that the grasshoppers are sad . . . will you help me open the jar so they can be free?”

“Of course I will, love. You just let me know how I can help you. Isn’t that what Aunt Martha is here for?”

“Thank you!”

Otis perked up immediately, now that he had a solution to his conundrum. He turned to dash outside again when Martha called him back.

“Wait! Didn’t you have a third thing for me, Otis?”

“Huh?” He looked back over his shoulder and let the door hit him when he paused. “Oh, yeah! Um . . . Mr. Everett is here and he said he wanted to talk to you and he’s been waiting out here for me to let him into the kitchen.”

“Mr. Everett?” she said, wiping her hands again and untying her apron. “From church? Why didn’t you show him to the sitting room?”

“He said he wanted to see you in here. Your, um . . .” He scrunched up his face again, searching for the word in his memory. “Your element. Is that the right word?”

“I think so,” she murmured, more confused than ever. “Thank you, love. Will you tell him he can come in?”

She hung her flour-covered apron on a hook by the pantry and turned back to the outside door awkwardly. What should she do with her hands? She glanced at the big pot of oil on the stove. It had just about reached boiling, and she should be frying the doughnuts right now. There was no time for a social call. What on earth was Mark Everett thinking?

Suddenly, Martha remembered the intense way he had been watching her at church a couple of Sundays earlier. Though he had not once approached her, Martha had felt his eyes following her as she spoke to other neighbors both before and after the service. It had been surprising on its own, as she was not sure she had ever said more than a couple of words to the man, but then, as they were getting ready to leave, she had spotted him speaking confidentially to her sister-in-law. Though Martha hung back, not interrupting the conversation, as soon as she could tell he was leaving, she’d hurried to Jennie’s side.

“What did he want?” she had whispered.

Jennie had frowned and watched the man’s retreating back. “He wanted to know who else you have kept house for.”

Martha had laughed. “He can’t think I’m looking for more employment, can he? He knows you have five children at home and all the requisite laundry and cooking and cleaning and—”

Jennie had laughed in agreement and shook her head. “Honestly, who knows what that man is ever thinking? Do you remember when he came to see Bertie about investing in the opal mine sure-thing? His thoughts always seem to be far away from reality. It’s a wonder he gets on as well as he does without more chaos.”

That Sunday morning, when Mark Everett had asked about Martha, had been strange, but not alarming. She had put it out of her mind, sure that if it meant anything more she would know soon enough.

And it seemed as though that moment had arrived. Less than a minute after the kitchen door had banged shut behind Otis, it opened again, and Mr. Everett entered silently.

He was the same height as Martha—or maybe an inch shorter—with a fringe of stark-white hair in a ring around his otherwise bald head. He had the air of a man who had once been quite handsome and desirable and had not yet reconciled himself to the fact that he had aged out of it.

Martha had been cordial with the late Mrs. Everett, and remembered her funeral two years earlier clearly. But other than attending the same church, she could not think of a single thing that she and this man had in common, nor why he might seek her out in her kitchen in the hours just before supper.

“How do you do, Mr. Everett?” she said primly, standing stiffly in the middle of her kitchen. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“A remarkable woman,” he said, seemingly to himself.

Martha watched as he looked around her kitchen, his gaze lingering on the doughnuts still waiting to be fried, the pile of potatoes waiting to be peeled, and the clean dishes for supper pulled out so she could set the table. She felt as though she should be self-conscious about this strange man’s attention to her workspace, but more than anything else she felt pride. Martha Wright knew precisely what her role in this family was, and she went above and beyond for them every day. There was nothing Mark Everett might see in this kitchen that she would be ashamed of.

Pride, and a little annoyance that he was keeping her from doing her duty.

“I see you’re about to make supper,” he said finally, after doing a complete circle of the space.

“Yes . . .”

She tried to see what he was seeing, to approach the kitchen from the view of a man who likely had not cooked for himself since . . . perhaps ever. Though his wife had died two years earlier, his daughter was old enough to keep house for him and had certainly stepped in to fill the gap.

She did not want to repeat her question, she did not want to seem rude to this man who was an elder in her church, but at the same time she truly could not fathom what he was doing in her kitchen. It was not often that Martha allowed herself to be truly idle, so waiting here, watching, not able to move forward on her projects until her guest at least spoke, was incredibly trying for her.

“Would you say that you enjoy cooking?” he asked suddenly. “That it is one of your favorite parts of the day?”

“Oh, I . . .” she stammered.

The question seemed far too personal for Martha to feel comfortable answering it plainly. She realized suddenly that her favorite part of the day was sitting around the supper table with her family, asking the children about their day, Bertie teasing his oldest son or Ellen speaking louder and louder until someone paid attention to her. Some of Martha’s fondest memories were during everyday, intimate family moments like that.

“I enjoy cooking, yes,” is all that she would allow herself to say.

There was another long quiet moment. Mr. Everett appeared to be examining Martha’s broom, mop, and buckets that were stored behind the door he had just entered. She was at such a loss to understand what his intention was that she could not come up with a question to ask.

Finally he turned back around to face her, puffed up his chest like a peacock, and fixed her with a meaningful stare.

Martha remained standing, idle, near her stove as she attempted to wait him out.

“I overheard some of what you said to the boy,” he began.

Martha bristled at the man not even bothering to learn the child’s name.

“And I have to say I disagree with you.”

“Oh?” Martha did not trust herself to say anything more.

“I’m not sure that all creatures want freedom the way that you told the boy that grasshoppers do.”

She frowned, at a loss for how to even respond to such a strange assertion. They were discussing literal wild animals, and he was claiming that they did not want to be wild?

“For example,” he continued, “I’m sure that you must be chafing against the lack of security and esteem in your own life. You must long for someone to take care of you, not unlike the way your brother takes care of . . . Milky, was it?”

When she had been a child, Martha had had a problem with losing her temper. As she grew older and learned not to take everything so personally, she was angry far less often, but now, listening to this man comparing her to a cow made Martha see red. She had matured enough, however, to limit herself to a measured response.

“Excuse me?”

“I have been admiring you for some time now, Miss Wright,” Mr. Everett continued, seemingly oblivious to any change in her emotions. “You appear to be one of the most capable and efficient women in all of Juniper Falls.”

“Thank you.”

Martha remained standing rigidly near her stove, uncomfortably aware of all the “capable and efficient” things she should be doing but could not without being rude to her guest.

He grinned at her as though they shared some kind of understanding.

She glanced at the clock on the wall and then at the dough that still sat waiting for her.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but it’s getting late. I really do need to be getting to making the family’s supper. I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could speak plainly about why it is you came to see me today, I would appreciate it, as would the little ones who are less than patient about being fed when they want to be.”

“A remarkable woman,” he said again. “No time to waste. I admire that about you as well.”

Martha took a deep breath and waited. If she did not prolong the conversation any longer, perhaps he would be finished and gone more quickly.

“What I came here today to say,” he said importantly, “is that I have been admiring you for some time, and I have come to the decision that my life—our lives, my children included—could be greatly improved by your presence and care. I would like to marry you, Miss Wright. Martha.”

The way he smiled at her when he used her Christian name made Martha even more angry than she had been in the first place, completely aside from the fact of his marriage proposal.

A proposal!

There had always been a small part of her that had been sad that she had never had a beau, like other women, had never had the chance to experience the admiration of a man, to consider a proposal of marriage. But now that it had finally happened, Martha knew without a doubt that she could have lived the rest of her life without it.

After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Martha could only say the first thing that had come to mind.

“You must be joking.”

“Why, no, I’m not.” He took a step closer to her, putting his hands up to calm her, as though she were a spooked horse. “I know this might be sudden and—”

“Sudden? Far be it from me to question your intentions, sir,” she said, cutting him off in a tone that dripped with the very questioning she was foreswearing, “especially seeing as I have no experience with such a situation, but I was under the impression that a gentleman would make his intentions known prior to issuing such a proposal.”

She all but bit off each word as it left her mouth, in her struggle to remain polite.

“Well, yes, that is usual for young folks, I’m sure, just setting off on their life together. But you and I are not so lucky as that, are we? I’m sure we both know what we want and do not need to wait or discover how we would like to spend our remaining years.”

“You are certainly correct in that,” she said. “I can say with full confidence that I know that I do not want to marry you. I am perfectly happy in my situation, sir, but . . .” She cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “But thank you for your . . . consideration.”

“What do you mean?” He blinked at her rapidly, as though she were speaking a foreign language he was not quite grasping.

“I mean that—”

Martha looked around her kitchen futilely, desperate for someone or something to rescue her from this situation. Of all the absurdity she could imagine for her life, being proposed to for the first time at her advanced age was silly enough, but for the offer to come from an arrogant man with whom she had never had a private conversation and who likened her to a farm animal was beyond the pale. A man so sure that he would be accepted, so certain that she was desperate, that he made no attempt to woo her for even a short while.

“I mean precisely what I said. That my life here, with my brother, with my nieces and nephews, is all I could ever want. I have no intention of leaving them, marriage proposal or no.”

“But . . . but . . . but surely you’ve wanted more for yourself? You could be a married woman.”

“I assure you, Mr. Everett, that what I have is far better for me than any situation I might have with you.”

“Why? What do you mean? I was sure you would be more than grateful for a chance to be married finally after being unwanted for so long,” he declared, unabashed.

Martha stared openly at him for only a moment before her temper caught up with her.

“How dare you?” she thundered.

Martha took a step back. She needed to put more space between herself and this self-important, odious man. The corner of the stove hit her in her lower back and she stopped.

“Why—what—?” he stammered.

“You, sir, are no gentleman to say such things to me. Get out of my kitchen, before I have to call my brother to throw you out.”

“Well, there’s no need to—”

“Get out, I said!”

Casting about for something, somewhere, to channel her fury, Martha’s gaze fell on her stovetop. Using her layers of skirt and petticoats to protect her hands, Martha seized the handle of the pot that had been sitting on the stove top. The oil had reached a boiling point, ready for the doughnuts that she had hoped to have finished by now. Her rage at being so insulted, on top of being delayed and distracted from her duty, clouded her thinking.

Or that’s what she told her brother and sister-in-law after the fact when they saw what happened next.

With both hands wrapped tightly around the pot’s handle, Martha spun around, eyes wild, and descended upon her unwelcome caller. The two looked at each other for a long moment, before Mr. Everett backed up several awkward steps, hitting his back against the door.

“Get out of my kitchen,” she said in a low voice, generously—she thought—offering him one last chance to make things right.

“Miss Wright, what are you doing?”

It was one question too many, and after valiantly holding back her temper through all of these insults, Martha could stand it no longer.

She took two heavy steps toward him, holding the pot of boiling oil firmly.

He—now, finally, intelligently—wasted no more time questioning her. Spinning back toward the door so quickly he almost fell over, Mark Everett seized the handle, threw it open, and ran out to the front yard of the Wrights’ home without another word.

Martha, weapon of choice in hand, followed.

He ran, ran faster than she would have supposed a man of his age could move, and she was satisfied to see the back of him. Several steps outside of the house, Martha stopped and seemed to come back to herself. The pot of oil was really getting quite heavy, and she still had to fry up her doughnuts before she started supper.

With a resigned air that her first and only proposal of marriage had been so infuriating, Martha returned to her kitchen and got back to work. She had never minded being a spinster, and she certainly would not start now.

This short story and two others are available for free on the book retailer of your choice. Grab Stories from Juniper Falls by A.T. Butler here:

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