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  But there were other times when she thought the valley was as beautiful as it had been the first time they had stopped to drink it in, especially during weeks of sunshine, when the high-piled snow sparkled like diamonds and the sky was such a pure blue that it hurt their eyes.

  Occasionally, they saw deer treading carefully across the meadow on long, graceful legs, moving down the mountain slopes looking for food. Once, they spotted a small group of Indians heading up the trail, the one that they had tried unsuccessfully to cross.

  The sight shocked them. The two children were so used to solitude that they were unprepared for the presence of other humans. Swiftly, Annabelle pushed Richard inside the lodge and crouched, her heart beating hard as she peeked out. The strangers moved slowly along the far side of the valley, riding straight and tall. They drove a large group of horses before them, large creatures, smoothly muscled with flowing manes and proud, arched necks—nothing like the wiry Indian ponies that the children had seen while traveling westward.

  Staring wide-eyed through a chink in the branches that made up the hut’s walls, Annabelle thought the animals rivaled the matched pairs pulling the finest carriages in Philadelphia. Anyone would pay a fortune for such fine horses.

  The Indians had almost passed, and she was about to let out her breath in relief when, just before they rode around a bend in the trail, one of them, a broad-shouldered older man with graying hair, turned and looked over his shoulder as if sensing the children’s stares. Annabelle pressed her stomach flat against the beaten floor of their lodge, hoping he was far enough away not to see them. The moment stretched out endlessly. Then, he turned back and rode on.

  Annabelle did not allow Richard to leave the lodge all of that day. For the next few weeks, she remained alert, lest they return. She remembered the conversation between her father and the man who ran the trading post. The latter said that most of the Indians in the area were “tame,” but that others had brutally slaughtered a harmless group of missionaries. She wondered how one could tell which Indians were good and which were dangerous.

  As time passed, however, she decided the Indians must not have noticed the presence of white youngsters in the valley. Otherwise they would surely have returned to kill Richard and her, or to chase them off their land.

  She shivered. So far, the bears and the cougars had left them alone. How strange that it was humans she feared most.

  Chapter Six

  Chance

  Iowa

  Spring, 1861

  Chance faced his mother on the porch of their white clapboard farm house while he tried to figure out how to say goodbye. A flock of emotions chased each other around inside his chest like loose chickens: excitement, pride, regret at leaving, and, although he hated to admit it, a tingle of fear. A peaceful man, he hated the idea of having to kill anyone even for a good cause.

  “Well, Ma,” he said when the silence stretched out too long. “I’m off to war. President Lincoln wants volunteers, and you want me to enlist, so I guess that’s all there is to it.”

  His mother’s steely eyes bore into his, and her mouth compressed into a straight line as she held out the leather-bound Bible, which had been in the family for more generations than he could count. “Son, put your right hand on this. Before you go, you’ve got to make me a solemn vow.”

  Chance was twice his mother’s size and could have lifted her with one brawny arm, but he never considered for a moment disobeying her command. Placing one hand on the Bible’s worn cover, he raised the other. “What, Ma?”

  “There’ll be a lot of temptations where you’re going, and there’s a good chance you might die.”

  “Yes, Ma.” Chance shuffled his feet. He didn’t like to think of that eventuality, although deep down he didn’t really believe death could happen to him. It happened to others, like the pastor’s nephew, Frankie Hill, who fell off a roof and broke his head last year, but Chance was too young, too strong, too healthy, to imagine it happening to him.

  The image of Betty Cuthbert floated into his brain. Chance had been ready to start building the house in town when the call for volunteers came. Now he’d have to wait till the war was over, but he comforted himself that it shouldn’t take more than a month or maybe two to send those upstart Johnny Rebs running home like a pack of whupped puppies.

  Hecuba McInnes wasn’t finished. “Before you go, son, you’ve got to make a solemn vow before God that you’ll keep yourself worthy for heaven no matter what.” Her mouth tightened further. There was not a whisper of softness in the lined face. “You’d better keep that promise, Chance McInnes, because I will not have my son’s soul going to hell from no rebel bullet.”

  “Yes, Ma.” The vow was one hundred percent sincere. Chance feared his mother’s disapproval even more than that of God or the devil. She was a sharp-tongued woman with the soul of a saint—not one of the simpering saints with gold-painted halos in the church’s stained-glass windows, but the kind who used to live in caves wearing hair shirts or suffer themselves to be burned alive without a squeak. Everyone in Baker’s Crossing, Iowa, acknowledged that if Hecuba McInnes had been in charge of the Union instead of that lily-livered Mr. Buchanan, there would have no unlawful compromise in Missouri, no extension of slavery to the new territories, no need for war. Nope, the slaves would have been put on a boat back to Africa with plenty of good food and clothing and instructions to spread Christianity to their poor, naked heathen brothers who hadn’t had the benefit of rubbing shoulders with civilization.

  Having made the oath, he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Kissing his mother’s forehead, he mounted his farm horse and set off. Chance felt his mother’s eyes focused on the center of his back as he trotted down the road, and a hundred yards away he impulsively turned, grinned, and waved.

  She waved back. A ray of morning sun hit her face, and he thought he saw a glitter in her eye that might have been, in another woman, a tear. To his surprise, a lump filled his throat. He faced forward again and urged his horse into a trot.

  Chapter Seven

  Ben

  Virginia

  Fall, 1861

  Ben Marlowe didn’t regret his decision to enlist in the Union Army, though war proved nothing like the glorious adventure he’d envisioned. But then, no one was prepared for the horrors of what he and his fellow soldiers encountered well past the few weeks that most expected the war to last. The conflict was miserable, mostly boring, occasionally terrifying, and held precious little of the glory they’d been promised. Worst of all, the Rebs seemed to be winning.

  Fighting up and down the Shenandoah Valley for month after wretched month, he and his fellow soldiers suffered humiliation as Confederate forces advanced perilously close to Washington, DC. In Ben’s view, the biggest betrayal was by local farmers who openly cheered on the Southern rebels, lending them supplies and protection. Unwilling to concede, the Northern soldiers pressed grimly on.

  Ben learned early on that fighting did not come naturally to him compared to the former farmers and outdoorsmen in his company who could load a gun and fire several times while he was still trying to ram down the first round of shot. They laughed at his soft hands and lack of experience, but he watched and learned, and after less than a year of combat, when the company’s captain was killed in battle, the others voted him to be their new captain.

  Ben wondered if they were impressed by his book learning, or maybe they mistook his quiet manner for confidence. At any rate, he did not take the honor lightly. As a leader, he was concerned for the welfare of the men and did his best to serve them well. He was pleased to find they respected his judgment and followed him loyally.

  The first year of war, when yet another of his mother’s frequent letters found him, Ben retreated to the privacy of his tent before tearing the envelope open and scanning it quickly. He already knew what it would say. In her earliest missives, Lavinia threatened to disinherit him unless Ben made his way to Oregon at once. When informed that desertion wa
s punished by death, she began writing letters to the president and her friends in Congress, pressuring them to grant her son an honorable discharge. Lavinia had not given up her efforts until General Pershing acidly telegraphed Washington, DC, that regrettably he could not spare Captain Marlowe’s talents, which were “necessary to winning the war.”

  As expected, this latest letter reminded him to win the war quickly so he could come to Oregon as soon as possible. “Our new dry goods store is doing well enough, but in order for it truly to prosper, we rely on your help.” She underlined the last part of the sentence. Ben refolded the letter and tucked it in his pocket, shaking his head. Although his mother never stopped trying to find ways to coax him to Salem, he had no doubt that his parents could cope very well on their own. He resolved that he would read no more of her letters. What was the point? They always said the same thing, and he had already made up his mind to ignore their contents.

  Pushing the letter to the back of his mind, Ben went to inform his men about tomorrow’s battle, and to assure them that this time they would assuredly kick the Johnnies all the way back to North Carolina. Ben was beginning to wonder if God heard his prayers. While walking toward the men’s tents, he muttered another fervent plea for divine help anyway. The Lord Himself knew how badly he, his troops, and the Union needed it.

  Chapter Eight

  Chance

  Virginia

  Spring, 1865

  Chance kicked in the door of the barn and rushed inside, leveling his rifle. He pointed it at each corner in turn, finger taut on the trigger, but saw nothing but motes floating lazily in rays of sunlight that filtered through chinks in the boards. Chance strained to hear a telltale creak or intake of breath, but the silence was broken only by the bark of intermittent distant gunfire. The mules and cows had been driven off long ago, leaving only mounds of dirty straw and rusty tools. In the dim light he made out coils of rope, pitchforks, and rakes hanging from the board walls, but nowhere for the Reb to hide, no stalls, not even a hayloft.

  He lowered the rifle, shivering. Winter in Virginia was less intense than wind-swept Iowa, but the clammy chill found its way under his uniform and through his woolen long underwear. He tramped to the back of the structure, but the fading sunlight showed nowhere on the property for a man to hide. The Federals had leveled everything but the unpainted barn. Nothing was left—no trees, no crops, nothing but the smoldering foundation of what used to be a nearby farmhouse, a rusty pump, and a pair of molting geese that had somehow evaded capture by hungry soldiers.

  As he turned away, the fowls attacked without warning. Honking like a pair of Erie Canal tugboats, they swooped down on him, beating heavy wings and pecking savagely at his boots. Swearing, Chance tried to kick them off and lost his balance. For a moment he tottered on one leg, arms windmilling, before falling backward, splat into the mud. Struggling to his feet and dripping mud, he glared at the geese, which fluttered to the remains of a torn-down fence and, ruffling their wings, taunted him with their small red eyes.

  Muttering imprecations, he retreated to the front of the barn. Had he imagined seeing that streak of butternut yellow? The motion had been in the corner of his eye, but he’d been so sure … Chance stopped in his tracks as an idea occurred. It was unlikely, maybe impossible, but still …

  Cautiously, he crept back to the door and cracked it open. As his ears adjusted to the silence, he could hear blood pulsing in his ears. The rich smell of manure reminded him of his farm in Iowa, and he felt an unexpected surge of homesickness. The barn his grandfather Preston McInnes had built was bigger and sturdier than this one, and stacked to the rafters with good, sweet hay. For a moment he stood transported home, far from the conflict taking place only yards away. At this hour of evening, he thought, the livestock would be feeding contentedly, while his yellow dog, Bonnie, lifted her head to greet him as he came through the door.

  Distracted by the pleasant memories, he forgot to look upward. When a board squeaked overhead, he instinctively swiveled and shot toward the ceiling. His rifle’s report was echoed by an answering shot, and something exploded painfully into his side before the world turned black.

  A glow behind his eyelids woke him, along with a sensation of heat. Chance opened his eyes and, with a leap of his heart, thought that he was witnessing heaven’s glory. But where were the angels? The harps? The marble throne? Then he realized the brightness came from dancing flames. So he was in the other place. His heart sank.

  A jab of pain caused him to look down at his legs, and Chance realized he was lying on his back amidst mounds of burning straw. He was alive, in a fire ignited by a spark from the exchange of gunfire. Chance tried to push himself to his feet, but the stabbing pain in his side forced him to fall back. Glancing down again, he noticed dark liquid soaking through the side of his blue jacket. At least the ball from his opponent’s rifle appeared to have missed his vital organs.

  He heard the thump of a weight dropping next to him and saw a butternut-yellow-clad figure zigzag through the flames toward the door. Dirty Reb! Gritting his teeth, Chance groped for his rifle, aimed the trembling barrel, and pulled the trigger. The running man stumbled and fell, but Chance hadn’t time to congratulate himself. He cursed again as when he tried to move, pain caused him to nearly black out again.

  I’m going to die. As the realization sank in, a rush of anger ran through him—anger at the Reb for fooling him by hiding in the rafters, anger at the South for starting the war, anger at himself for succumbing to such an ignoble death. He would have preferred dying in pitched battle rather than lying helpless as a babe in a cradle while flames licked the soles of his boots.

  While smoke choked him and stung his eyes, he saw a vision of Betty’s pretty face the night he’d given her the ring, and a wave of despair rose within him. She’d never have the handsome house he was planning to build her. They would never raise the large family of pretty daughters and stalwart sons he’d hoped for.

  Betty’s face faded, replaced by another vision, this one of his own house that early spring morning when he had ridden off to join the army. Hollyhocks bloomed by the porch steps where his mother stood holding the Bible as he saw himself vow to keep his soul worthy for heaven.

  Chance had made the oath to please her, but heaven and hell seemed a long way away four years ago when he was eighteen, too young to be tied down by all those “thou shalt nots.” Now, as he lay in the burning barn, sweat stinging his eyes from growing heat, his conscience gnawed at him.

  In spite of his promise, the past few years Chance had fallen prey to liquor, gambling, and bloodshed. Far, far too much of the latter, although he reasoned that the killing, at least, shouldn’t count too much against him. As his mother had taught him, this war was for a glorious and worthy cause: the freedom of human souls. He’d never taken a moment’s pleasure in slaughter. Killing was his duty, nothing more. No, that was not was not what troubled him most. Even more than the fact that he would not live to see Betty again, what bothered him was that despite his vow to live a pure, unblemished life, he was about to die in his sins. He’d lied to God and, worse, to his mother.

  The prospect of everlasting hell gaped before him, more terrifying than the inferno roaring around him. Chance quaked at the thought of Hecuba McInnes’s fury when she arrived at the foot of the golden throne only to learn her son was not there to greet her. Maybe it wasn’t too late to make a deal with his maker. After all, they said He was a God of mercy.

  As smoke entered his lungs, he coughed and summoned the last of his strength to croak aloud. “Lord, I’m nothin’ but a lowly sinner, not worthy to lick your boots. That is, er, if you wear boots.” He frowned. That didn’t sound quite right. “Be that as it may … if thou see it in thy bounteous will to spare your humble servant here, Chance McInnes, I promise … I promise …”

  He stopped.

  He’d intended to promise that he would keep all the commandments, but there was no way on God’s green earth that he’d be able
to do that. There were too darned many of them, and he didn’t dare vow another lie. Better choose just one commandment. Something not too hard, something he could commit to his whole life.

  With effort, he tried to visualize the list he’d memorized in Sunday school so long ago. Thou shalt not covet … or bear false witness … or … or …

  Flat on his back with the flames singeing his clothes, he seized on one, and with the energy of desperation gasped, “Save me, Lord, and I swear I’ll never take thy name in vain again!”

  The door of the stable burst open and a dark-haired man clad in a blue uniform plunged toward him through the falling beams with the purposefulness of an angel entering Nebuchadnezzer’s furnace. Chance’s head fell back. As he lost consciousness, he was smiling.

  Chapter Nine

  Ben

  Washington, DC

  Spring, 1865

  Ben woke in a large hospital room amid rows of other cots exactly like his own, and memories drifted back. Pulling one of his fellow soldiers from a flaming barn, the roof collapsing, a jolting wagon journey to the military hospital in Washington, DC, and painful treatments for burned hands. Someone had informed him that the young soldier he’d rescued was recuperating in a field hospital in Virginia.

  Ben did not know the injured corporal well. Chance McInnes was a transfer from a unit dissolved due to high casualties after the battle of Cold Harbor, and he had quickly become a favorite of the other men.

  A doctor stopped by his bed, his bearded face tired above his blood-smeared coat. “Let’s see what’s under those bandages, Captain Marlowe.” Ben winced as the other man peeled back the rolled cloth from swollen, blistered skin and nodded. “Healing nicely, with no infection. Another week or so and we’ll send you back to Virginia.” He smiled down at Ben. “It’ll be too soon to handle a rifle, but you’ll be good for carrying dispatches.”