The Wagon Master's Promise

Prologue

Lexington, Kentucky

Is he coming home?

Grace Hawthorne could not recall when the question stopped being ‘When is he coming home?’ and became ‘Is he coming home?’ Against all reason, a small part of her hoped he would not return.

Or else, that he might return a changed man, more like the one she had married rather than one who smelled as though he had bathed in a tub of whiskey.

She watched the flickering candlelight dance along the darkened walls of the cabin.

Except for the dull creak of her rocking chair and the distant thunder of a coming storm, all was quiet.

Grace closed her eyes, her hand drifting to her stomach.

Over the last several weeks, her body had changed; her dresses still fit, but differently than she was accustomed to.

Grace rubbed her tired eyes and tipped her head back to gaze listlessly at the ceiling.

Despite the exhaustion clinging like a phantom to her limbs, she could not force herself to sleep.

Not with her husband gone. Even if she lay in bed and tried to rest, her mind worked ceaselessly, plaguing her with fears of what might happen to him.

What if he drank too much and brawled with someone?

What if he gambled away the little money they had?

She clenched her teeth at the thought.

I should leave him. I could go to my father. He would help me.

That was a new thought, too.

She had loved this man once. Charles had been strong and dependable, a little quick-tempered, but not unusually so. He had been kind to her and painted beautiful pictures of their lives together, his words winding about Grace like a spell.

Could Grace really bring herself to leave him?

She had loved—and sometimes still did—the man she had married.

Returning to her father’s house, and with a child no less, would be admitting defeat.

It would be accepting that her beloved husband had become someone new and cruel, and he would never again be the man she loved.

It would be admitting a failure, but Grace could not determine if it was his or hers.

The door creaked, and Grace stiffened. Her husband’s footfalls were heavy and uneven.

Grace turned her head and gazed over her shoulder at Charles.

His massive form was dark and looming, made more ominous by how heavily he staggered across the floor.

A lump rose in Grace’s throat as she smelled the cloud of tobacco and gin that followed him.

“Grace,” he said, slurring her name.

“You have been gone for a long time,” Grace said, standing slowly.

Charles had left for the bar after supper and it was now well past midnight. Perhaps even later.

“Been playing cards.” He staggered again and reached for the wall to steady himself. “You can’t just leave in the middle of that.”

Grace’s face grew hot. So, he had been gambling—as if the drinking and smoking were not sufficient vices! As if they had an endless amount of money that could be spent recklessly!

“This cannot happen again,” she said, forcing every ounce of authority into her voice. “We have a child on the way. You cannot continue to be this reckless.”

“You dare to criticize me?” he scoffed. “With everything I do to support this family…”

Charles had also been a good worker when Grace had married him, a hired hand for a nearby farm.

His wages hadn’t been extravagant, but he had made an honest living.

That, until he began spending all of his pay on alcohol, tobacco, and gambling, though.

And it was before he had begun staggering home around midday, claiming that he was feeling sick when they both knew he was still intoxicated.

Charles had remained in a near-perpetual state of drunkenness since.

Grace straightened her spine. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She was seldom truly angry, but hot fury curled inside her as she thought of the child growing inside her belly.

“Everything you do is not enough,” Grace said. “We are going to have a child soon, and you cannot stagger home at all hours of the night! A child needs stability. I know that you are a good man, and—”

Charles scoffed, and Grace’s face grew hot. Her anger hummed through her entire body, pumping through her was fiercely as her own blood. How dare he behave like she was just an inconvenience to him?

“—you can be better than this,” she continued. “Don’t just dismiss my concerns like you always do! I know that you can be the man I married once again. You must be, for the sake of our baby.”

“And what about you?” Charles snapped. “What have you done to support this family?”

Grace’s hand drifted instinctively to her round stomach, and Charles laughed harshly.

“Is that your contribution?” he sneered, gesturing to her with such force that he nearly toppled over. “Your contribution is giving birth to that child, who will be a burden just like you? That’s why I drink so much, you know—because you’re useless.”

“You don’t mean that,” Grace said, her voice trembling.

How could he be so cruel to her? This man had once called her the love of his life.

He’d told her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, the only person he ever wanted to be with.

Grace had thought that she had already accepted her loving husband was gone, but hearing him call her such awful things still stung.

She wanted to scream or cry, but if she did, he would only dismiss her worries all the more.

He would say that she was being hysterical, that she was making something out of nothing.

“I do,” he insisted. “You’re a waste of money. Do you know how much better my life would be without you constantly…constantly trying… Always insisting that I spend it this way and that!”

“You mean to support the child we made?” Grace asked.

He jabbed an accusing finger at her. “You wanted a baby!” Charles sneered, slurring the words together so badly that Grace barely understood him.

“So did you!” Grace swept her arms out, gesturing to the sitting room. “You wanted all of this—a house of your own, a wife, and a child! Or so you told me when we were courting! Now you have all of that, but you’re still not happy. What is it that you need to be satisfied?”

“I need you to stop being such—being such a—a harpy!” he snapped, hiccupping. “I—I ain’t going to take this lip from you.”

Grace’s chest was tight, and she struggled to fill her lungs with air. “You will,” she said. “I am your wife, and in this I know I am right! If you ever cared about me—”

A sharp crack sliced through the air. Time seemed to slow as Grace’s head snapped to the side. Stinging pain spread over her cheek and jaw, and she raised a hand in disbelief to hold her warm cheek. It was not the worst pain she had ever felt, but she found herself struggling to make sense of it.

Sluggishly, she realized that Charles had struck her. He had never once done so before. Grace searched his face, cast into sharp relief by the candlelight. She silently prayed for even the smallest hint of remorse or regret, for some kernel that might indicate her husband was willing to be better.

She found none. Despite her desire to be strong, her lower lip quivered.

“I suppose you’re going to cry now?” he asked. “To make me feel guilty?”

“No.” That voice did not sound like her own.

Charles snorted and ambled into the bedroom.

Grace remained by the rocking chair, a numbness settling over her body.

He had struck her.

She pressed her fingers to her cheek, as if to confirm that the pain was real. This was not some terrible nightmare. Her husband had truly struck her.

Grace closed her eyes and listened for the creaking of the mattress. Her husband had settled into bed already. A sigh shuddered in her chest. She sank into the rocking chair and stared into the candlelight again.

Why had she argued?

No.

How had she become a woman who lived like this?

Her eyes burned with tears, but Grace forced them back. She needed to think.

It was clear that Charles was not going to be the husband he once had been ever again.

She did not understand exactly why he’d changed, but he had.

Grace was going to have a child, and she could not expose that child to the man Charles had become.

No, it would be better for her baby to have no father at all than to have such a cruel one.

She could not remain in this house any longer. Grace had no choice but to swallow her pride and return to her father. Even if she didn’t want to go back, at least she and the child wouldn’t be alone.

And she knew her father would not blame her.

She rose quietly, trying to muffle the creak of the rocking chair.

Most of her personal effects were in the bedroom.

Grace knew from experience that her husband would likely fall asleep soon, but she did not dare risk waking him by wandering into their shared room.

Her possessions were a small price to pay for ensuring she and her child would be safe.

Grace grabbed an old carpetbag and carefully gathered what she could: the tiny clothes she had sewn for the baby, the bottle she had purchased on a rare day when Charles had not spent all the money, and the linens that her great-grandmother had embroidered with tiny, purple flowers. Everything else would be sacrificed.

Her eyes darted back to the bedroom, imagining the worst. If Charles stumbled out of that room, still drunk and angry, what would he do? She was sure that he wouldn’t take kindly to finding her packing and clearly on the verge of escaping into the night. Grace bit her lip, her heart racing.

You have to keep going, she thought. You can’t stop now.

Once the bag was packed, she waited and listened for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she heard Charles’ soft snores floating through the air. It was safe to go now.

Grace swallowed roughly as she put on her boots and threw her coat over her dress.

After giving the bedroom a final glance, she opened the front door and stepped into the night.

The summer air was hot even now, heavy with the storm still brewing on the horizon.

Heat lightning streaked across the sky, the flashes stark white against the dark and looming clouds.

How fitting, Grace thought.

She firmly grasped the carpetbag as she walked down the red clay road that led to her father’s house. Charles had wanted to live on the outskirts of town, where it was quiet. Peaceful, he had said.

She set a brisk pace, the humidity and heat quickly sinking through her coat and calico dress.

The damp fabric stuck like molasses to her arms, but she kept going.

Her eyes darted to the sky, wondering if she might be able to outrun the storm.

It seemed to take an eternity of walking in the dark, jumping at every little sound, until she came to her father’s familiar white house.

Grace inhaled deeply and, at long last, crossed the yard.

She raised a shaking hand and knocked on the front door.

Her pride no longer mattered. Grace just needed to survive.

She waited, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was late, and she knew that no one would be near the door. They might not even hear it.

If not, would she invite herself in? It wasn’t as if her father would reject her, but still, she felt strangely awkward about letting herself into what once had been her home.

The seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly, but at last the door opened. Candlelight spilled out onto the steps, and Grace’s father stood there, his eyes wide with shock.

“Grace! What’s happened?”

His voice, so concerned and gentle, was like a knife directly to her heart.

Her eyes burned and the tears finally came.

She flung herself into his arms, burying her face into his shoulder.

In that moment, she was a young girl again, desperate for her father to protect her from all the horrors of the world.

“I need your help.”