Chapter One
Six Years Later
Kneeling close to the fire in the hearth, Edith stirred the small pot of oatmeal, relishing the warmth of the blaze. Content to let it cook for a little longer, she rubbed her hands together, mentally preparing to brave the cold again.
She pushed herself to her feet and headed to the door, quickly opening it and shutting it behind her.
The air hit her face as soon as she stepped outside, biting at her cheeks and making her eyes water.
She grabbed the water pail and dipped down in the well for some water.
Edith gripped the rough wooden handle and heaved it up, her muscles protesting with each step as she made her way back to the cabin.
Inside, the fire had nearly died again. She set the pail down and threw more wood onto the small blaze, hoping it would catch quickly. There wasn’t much firewood left, and she would have to chop more before the morning was out.
Her eyes flicked to the bed in the corner, where her father lay sprawled beneath the thin quilt, snoring loudly.
He had stumbled in late last night, reeking of whiskey, his boots caked in mud.
Edith had stayed up to wait for him, just as she always did, knowing that if the fire wasn’t lit or the food wasn’t ready, there’d be more than just yelling to endure.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep the warmth in.
She was glad for the warm oatmeal today despite having nothing to sweeten it with.
There was barely anything left in the cupboards—just a few dried beans and a scrap of salted pork from last week.
She would need to visit Mrs. Taylor, the grocer’s wife, later in town, if only to beg for the leftovers she sometimes gave away.
Edith spooned the porridge into bowls, hoping her father wouldn’t notice how bland it was as long as it was hot and filling.
As if on cue, he stirred in his bed, groaning as he rolled over. His eyes cracked open, bleary and bloodshot. Edith held her breath as he slowly sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Edith!” he barked, his voice rough with sleep and the remnants of last night’s drink. “Where’s my breakfast?”
“I... I’ve made some porridge, Pa,” she stammered, stepping back as he lumbered toward the table.
He slumped into the chair and grabbed a bowl, his brow furrowing as he looked down. “This? This is what ya call breakfast?” he growled, throwing the spoon down with a clatter. “Ya shiftless wench! Ya expect me to live on this slop?”
Edith shrank back, her heart racing. “I’m sorry, Pa. It’s all we have left. I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he snapped, standing up so quickly that the chair scraped into the dirt floor. “Ya’ll fix this?” He waved a hand at the meager spread on the table, his face twisting in disgust. “Ya haven’t done a decent thing in your life. Not since your ma died and left ya with me.”
Her throat tightened, but she held her tongue. There was nothing she could say to him, not when he was like this. Not ever.
Her father shook his head, his gaze cold as he picked up the spoon and tried a scoop of oatmeal, some of it dripping down his chin. He made a face and spat it out on the floor. “I’m headin’ into town,” he muttered. “I don’t want to see your face if this place ain’t spotless.”
Without another word, he grabbed his coat and stormed out, the door slamming behind him. Edith stood frozen for a moment, her hands trembling at her sides. She had long since grown used to his outbursts, but it didn’t make them any easier to bear.
Her eighteenth birthday had started like any other day, though a part of her had clung to the hope that it might be different—perhaps a kind word, maybe even a small smile. But she should have known better. Birthdays meant nothing to her father, not hers anyway.
“Happy birthday, Edith,” she whispered to herself as she sat down at the table with her bowl of porridge. The words felt hollow, even in the silence of the cabin. There was no one to hear them.
After she had eaten, cleaned, and put away the dishes, she grabbed the water pail and headed out into the cold again.
The sky was still pale, the sun just a hint of gold above the treetops, casting long shadows on the ground. Edith liked this time of day before the world fully awoke. The quiet made the endless work easier to bear.
After she set the full pail down near the kitchen, she stepped back outside, the worn axe leaning against the side of the cabin catching her eye. The woodpile was nearly gone, just a few logs left from last week’s chopping.
Chopping wood had never gotten easy for her, but there was no one else to do it. Edith had been doing it since she was strong enough to lift the axe, her father preferring the warmth of the saloon to the effort of keeping their home livable.
She raised the axe, swinging it down with all the strength she could muster. The blade sunk into the log with a dull thud, splitting it unevenly. Her arms already burned with the effort, but she reset the axe and swung again, her breath coming in hard puffs.
By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, she had chopped enough wood to last through the next few days.
Her arms shook as she stacked the logs by the door, so she headed inside to rest for a moment.
Yet, the cabin felt stifling, even in the cold air, her father’s anger hanging over her like a cloud.
Needing to escape, she wiped her hands on her apron and entered the forest, toward the only place that brought her any peace.
The path was familiar, worn by her many walks through the trees, and it wasn’t long before she reached her favorite spot—a large oak tree at the edge of the clearing.
The branches swayed gently in the breeze, the only sound besides the crunch of snow beneath her boots.
Edith sat on the cold ground, leaning back against the rough bark.
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and reached into her pocket, pulling out the small, worn Bible she had carried for years.
She ran her fingers over the leather cover, its edges frayed and weathered from years of use.
She couldn’t read the words inside, but the Bible brought her comfort nonetheless.
It was a reminder that somewhere, someone cared, even if she had never met them.
The stranger who had left it on her porch all those years ago had given her something she couldn’t quite name—a sliver of hope, perhaps.
The wind whispered through the branches, and Edith closed her eyes, letting herself imagine for a moment that her life was different. That she was free of her father’s cruelty, free to live her own life, to make her own choices.
But those were just dreams. Reality was harder. Colder.
With a sigh, she tucked the Bible back into her pocket and stood, brushing the snow from her skirts. She couldn’t afford to waste too much time out here—there was laundry to do, more firewood to bring in, and she still needed to visit Mrs. Taylor to ask about supplies.
Once back at the cabin, she gathered up the laundry, her father’s clothes reeking of alcohol and unwashed skin. Picking up a handkerchief her father had thrown on the dresser, she noticed a slip of paper underneath the edge of the dresser.
It was a newspaper clipping, yellowed and worn, with a small drawing of a young woman in the corner. The headline was bold, but the words were a mystery to Edith. She turned the paper over, hoping for some clue as to its meaning, but there was nothing.
She tucked the clipping back under the dresser, a slight tremor running through her as she straightened up. Whatever it was, she didn’t want her father to find it. He would blame her for it, as he did for everything else.
By the time night fell, the cabin was clean, the hearth swept, and the meager dinner prepared.
Edith sat at the table, mending one of her father’s shirts, staring into the fire as the shadows danced on the walls.
Her father would be back soon. She could already feel the tension creeping back into her shoulders, the same heaviness that came with his presence.
When the door finally banged open, Edith didn’t flinch, though her heart leaped in her chest. Her father’s heavy boots clomped across the floor, leaving streaks of mud in their wake.
The smell of whiskey and sweat filled the cabin as he slammed the door behind him, the impact rattling the thin walls.
“Did you clean this place like I said?” he barked, his voice thick with drink.
“Yes, Pa,” Edith replied, keeping her head down as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Get your coat,” he muttered, not even looking at her.
Edith blinked, startled. “What?”
“I said, get your coat,” he repeated, his voice growing louder. “We’re going to town.”
Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t expected this. “Why? It’s late, Pa. I—”
“Ya know better than to question me,” he growled, struggling to sit up. “Get your coat before I have ya get a switch. Now.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Edith nodded and hurried to fetch her worn shawl from the hook by the door. The evening was darkening quickly, and the air had grown colder. Why would he want to go back into town at this hour, when clearly he had already drunkenly stumbled back home?
Her hands trembled as she pulled the shawl around her shoulders and tied it under her chin. She knew better than to ask too many questions when he was in this kind of mood. His anger was a constant shadow, always ready to erupt, and she had learned long ago how to tread carefully around it.
As soon as her coat was secured, her father grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her toward the door.
Edith bit her lip, trying to stifle a gasp at the force of his grip.
His hand was calloused and harsh, the fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her outside.
The freezing night air stung her face as they stepped onto the porch, and her boots crunched against the thin layer of snow on the ground.