Prologue
Prescott, Arizona
“Scatter the feed, Tommy. Like this. If you drop it in a pile on the ground, the hens can’t share it.”
Nancy Miller Rhodes showed her son how to do it. She pressed his chubby hand into the bucket of cracked corn, folded his fingers into a small fist, and guided his arm in a wide swinging arc.
He smiled and got right on with the job. He was a very smiley child—always had been since he was old enough to look around. She watched him once to make sure he knew what to do before leaving him to feed the chickens on his own.
Tommy was nearly four years old, but he was also a quick study. She wanted to teach him independence during the precious moments when they were alone, when there was no one else around to judge or criticize her son.
She moved to the henhouse and began to collect eggs. Some were warm to the touch and fresher than fresh. Scrambled eggs on bread would be a nice supper for the two of them.
The two of them. If only that were true and permanent.
This was her ranch; the land and house had been bought and paid for with the sweat of her dear departed daddy’s brow.
He’d been a prospector, a man with a good eye for rooting out silver and copper deposits in the hills and mountains around Prescott.
Thomas Miller’s hardscrabble youth had been well spent. He’d established two working mines over the years, back when the Arizona territory was still mostly temporary storefronts and log cabins separated by long miles of dirt tracks.
Marriage, wife, and a daughter—Nancy—followed in due course. Her first memories were hugging her daddy goodbye and watching him ride the mule up the mountain pass to the mines, his water canisters and tin pans clanking together, the jingles fading as he moved further away.
He’d bought a small ranch so that Momma could sell chickens and eggs to the other miners. By the time her momma passed away, she was old enough to look after the livestock and the house on her own.
Tommy shuffled closer and rattled the empty bucket.
“You clever boy! Come and help me with these eggs.”
Daddy had always praised her every step of the way when she was a child, even if she burned the bread or accidentally let the spud water boil away.
“What matters is that you tried, Nan. Let’s see what we can do to salvage this.” That’s what he would always say. Sometimes, he would point to the singed wood sign hanging on the wall that read:
“Bless this Mess.”
The sign was still there, even though her daddy wasn’t.
Praise was still an important part of their daily life. It was her way of bolstering their spirits and keeping strong. Begin the day by praising the Lord and letting words of encouragement lift them up for the rest of it.
Tommy pointed to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and then blinked away the tears.
“My eyes leak whenever I think of your grandpa, Tommy.” She put down the basket of eggs, brushed the straw off, and sat on the coop bench. “Would you like to hear the story of Lucky Tom Miller? You’re about old enough now, I reckon.”
Tommy smiled, which always meant yes.
“All right.” She patted her lap, taking the opportunity to hold her son tight and breathe in his milky scent. He was still such a baby; she wanted to keep him sweet and innocent for as long as she could.
“Your grandpa was called Lucky Tom Miller because he only had to look at a hill or rock for him to know if there was metal underground. He bought this land with all the copper and iron ore he sold. And then he bought the quarry too!”
She sighed. “That’s the funny thing about happy days, Tommy.
You think they’re just ordinary until you have something bad to measure them up against. It was so nice to have my daddy home every day.
We had big plans for the future, the two of us, knowing that my father didn’t have to head off into the hills every morning once he sold the mines and bought the quarry. ”
Tommy lifted his little hand and patted her cheek. It was his way of saying so many things, but only she knew how to translate them.
“One day, a man came to ask a favor of your grandpa. His name was Monty Rhodes, and he was your daddy’s father. He kept striking out and coming up empty whenever he tried prospecting, so he begged Lucky Tom to help him.”
Nancy closed her eyes and breathed. The memory still hurt. Her son seemed to sense this and snuggled closer against her.
“My daddy rode the mule up into the hills to help out a neighbor, but he never rode home again. Monty Rhodes hadn’t constructed the mine tunnel properly. The pit props collapsed, and the two men were buried underneath ten tons of rubble.”
She paused to wipe away the tears, but Tommy tried to do it for her. She kissed him and held him tight. “You’re such an angel.”
Taking his hand, she stood up and walked outside. The hens were scratching around in the dirt, clucking contentedly. If only she could raise her son with nothing more than a hencoop and a handful of corn, life would be so simple.
Tommy pointed to the hills and tugged her skirt.
“Yes. That’s where Grandpa is buried.” Her son guessed how the story ended and would be satisfied with nothing less.
“Monty Rhodes’s son, Calvin, came down from the mine to give me the news.
He took me to the collapsed mine and helped me lay a plaque for both our fathers.
He told me that Lucky Tom had lived long enough to shout his last wish from under the rubble…
my daddy wished for Calvin to marry me…”
Of course, she’d clung to her father’s dying declaration as if it were gospel. “And a couple of years later, you came along, my little chickadee.” It was best that they didn’t dwell on the cold, hard fact that Calvin was her husband now.
It was bad enough that he was her darling Tommy’s father. The only sweet thing Calvin Rhodes had ever done for her since slipping the ring on her finger was to agree to name their son after her daddy.
Six years of marriage, and that was the only nice thing she could remember him doing for her.
She ruffled her son’s hair and cupped her hands around his precious face. “It’s just you and me, kiddo.”
But somehow, saying it didn’t make her son smile.
It was important for a boy to have a daddy, but it stuck in her throat to lie and say that being with Calvin was better than no one at all—because it wasn’t.
Goodness knew who would step up when Tommy grew older and wanted to learn how to hunt and plough, and all those other necessities of ranch life.
Calvin Rhodes had taught their son how to hide quickly and stay silent. That was all.
Tommy opened his mouth when she swung him around in a circle, but no sound of laughter came out. She noticed the sun was dipping in the west. The day was drawing to an end, and they both knew what that meant. The time for laughter and stories was over.
“Uh-oh, time for us to eat supper and get ourselves to bed, Tommy. But we’ve got to put the hens to bed first.” The pullets were housed in the barn, the cockerels were in the shed, and they had their own yards. Only the brood hens were put up in the coop.
Her son knew the routine back to front. He knew to hold the fence gate open while the flock of chickens was lured inside with more corn. Tommy shut it the moment the last chicken was inside the enclosure.
They watched the hens walk up the narrow gangway to the stilted coop, and then Nancy removed the ladder. “Those old coyotes can be as wily as a wolf in sheep’s clothing when they want to be, Tommy, but they won’t be able to reach our hens without a ladder.”
It was her own invention to put the hen coop on stilts and remove the access before bedtime. “I can’t tell you how deep I dug this fence before coming up with that idea, Tommy! But every time, those coyotes managed to tunnel under it.”
There was that little smile again, but this time he gave a small nod too. Tommy looked at her and moved his mouth. She held her breath and waited for his first word, but it never came.
“Never mind, my little chickadee. Let’s try again tomorrow.” She let him carry the basket as they headed back to the house.
Only after the eggs were eaten and Tommy was bathed did she allow herself to worry. It was always the same. It never changed. Calvin Rhodes would stumble through the door, reeking of strong spirits and complaining about every little thing to which he chose to take offense.
There was a time when she would stand by the window and watch the road. The sound of hooves clopping closer, followed by low muttered curses as Calvin just about fell out of the saddle.
“Fed and watered. Washed and brushed. Now, let’s get you to bed, young lad.”
She sang lullabies—All the Pretty Little Horses, Lavender’s Blue, Golden Slumber—and waited for his eyes to flutter closed.
The lamp in the parlor was left burning to light the way home for the man who had asked her to marry him at the lowest point in her life and had then proceeded to make her life miserable.
There was no escape, not when lock, stock, and barrel of Lucky Tom Miller’s farm and quarry were now owned by Calvin.
She spent some time moving around the main house, cleaning and tidying. Household chores had a way of grounding her—something she was raised to do as part of her contribution to the family home. As long as she had Tommy with her, it would always feel like home.
The sound of hooves came from the road, but they weren’t clopping—they were galloping. And more than one horse was coming.
She went out to the porch. The riders were lawmen; she could tell from the way the stars on their vests flashed in the lamplight. The deputy stood back holding the reins while Burt Hackett, the sheriff, hitched his belt and came up the steps. He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest.
“Evening, Mrs. Rhodes. There ain’t no easy way of saying this, but I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms and so I’ll tell you straight. Mr. Rhodes passed away a few short hours ago.”
Her husband of the last six years was gone. For better or for worse. Strange how that statement applied to being a widow as well.
“May God rest his soul in peace. H—how…?” She stopped and shook her head. “Was it a drunken quarrel?”
Sheriff Hackett nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Gunfight outside the saloon. At least, that’s what I was told. There were no witnesses, but…”
But we all know what sort of man Calvin Rhodes was. Belligerent, ornery, and downright mean. That’s what the sheriff wanted to say.
The night silence was broken by the shrill drone of cicadas. She glanced back to where Tommy’s room was and sighed.
“Thank you for coming all the way out here to tell me, Sheriff. Can I offer you gents something to drink before you head on back to town?”
Sheriff Hackett shook his head. “It’s best not, ma’am. We don’t enter the homes of single ladies. You never know whose tongues will wag about gentleman callers and whatnot.”
He stepped off the porch and put his hat back on. “I don’t like the thought of you living here on your own, Mrs. Rhodes. Have you got any folks or kin who can come stay with you?”
“Momma was an orphan, and Daddy came all the way over from New York. It’s just Tommy and me.”
“You might want to think about changing that.” He waited for the deputy to hand him the reins and got busy turning the horses homeward.
Nancy called after him. “We’ll come in tomorrow and sort out the funeral arrangements. Will I need a draft from the bank to pay for something like that? Or will the undertaker accept credit?”
There were so many thoughts shooting around her mind, but she must take care of her husband’s tombstone first.
Sheriff Hackett reined in his horse but didn’t turn. He muttered something under his breath to the deputy, who replied gruffly, “Heck, Sheriff, I ain’t going to be the one to tell her.”
The sheriff gave a huff and dismounted. She was truly alarmed now. What could possibly be worse news than her husband dying?
“About that, Mrs. Rhodes. There’s something you ought to know…”