Chapter Two
Weatherford, Texas
The final bell rang from the little whitewashed schoolhouse, sending a cluster of children spilling onto the dusty yard.
Their voices rose into the warm afternoon air as they hurried toward waiting wagons, horses, and parents.
The scent of sunbaked earth drifted across the school grounds, mingling with the faint smell of chalk dust that still clung to the open doorway.
Henry Foster stood beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree near the road, his hat pulled low against the glare.
The August heat had settled heavily over Weatherford, pressing down on the town with a relentless weight.
Not a cloud marked the broad Texas sky overhead.
Even the wind seemed to have abandoned the countryside.
A breeze blew, pulling at the brim of his hat. A pair of mockingbirds argued noisily from the fence line while flies buzzed lazily around the hitching rail. Children streamed past him.
Then, he spotted Lola emerging from the schoolhouse carrying a reader and slate tucked against her chest. Henry’s throat tightened unexpectedly. Every time he looked at her, he saw his twin sister, Samantha. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.
Lola had inherited her mother’s dark chestnut hair, which Mrs. Jenkins, the schoolteacher, had braided neatly that morning and tied with a faded blue ribbon.
Wisps had already escaped in the afternoon heat, curling around her temples and ears.
Her eyes were Samantha’s, too—large, dark brown, and thoughtful, often carrying a seriousness that seemed too old for a child of six.
She was a slender little thing, all long legs and narrow shoulders, with sun-browned skin from hours spent outdoors.
Her dress, though clean and carefully mended, had been let down twice in the past year to accommodate another growth spurt.
Samantha had been tall for a woman, and it appeared her daughter intended to follow in her footsteps.
Even the way Lola moved reminded him of his sister. There was a quiet determination about her, a self-sufficiency that seemed at odds with her age. She rarely complained. Rarely cried. She simply endured whatever came her way with a solemn dignity that broke Henry’s heart.
Sometimes, she would tilt her head while listening, exactly as Samantha used to. Other times, she would wrinkle her nose when concentrating or press her lips together when trying to solve a problem. They were small things—tiny mannerisms that no one else would likely notice.
Henry noticed every one of them. The similarities should have been comforting.
Instead, they often felt like fresh reminders of everything he had lost. For a fleeting moment, as Lola stepped down from the schoolhouse porch and turned toward him, he could almost imagine Samantha crossing the yard instead, smiling as she always had when she saw him.
Henry forced the thought away and the child approached.
“Hello, Uncle Henry,” she said flatly.
“Hello, Lola.”
She offered a small smile before falling into step beside him. Together, they started down the road leading out of town.
Weatherford was growing steadily these days.
The railroad had brought new settlers, new businesses, and fresh opportunity.
Wagons rattled along the main street, carrying supplies from Fort Worth.
Merchants swept the recently installed wooden sidewalks outside their storefronts.
The blacksmith’s hammer rang steadily from his forge, and the smell of coal smoke drifted across the town square.
As Henry and Lola passed the general store, Mrs. Bennett waved from her porch. Lola waved back and Henry tipped his hat.
Soon, the businesses began to thin, giving way to scattered homes and open pastureland. The sounds of town faded behind them until only the distant lowing of cattle and the chirping of cicadas remained.
The road stretched ahead in a ribbon of pale dust. Dry grass rippled across the prairie on either side and Mesquite trees dotted the landscape, their twisted branches casting patches of precious shade upon the parched ground.
For a long while, they walked without speaking. Henry searched for something to say and he knew that it shouldn’t have been so difficult. Yet every conversation with Lola felt awkward, somehow. He never knew what to say, because the truth was that he didn’t know her.
When he had left Texas to join the Confederate cavalry in 1863, Lola had been little more than a baby.
He’d spent nearly two years riding through Arkansas and Louisiana, sleeping beneath the stars and enduring hunger, exhaustion, and battle.
Like many soldiers returning home after the war, he had expected hardship, but he had not expected devastation.
He could still remember the ride home. The certainty that the worst was behind him and then arriving to find the ranch damaged, the house looted, and his sister and her husband buried on the hill overlooking the property. Some days, the memory remained as sharp as the day he’d learned the truth.
Beside him, Lola scuffed the toe of her boot against a stone and the gesture was so familiar it made his chest ache. Samantha used to do the exact same thing whenever she was deep in thought.
Henry glanced away toward the horizon where the late-afternoon sun gilded the distant grasslands. A hawk circled lazily overhead, riding a current of warm air. Somewhere beyond a stand of cottonwoods, cattle lowed.
“How was school?” he finally asked.
Lola looked up, appearing mildly surprised by the question. “It was good,” she said without elaborating.
“What did you learn?”
“We practiced arithmetic.”
Henry nodded. “That’s useful.”
The conversation faltered almost immediately, but Lola didn’t seem bothered by the silence. Henry certainly was.
He wished he knew how to bridge the distance between them. The trouble was, every time he tried, he found himself staring into Samantha’s eyes and grief had a way of silencing even the simplest words.
As they rounded a bend in the road, a familiar figure appeared ahead.
Pastor Luke Carter was making his way toward town on foot, a Bible tucked beneath one arm and a weathered black hat resting atop his silver hair.
Age had curved his shoulders, but the old preacher still possessed the steady gait of a man accustomed to walking long distances.
His face was lined from years beneath the Texas sun, and kindness seemed permanently etched into the corners of his eyes.
The pastor spotted them immediately and lifted a hand in greeting. “Henry! Lola!”
Lola brightened at once. “Hello, Pastor Luke.”
The old man’s face broke into a smile. “Well now, aren’t you growing taller every week?”
Lola giggled softly. Pastor Luke’s weathered face brightened at the sound. “There, now,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s a pleasant sound. We don’t hear enough laughter in this world.”
Lola ducked her head shyly and hugged her schoolbooks a little tighter. The old pastor smiled at her for another moment before turning his attention toward Henry and although the smile remained, concern settled into his expression.
Henry recognized it immediately. After all, Pastor Luke had been looking at him that way for the better part of two years.
“How are things at the ranch?” the pastor asked.
Henry shifted his hat back. “Keeping busy.”
The pastor folded his hands over the top of his Bible. “We have missed seeing you both in church.”
Weatherford church sat near the center of town, a simple white building with a steeple visible from nearly every direction. On Sunday mornings, its bell carried across the countryside, calling families to worship.
Henry heard it every week. Every week, he ignored it. “We’ve been busy,” he said. The excuse sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Pastor Luke regarded him. “I am sure,” he agreed. “But remember, as the Bible tells us, ‘By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.’”
A wagon creaked past on the road behind them. Somewhere in the distance, a meadowlark sang from a fence post. Henry looked away toward the horizon.
The old pastor’s voice softened. “Your seat is still there, son.”
Henry swallowed, the familiar irritation rising inside him because the man’s kindness only made it harder. “I know.”
The pastor’s blue eyes held his. “Do you?” he asked. “Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve convinced yourself there’s no place for you there anymore.”
Henry’s jaw tightened as the words struck closer than he liked. “I didn’t say that.”
For a moment, neither spoke as the warm breeze stirred the grass along the roadside. Then, the pastor looked at Lola again. “Sunday school starts a new lesson next week.”
The little girl’s eyes brightened.
“We do Bible stories and crafts. And singing.”
Lola’s smile grew and the sight stirred an uncomfortable feeling inside Henry’s stomach.
Pastor Luke looked back at Henry. “There’ll be several children her age,” he said.
“So even if you find yourself too busy to attend, perhaps you will consider sending the child?” The pastor’s gaze softened.
“After all, children need community,” he continued. “ And they need faith, too.”
Henry stared at the dust under his boots. Faith. There had been a time when that word brought comfort. A time when church had felt like home and when he had believed God watched over families.
Then he had come home from the war and Samantha had been gone. The questions that followed had never found answers, only silence.
Pastor Luke seemed to sense where his thoughts had gone. He sighed quietly. “I know you’re hurting. Grief has a way of making us withdraw from the things that are truly important in this life.” The breeze lifted the edge of his coat. “But turning away doesn’t lessen the burden.”