ONE
Whitcomb Homestead, Leadville, Colorado – Spring 1880
laire wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The bread dough was ready to go into the belly of the Beast—the cast iron stove she and her husband, Josiah had carted all those perilous miles to their new home in Colorado.
She was glad they’d brought it with them—glad for the warmth from the wood fire, especially in the winter, and for the comforting, steadfast way the Beast always turned out perfectly golden loaves of bread.
If she was truthful, she was glad to have that last, tenuous connection to their home and family back east. When Josiah had come home that day and announced his intention to move their family to the newly formed state of Colorado, Claire had balked. Their third child, Amy, was barely out of diapers, and the other two were happy with their schooling and friends. Claire herself was not opposed to change but was fiercely protective of her children and disliked disrupting their lives. The one argument she thought would win, that the area where he wanted to settle was dangerous and rife with heathen savages, didn’t have the impact she thought it might. Her husband waved off her fears as overwrought gossip. Eventually, Josiah had worn her down with tales of striking it rich in the silver mines, and she relented.
The trip out West had been fraught with danger, although in comparison to other pioneering families she’d talked to, not nearly as tragic—they hadn’t lost any lives, thankfully. Rattlesnakes, broken axles, heavy downpours—all normal events in a move west. Because of Claire’s contacts where they lived in Philadelphia and her attention to detail, the family had been prepared for as many eventualities as she could think of, which meant they didn’t go hungry or cold.
She’d just popped the loaves into the Beast when she heard Josiah yell a warning at the children. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the kitchen window to see what he was upset about. Probably some childish insurrection, which normally he’d redirect in a calm and rational matter.
She spotted Josiah first, standing stock-still with a look on his face that sent chills careening down her spine. Heart in her throat, Claire checked the front yard, searching feverishly for her children. Eight-year-old Nathan stood alone near the old pine, his eyes wide with fright. There was no trace of the two girls.
A bloodcurdling scream, the likes of which she’d never heard, erupted outside. Fear filled her and she raced for the Winchester rifle kept by the entrance.
She threw open the door and emerged onto the porch. Josiah turned to her, his mouth open to speak. From her right, the crack of a rifle split the air, the bullet ripping through his skull before he could utter a word.
Shock spiraled through her as her husband crumpled to the earth. Heart in her throat, she dove behind the metal horse trough they used for laundering and scrambled to the far end for a better view. Several yards away, an Indian wearing a blood red vest and leather breeches sat astride his horse, reloading his weapon. She brought up the rifle, sighted on the man, and squeezed the trigger.
Too nervous, she missed. She rammed the lever down, seating another cartridge into the chamber, and aimed again.
But he was already on the move, headed for the old pine.
Nathan.
“Nathan! Run!” She pivoted toward her son and aimed the rifle at a second Indian also bearing down upon her first-born.
Time slowed to a crawl. She took a deep breath, let it go, and fired. The bullet tore through the man’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow him down.
Already at a full gallop and holding his rifle high, the marauder bore down on Nathan. He swung his arm in an arc and smashed the stock against her child’s head. Nathan tumbled to the ground and didn’t move.
Claire shook with horror as she levered another cartridge into the chamber and fired, barely registering the acrid smell of gunpowder. She hit her son’s attacker a second time. He fell from his mount, a pile of death on the ground. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she worked the lever again, hoping to hit the other man next. He came straight for her, howling unintelligibly, eyes snapping with rage. She steeled herself, and a calm descended over her. She raised the barrel, sighted him in, and squeezed the trigger.
At the last minute he reined his horse left, and the bullet went wide. She seated another cartridge and fired again, this time following his trajectory.
Somehow, she missed again.
Something whizzed over her head, and she craned her neck to see what it was. A flaming arrow had lodged in the roof. Tinder-dry from lack of rain, the fire would find willing fuel in the wooden shakes.
Claire glanced past her hiding place to see a third Indian let loose another fiery arrow. This one slammed into a different section of roof. She brought up the rifle and aimed again. At that moment, their eyes met. The coldness she found in their depths spilled ice through her veins.
She fired.
Another arrow.
By now, the roof was ablaze, flames crackling and licking hungrily at the bone-dry shakes. Keeping their distance from Claire, the two remaining attackers started for their fallen comrade. Rage overcame her fear and any sense she might have left. She climbed to her feet and strode down the steps, intending to destroy the men who had taken two of her family from her—shattering the fabric of her new life.
The first marauder turned as she raised her rifle and fired. The bullet hit the tree branch next to him. He said something to the other and fired back.
The round kicked up a fountain of dirt near her, but she kept walking. She ignored the ping of spent brass on gravel as she fired round after round after round. Gun smoke hung thick in the air.
The man shot at her once more, but he either intentionally missed or his gun misfired. He barked something at the second man, who had dismounted and was struggling with the dead attacker. The second man let the third fall back to the dirt, mounted his horse, and the two thundered off.
She stopped and took a breath.
Where were her daughters?
The thought tore through her grief like sunlight on an overcast day.
“Laura? Amy?” Her voice echoed through the trees, the wind taking their names to the valley below. “It’s all right. You can come out now,” she called.
Even though it wasn’t all right.
There was no answer.
Dread settling in the pit of her stomach, she made her way to the shed, unsure what she’d find, or if she even wanted to find it.
Her girls weren’t hiding there, nor were they behind it, concealed by the long, fresh grass of spring. She took another deep breath, a kind of relief flowing through her, and turned to go to Nathan. The girls were fine. They had to be. They knew enough to hide at the sound of gunfire.
They’d return soon.
Something next to the well caught her eye. She walked over to the hand pump. A moment of mild annoyance skated through her, as she wondered who had left out the mound of laundry.
It wasn’t laundry.
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