Prologue
Cripple Creek, Colorado—1889
Flurries of snow drifted down from the dark and cloudy sky. Whitney Powell shivered and lifted her face to the heavens as she stopped in the middle of the quiet street. Mama would scold her for being out in the wee hours of the morning, but it was her mother’s tears that woke her.
Daddy wasn’t home. Again. Which meant one thing. Whitney wanted to growl out her anger and throw something. Really hard. She’d been old enough to understand what was going on for a couple of years now. No matter how much her parents tried to hide it.
Lifting her chin, she clenched her jaw against the chill in the wind and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. She had to fix Mama’s tears. Havyn and Madysen were too young. So even if she had to drag her good-for-nothin’ father back from the saloon––again––at least he would be home.
She cringed. Good for nothin’? What a horrible thought! What would Mama say? How often had she drilled into her that thoughts were just as important as the words that came out of her mouth? Reminded her that God knew every one of them?
No doubt about it, their mother would be crushed. And she’d be so embarrassed if she found out that her oldest daughter had gone to Saloon Row to haul her father home. More than once.
Mama was the best lady in the world. And the most talented. If only she could stand up for herself. She always saw the good in everyone, believed in them, cheered them on, and recognized what she called their potential.
Why couldn’t she see that people took advantage of her goodwill?
No matter how many times Mama had been hurt, she’d still forgive.
Whitney gritted her teeth. In all her ten years, she’d never met anyone on earth as good as her mama. If only she could be as kind and generous. No matter how much she tried to mimic her mother’s behavior, she couldn’t do it. Mama’s patience and goodness rivaled that of any saint. Granddad said so himself.
“Maybe by the time I’m all grown up I can be like Mama.” Her words puffed from her mouth in the icy air.
For now, as the oldest daughter, it fell to her to take care of their mother when their father wasn’t capable of doing it. She’d gone to get him four times now. Four. She’d had to scrape up all her courage to go to the saloons that first time, but she’d done it. Because she loved her Mama and couldn’t watch her suffer and worry.
She shook her head and continued walking toward Saloon Row. The still of the evening was disrupted by sounds of the establishments ahead. The noise crescendoed with every few steps.
How many more times would she have to do this? How long before someone found out? She’d thought about asking Granddad for help. Other than her sisters, he was her best friend. But he already didn’t think too well of Daddy. . . .
The wind bit at her face while the scent of logs burning in stoves filled her nose.
Music from the saloons drifted toward her, and she flinched. It was nothing like the beautiful music they played and sang at home. This was harsh, raucous, and out of tune. How could people even stand it? It hurt her ears. The closer she got, the more she hated the sound, the noise, the smells. Oh, to curl up in her bed like her younger sisters and go to sleep as if she didn’t have the weight of the world on her shoulders. All because Daddy couldn’t control himself.
Two men wobbled down the street toward her, then one of them doubled over and got sick in the middle of the road. She covered her face with her scarf and stepped several paces around them. Why did they do that to themselves? Disgusting.
Picking up her stride, she kept her chin down. There were things here that she didn’t want to see.
Not again.
Questions peppered her brain. She wouldn’t allow them entry. Best to think about music. Mama. Havyn and Madysen.
Wait a minute . . . the hairs on the back of her neck prickled and a shiver raced up her spine. A lump in the street—no, not a lump. A man.
For a moment, she couldn’t take another step. Could barely breathe. No. Please. That scrawny heap couldn’t be her father. But . . . the blue coat.
She’d recognize the coat anywhere. Mama made it for him last Christmas.
With a deep breath, she moved forward. At least she could be thankful he wasn’t inside one of the saloons. She hated going in them. The adults always tried to shoo her out, but her presence made it easier to get her dad out the door. No one wanted a little girl inside.
The closer her feet brought her to the telltale form, the more she wanted to run away. But then she was standing beside him. Daddy wasn’t moving. Was he even breathing?
She knelt down beside him and poked at his shoulder. Hard.
Nothing happened.
When she touched his face, it was cold. Her stomach revolted and her heart sank.
Oh, Daddy . . .
Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. A sharp clenching in her chest made her gasp for air. She fought the tears that threatened to flood her eyes and race down her face. He wouldn’t leave them . . . would he?
As much as she detested his actions, he was still her daddy.
She leaned her ear close to his face. He stunk. It made her stomach turn again.
She couldn’t hear any breath.
She poked him again. Harder. And again. Even harder.
“Daddy?” She shook him with all she had.
No response.
She touched his face again. Cold. But it was snowing outside, and the temperature was frigid. Maybe he was passed out. He did that at home all the time lately.
Sitting down beside him, she shook him and poked him. Over and over. If he was dead . . . what would they do? Mama and Havyn and Madysen would cry. So would she.
What would become of them?
The few wonderful memories she had with her dad began to play in her mind. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. Playing outside in the snow. Him chasing her around the house until she crumpled on the floor, giggling.
She shoved him again. “Wake up! Havyn and Maddy need some good memories too.” With her other hand, she swiped at her hair.
If he was dead . . . she’d never have to come find him again. He’d never come home drunk. Never make Mama cry.
No. He couldn’t get out of his responsibilities that easily. Someone had to take care of them. He’d promised he’d stop. Get cleaned up. Be the husband and father they needed.
A pounding started in her ears as heat rushed to her cheeks. Every ugly thing she’d ever wanted to say to him threatened to spew from her mouth as she pushed and shoved, poked and prodded.
But after several minutes, she slumped down. Not a moan or a sound came from him. Swallowing against the tears, she swiped at her cheeks.
It was no use. He was dead. Gone.
Glancing from side to side, she searched the street. Not a soul around that she knew. No one she could trust to help.
What would she tell Mama? How could she fix this?
The wind howled, and her hair flew in her face again. The strands, wet from the snow, stuck to her nose.
She couldn’t fix this. She couldn’t even get him home. It was one thing to drag her drunken father home when he had use of his legs, but when he was dead weight?
The tears stung her cheeks as they escaped, and the wind threatened to freeze them on her skin. As much as she wanted to be strong, all she wanted now was Granddad. Whenever she couldn’t turn to Mama, he was her rock.