August 1890 Colorado Springs, Colorado

“Here, love, have another glass of milk.” Mary Agnes hands Tom a tall glass. “The sisters say it’s the best thing for you.”

Tom sits in a reclining chair at St. Francis Hospital, third in a long line of men who sit along the open-windowed west wall facing the sun.

Mary Agnes knew it was inevitable, from the first day. She had hoped against hope, but when Tom awoke one morning covered with blood, they both knew. He would have to go to the sanitarium.

In addition to other tubercular patients, the wards are filled with injured railroad workers from the Midland; Denver and Rio Grande; Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe; and Chicago-Rock Island lines.

“So many accidents,” Sister Mary Hermana confided to Mary Agnes when Tom was admitted. “And so many more with the great white plague.”

“Do you think—”

“I do not think, Mrs. Halligan. I do. That is my calling.”

“What I mean to ask is, do patients ever recover? From consumption?”

“There is always the possibility of a miracle. In the meantime, I have written to the diocese in Indiana for more help. We are only five of us here now.”

Today, Tom is dressed in the same trousers, shirt, and vest he wore to The Antlers, with his bowler in his lap. His white cot sits across the wide walkway, made with crisp white sheets and two folded grey blankets at the foot of the bed.

Mary Agnes wipes his forehead. “You’re so cold.”

He shakes his head and shivers. “Am I?”

She takes one of the blankets from the end of Tom’s cot and drapes it over his shoulders. “Better?”

He smiles wanly. “Everything’s better when you’re in the room. The sisters can’t leave me alone. Milk at six. Sponge bath at seven. Raw eggs and rare beef at eight. And more milk at nine. I can’t wait for you to get here.” He checks his watch. “And we have exactly how long?”

“Ten minutes. But I’ll be back tonight.”

“It’s a long walk up the hill for a ten-minute visit.”

“Never too long to see you.” She kisses his forehead.

That evening, Tom is already dozing in his cot when she arrives. It is only 6:45 p.m., a full three-quarters of an hour before lights out. She sits by his bed and waits for him to stir.

A young nun walks the length of the walkway carrying a tray of milk glasses. She stops at his cot. “Mr. Halligan!”

“Again?” he asks, opening his eyes.

She smiles. “It is time,” she says in a thick German accent as she hands him the tall glass.

“Thank you, Sister—”

Mary Agnes has not seen this young nun before. It is sure to be Mary, though, like Sister Mary Notberga, Sister Mary Kunigunda, Sister Mary Silveria . . .

“Mary Roberta, ma’am.”

Ma’am? We are likely the same age.

“From Indiana?” Mary Agnes asks. “Like the others?”

“Yes, from St. Francis of Perpetual Adoration. And from Germany before that.”

Mary Agnes nods her thanks. She thinks of what Helen said, that Germans are taking over Chicago. They are in charge here, she thinks, and she is glad of it.

Tom takes a sip and shivers again. “How is Tilly? Pieter? The rest of—?”

“They send their best.”

“Tell them I’ll be back before you know it.” He starts a bout of coughing.

Mary Agnes knows there will be no “before you know it.” Tom has wasted away to bone and skin, cheeks gaunt and ribs showing. He coughs incessantly, and his handkerchief is bloodied. He must know it, too. Soon he will have to move to one of the ranch tents on the outskirts of the property. Marriage is a long lane with no turning, her Gram used to say. We’re at a sharp turn here, she thinks. Is it the last?

“I—” Mary Agnes falters.

“Shush now, Mary A.” He finishes the milk and hands her the glass. “There’s something we need to discuss . . .”

“Please, don’t, Tom.”

“I’d like to be buried here, in Colorado Springs.”

Mary Agnes looks down. This is not the conversation she wants to be having, not now, not ever. She is only yet seventeen. “Not Chicago?”

“No,” he says, waving his arm toward the west, Pike’s Peak in full view at sunset. “I want to have a view like this for eternity.”

Eternity. The verse that springs to mind, drilled into her since her catechism: And this is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life. What does Mary Agnes know about eternity, other than it is forever? How unfair! We will never have a proper home or family or long life together, not in this world anyway. It is hard not to begrudge it, in a long list of things to begrudge.

After Tom nods off again, Mary Agnes tucks the blanket around him and scurries down the hill at dusk. She walks north on North Wasatch toward the boardinghouse, it’s faster this way. Back at Tilly’s, she fits her key in the front door lock and closes the door softly behind her. Thank goodness the verbose university professor has retired for the night. She is not in any mood for conversation and she wants to get a letter off to Helen in tomorrow’s post.

When she reaches her door on the second floor, she sees a shadow. Mr. French is at once beside her, his breath thick with beer.

“How is Mrs. Halligan tonight?”

Mary Agnes bristles. “Well, thank you.” She fumbles with her key. Please please please.

“Here, allow me,” Mr. French says. He wrests the key from Mary Agnes.

“I’m obliged, Mr. French.” Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. He opens the door and she hurries in, pushing it closed behind her and breathing a sigh of deep relief. Blessed art thou amongst women—

Mr. French circles her waist from behind.

“How?!” Was his foot wedged on the threshold? “Please, Mr. French.” She tries to pull away. Please, Jesus Mary and Joseph.

“Please, you say? I am happy to oblige you.” He pushes Mary Agnes against the now-closed door.

“Mr. French!” She raises her voice.

“Shh, der leibling.” He bends to kiss her. “You must be very lonely, a beautiful woman on her own.”

Mary Agnes raises her hand and slaps Mr. French on the cheek. This only heightens his ardor. She feels him harden against her.

“I will scream if you don’t leave this instant.” She stamps on his foot with her boot.

“Little hussy.” He pulls off his tie and in a swift movement circles her head with it, gagging her. She tries to scream but it is muffled. No one will hear at this hour. The Smith sisters retire just after supper and Miss Huizenga is gone for the school holiday. She kicks at his shins and beats at his arms.

“I haven’t come to hurt you, der leibling. I just want to gaze upon you. You have bewitched me since you first arrived. Since you do not return my intentions, I will not force myself upon you.”

Thank you, Jesus Mary and Joseph. Mary Agnes lets out a deep breath.

“I only ask you to undress.”

Mary Agnes pales and doesn’t move.

“If you will not do so yourself, I am happy to assist you.”

Mary Agnes realizes in a swift moment she has two choices, fight and be hurt—or worse, maybe strangled—or give in and only be shamed. No one needs to know. She can do this. As long as he doesn’t touch me. She fingers the top button on her blouse.

“Go on.”

With fingers trembling, she slowly unbuttons her blouse and lets it slip to the floor. Forgive me, Father.

“Ah, that’s a good girl.” Mr. French pulls up a chair and sits. He crosses his legs and strokes his moustache.

She hesitates before unbuttoning her chemise. Soon she will be naked in front of a man she loathes. Can’t he see enough? Her face is warm and she fights back tears. It can’t be as bad as the night with Fiach, she tells herself. At least, he won’t touch me.

He motions for her to remove the chemise.

Mary Agnes removes the garment and quickly covers her breasts with her arms. What would Tom think? He would bash Mr. French’s head in with a hammer, if he could.

Mr. French rises from the chair.

She snarls through the gag as he reaches for her. “No,” she seethes.

“I am only going to look.”

“Then sit.” Mary Agnes waits until he is back in the chair and lowers her arms. Her nipples harden in the night air.

“Ah, lovely.” He nods his head. “Take down your hair.”

This, too? She reaches above her head and removes her hair pins. Long auburn hair falls over her shoulders and breasts. She thinks to untie the gag and scream now but then it would bring attention to her nakedness. That she cannot do.

He sighs. “And now the skirt.”

Mary Agnes hesitates, but when he rises from the chair again, she fends him off with arms in front of her. “I will do it,” she says. “Sit.” Her eyes are like darts. She loosens the skirt and it puddles to the floor. She is now in only stockings and boots, her neck, torso, and dark pubic hair completely exposed.

Mr. French smiles and rocks back in forth in the chair, his hand at his crotch.

To her horror, Mary Agnes realizes he is pleasuring himself. He doesn’t take his eyes from her, but she refuses to meet his gaze, focusing on the window beyond instead.

Time is suspended, then, as if she is not really in the room, she is somewhere else, anywhere else, away from Mr. French. Her mind rattles off a prayer she learned in catechism: Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided . . .

In less than a minute, Mr. French groans, sits back, and yawns, his hands stretched high above his head.

Mary Agnes exhales and glares at the man sitting in front of her, his trousers damp.

He smirks. “That, der leibling, is what I have dreamed about these many nights when you were next door with that invalid husband of yours.”

How dare he! Mary Agnes inches away from Mr. French, her rumpled skirt still puddled at her feet. She unties the gag and spits on the floor. “You will never come to my rooms again,” she says. “Or I will make your life very difficult.”

“I got what I was after,” he says. He is now standing. He brushes against her, his breath sour. “I will see you now every night in my dreams.”

She pushes him away, grabs her robe from a hook next to the door, and covers herself. “Get out.”