A patch of wooden crosses sprouted in Calico’s tiny cemetery like a forest of winter trees scrubbed free of leaves. Abigail had never dreamed she’d be standing among them, nursing a hurt so deep it almost crippled her. She lowered her gaze and forced herself to breathe—small, jerking puffs that tore at her raw throat. Beneath her dress, the tips of her worn, leather shoes peeked out, scuffed and covered in dust. She hadn’t had the heart to put on her red boots. They reminded her too much of Papa.
“Is there anything I can do for you, dear?”
Worn out from crying, Abigail found it difficult to answer her friend’s question. She stared in mute silence.
Tears welled in Caroline’s eyes as she stroked Abigail’s arm. “Anything at all?”
Since hearing of Anson’s death, Caroline had fixed herself to Abigail’s side—yet the lonely hole caused by her father’s absence remained. She shook her head.
“All right, then.” Sorrow colored Caroline’s voice. “I’ll see you shortly? I can wait for you at the cabin, if you wish.”
“No, I—that is—” The words faltered and died on her lips. She feared hurting Caroline’s feelings, and yet her spirit craved time alone. She grasped her friend’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”
Caroline moved as though to dismiss her thanks, but Abigail continued swiftly.
“It’s just—when I sort through Papa’s things”—she swallowed and steeled her resolve—“I’d prefer to be alone.”
Instead of the recrimination she’d feared, understanding dawned in Caroline’s eyes. Her friend’s fingers fluttered up to her face, and she nodded. “Of course, dear. How thoughtless of me. But I insist that you let me stop by tomorrow to check on you.”
She waited until Abigail mumbled her agreement before giving her hand a pat and moving away.
Sighing, Abigail returned her gaze to the crude wooden cross marking her father’s grave. Her soul was as scarred as the landscape where it stood. Memories she’d thought buried in the grave of her childhood clawed to the surface—suffocating and painful. Whispers that Anson would never amount to anything and the sly looks at her and Momma’s modest, meager clothing echoed through her brain and rattled her heart. Like Papa, she’d hoped to leave those things behind when they left Virginia for a fresh start in Calico. With effort, she shook free of the painful thoughts and focused on her father’s name.
ANSON JEROME WATTS. Nathan had carved the letters deep and with care, and for that she was grateful. This plot would remain forever memorialized, not windblown and sanded into obscurity like the other markers scattered about the small cemetery.
“It’s a beautiful cross.” Gavin Nichols picked his way toward her, his boots making crunching sounds on the rocky soil.
Abigail pinched her lips shut and cut short a sigh. Well-wishers were to be expected. It was foolish of her to think that she could mourn her loss alone. “Thank you.” The words rasped from her dry throat.
A few feet from the grave site, Gavin swiped his hat from his head and held it clenched in his gloved hands. “Your father was a good man. Hardworking. I’m going to miss him.”
Peeking through her lashes at him, Abigail saw only genuine compassion on his face. So why did she dislike him so? It was unfair of her, when he was making such an obvious effort at kindness. She swallowed her distrust and forced a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your saying so.”
His fingers played along the rim of his hat—round and round. Finally he said, “Do you have everything you need? Is there anything I can do? Are you”—he cleared his throat—“all right by yourself in that cabin?”
Curious, the way his gaze kept darting away from her face, like he had a question weighing on his mind that couldn’t find its way to his mouth. Abigail gripped her shawl tighter. “I’m fine, Mr. Nichols. Thank you for asking.” She half turned, hoping he’d realize she wanted to be alone.
“It’s just…” Instead of moving away, he stepped closer. “Calico is such a rough town, Miss Watts. I hate the idea of you all alone….” He trailed off, the tips of his mustache quivering.
Abigail laid her hand briefly on the rough fabric of his sleeve. He was just being polite, after all. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Nichols. Thank you for your concern.”
He shook his head. “Even so, a young lady such as yourself should have someone to care for her. Someone who can provide for her needs. Someone like…”
Him. The unspoken word hung in the air between them. Anger uncurled like tendrils of smoke in Abigail’s belly. The frontier was a rough place, where harsh conditions demanded split-second decisions, but surely the man didn’t mean to propose right here, while she stood next to her father’s grave? She put up her hand to stop whatever he meant to say next. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nichols. I’ve barely had time to think about anything these last few days. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to face in the days ahead, but now is not the time.”
His head bobbed, faster and faster until she thought his neck would snap. “Of course. My apologies, Miss Watts. It’s only your welfare I was concerned about. There will be plenty of time to talk. Next week, perhaps? When you’re feeling better?”
With every word he uttered, Abigail’s anger burned hotter. Could he actually believe a week was all it would take for her to recuperate from the loss of her father? Fortunately, she was spared an answer she would have regretted later.
“Miss Watts?”
The preacher stepped forward, the compassion in his eyes settling upon her and offering comfort she could not accept. At his side stood a slender Chinese woman. Her face was damp, as though she, too, had been crying.
Gavin clapped his hat onto his head, obviously displeased by the interruption but not inclined to say so. “We’ll talk another time.” He tipped his head to her and the preacher but ignored the Chinese woman completely. A moment later, he skittered down the hilly slope and disappeared out the gate.
Abigail cut her gaze to the preacher. Suddenly her mouth felt as dry as the desert landscape. “Hello, Pastor Burch.” He dipped his head and looked at her expectantly. She fumbled for appropriate words of gratitude. “Um, thank you for the message you shared today. I appreciate your kindness.”
A sad smile crept across his face. “It was more than simple kindness. I meant what I said. Your father loved the Lord and showed it by supporting His church.”
It was true. Papa often prayed for Calico’s fledging congregation. Bitter tears pricked Abigail’s eyes at the memory of her father’s many supplications in front of their fire. His prayers went unanswered despite the countless hours spent on his knees—and so had hers. Though the words rose like gall, she forced them out through tight lips. “Papa did believe in seeking God’s favor for His people.”
Pastor Burch’s eyes widened slightly with surprise. A quick glance passed between him and the Chinese woman before he returned his attention to Abigail. “Oh, it was more than that. He gave to the offering every Sunday. Quite generously, I might add.”
Abigail frowned. How many times had she fretted over the evening meal and scrimped and saved to stretch Papa’s meager earnings to cover the few extravagances they could afford—things like wheat flour and sugar. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Pastor, but you must be mistaken. Papa couldn’t give in the way you are implying.”
Puzzled, he pushed back his flat-brimmed hat and scratched his brow. “I’m quite certain, Abigail. He brought it himself, oftentimes after Sunday service, because he said he didn’t want anyone to know—not that I think he’d mind now. He asked me to use it to see to the needs of the Chinese immigrants and their families. In fact, that’s one reason Soo has asked to speak to you.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “She wanted to express her thanks to the daughter of ‘Mistah Anson,’ as they called him.”
Silent until now, the Chinese woman dipped her head at the mention of her name and grasped Abigail’s hand. “Your fada, very good man.” She pumped Abigail’s palm and repeated the phrase, fresh tears streaming from her eyes.
“Soo owes her baby’s life to your father,” the preacher continued, slipping his arm around Soo’s shoulders. “Anson paid to have the child sent to Los Angeles for treatment against scoliosis a few weeks back. Soo could never have afforded it otherwise, and little Jiao would most likely never have learned to walk.”
Soo’s gaze left the preacher and returned to Abigail. “Very good man,” she whispered.
Emotions deep and varied washed over Abigail. The news should have made her glad. Instead, she felt betrayed. Why hadn’t her father told her? Did he think she would begrudge the sacrifice? Had he not trusted her? She swallowed the resentment rising in her throat and forced a smile. “Thank you, Soo. I appreciate your sharing this with me.”
She paused while Pastor Burch translated. Soo bowed so deep, her head dropped lower than her waist. A moment later, she said good-bye then scurried toward a handful of Chinese who ushered her back toward town. Still, Soo kept her eyes trained on Abigail until they disappeared from sight.
Abigail rubbed her temple. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t Papa ever tell me this?”
“It wasn’t his way,” Pastor Burch said as he placed a light touch on her shoulder. “Anson didn’t need men to praise his generosity. He knew that his reward was in heaven with his Father. He’s there now, surrounded by angels and claiming his crown.”
Pain twisted inside Abigail’s chest. What would Papa do with a crown? He’d never owned anything more than a beat-up cowboy hat. She shook her head. It made no sense that God would take her father now, especially if what the Chinese woman said was true—and when Abigail herself needed him so much.
The silence stretched uncomfortably thin. Finally Pastor Burch said, “Well, I guess I’d best take my leave. If there’s anything I can do, you need but ask.”
Though she struggled to process a proper thank-you, the words refused to come. He gave one last compassionate smile and then descended the gentle slope with the other mourners—a few sympathetic miners and their families, people whom her father had befriended.
When all had gone, Abigail turned back to view her father’s sandy grave. To think, his final resting place was a barren, hostile desert, not alongside his wife in a fertile, green oasis back home in Virginia—the way he and his daughter had imagined.
The chilly day held a sharpness that warned of cooling temperatures, but overhead a cheerful sun burned her scalp, even through her bonnet. A rush of anger heated the blood in her veins. Why couldn’t it be dark and rainy? Why couldn’t the sky grieve with her over her father’s loss rather than cast the sun’s cheerful rays across the hillside?
Her heart felt pulverized—like the dust that came from the ore the miners pulled from the Silver King, stamped and mulled until only powder remained. Hands trembling, she studied the cross marking her father’s grave then reached out to trace the letters of his name.
“Papa.”
Though she whispered, his name blistered her lips with regret. Where was God in all this? Had He deserted her along with her father? Unbridled agony swept up from the depths of her spirit and sapped the strength from her limbs. She’d never hear her papa’s voice again, or bask in the warmth of his smile. Never again would she rest in the safety of his loving arms….
Just as quickly as the painful thought came, two strong arms did encircle her, saving her from falling into a heap on the ground. She looked up into a pair of dark eyes shadowed with sorrow.
“Nathan?”
“I’ve got you,” he said, sweeping her up into his arms. He carried her down the hill toward the cemetery gate, where his daughter waited, her blue eyes wide and filled with fear.
Lizzie pushed open the gate to let them pass then tugged at one of her braids with both hands. “Pa?”
“It’ll be all right, sweetheart. Miss Abigail just needs to rest. Help me, now. We need to get her home.”
Abigail wanted to protest, to demand that Nathan put her down and allow her to linger at the grave site, but the words wouldn’t come and weariness made her head heavy. Last night had come and gone without sleep. If only she could let his concern ease the weight of her burdens, perhaps she could face the troubles ahead. But was that fair?
She struggled to lift her chin. “I can walk—”
His hold tightened as he looked down at her, but his steps did not slow. “Bosh. I’ll have you home in no time.”
Home? Abigail swallowed the bitter lump that rose in her throat. Papa was gone. She had no home now. Only an empty cabin.
As if conjured by her thoughts, the weathered planks of the cabin came into view. Abigail resisted the urge to bury her face in Nathan’s shoulder, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from closing, shutting out the once-comforting sight.
“Here we are, Pa,” Lizzie said, her childish voice subdued. She scurried ahead and threw open the door.
Nathan carried Abigail to her room and gently laid her on the bed, but not before she glimpsed her father’s pallet lying catty-corner on the living room floor. She choked back a sob and hid her face in the covers.
Nathan gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “There now. You’ll be all right once you’ve slept.”
When she didn’t answer, he straightened and moved away.
His voice carried from the doorway. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
She couldn’t remember. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have the strength to worry about filling it. Whether he could see it or not, she shrugged and burrowed deeper into the bed. After a moment, the door closed with a soft click.
Finally.
It was what she’d wanted all day—to be left alone. Bit by trembling bit, she let go of the stranglehold she’d kept on her emotions and let the tears fall. With them came the anger and disappointment she’d been struggling to contain.
“Why, God?” she cried, anguish ripping the question from her heart. “Why did You let my father die? Why!”
She turned her face to the pillow, fearing in the depths of her spirit that she might never have the answers—and that her life, her faith, would never be the same.
Nathan stared at the bedroom door, his heart shredded and bleeding inside his chest. Though muffled, Abigail’s sobs were painful to hear.
“Pa?”
He glanced down at his daughter, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, Lizzie?”
Her gaze skittered hesitantly to the door. “Maybe she needs a pretty.”
Nathan lowered to his haunches until he and his daughter were at the same level. “What makes you think that, sweetheart?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. Against her sun-kissed face, the light freckles scattered across her nose made her appear even more earnest. “You always give me a pretty when I feel bad. Should I look, Pa? Maybe it’ll make her feel better.”
Nathan felt a swell of pride at her compassion and drew Lizzie into a hug. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, sweetheart.” He breathed deep in her hair, using the moment to gather his emotions. Wiping the sheen of tears from his eyes, he cleared his throat. “I’m sure Abigail likes flowers. How ‘bout you look for some, or maybe a shiny stone, while I make her something to eat?”
The sparkle returned to Lizzie’s eyes with her smile. “All right.” She pulled from his arms and skipped to the door.
Nathan stopped her before she slipped outside. “Not too far from the cabin, you hear?”
She nodded and tucked the tip of a neatly twisted braid into her mouth. Abigail had taken the time to fix Lizzie’s hair before the funeral, right after she’d fashioned her own dark hair into a tight knot. Once again, Nathan felt a rush of admiration for Abigail’s selflessness.
“Don’t worry, Pa. I won’t be gone long.” Lizzie waved good-bye, and then her light footsteps skipped over the porch.
Sighing, Nathan wandered into the kitchen to scour the contents of Abigail’s sparse pantry. He found a tin filled with cornmeal, and hanging from a hook near the stove was a side of salted pork.
Good.
Grabbing a brush and a small scoop from a nail, he bent to scrape the ashes out of the stove. Soon he’d have a cook fire going and he’d be able to feed Abigail’s body, though not her spirit. Only time would do that, and only after many months.
“Time,” he repeated firmly to himself. That was what she needed. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking help would come from anything—or anyone—else.
As he reached for the kindling and arranged it into a heap, fresh sorrow tugged at his heart. A part of him wished it wasn’t so. A part of him wished he’d never learned firsthand not to depend upon God.