Chapter One

My world shattered last winter. A hairline crack formed, and my life perched on the edge of an abyss, set to topple at the slightest breeze. But instead of a breeze, I got a whirlwind … in the form of a positive pregnancy test.

Of course, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. But when my world finally ceased its roiling, I barely recognized myself—or my thoughts and feelings—because my new life had become an inverted image of what it was before.

Now I sat on the hood of Velma Pickett’s old, maroon Chevy, waiting for the sunrise, and rubbed my palm across the curve of my stomach. “Don’t worry, little guy. It’s not your fault.” I say little guy because I had the sonogram. Saw the picture. And it figures I’d bring another man into the world. Even though I wanted this child more than I imagined possible, I prayed he wouldn’t be like his daddy. Or mine.

My new rent house perched fifty yards from the edge of the Caprock Escarpment, a chalky, bronze declivity dividing the flat-as-a-board tableland of the Llano Estacado, with the rolling plains hundreds of feet below. I could see for thirty miles, and I drank in the unbroken terrain as it transformed from shadows to sunshine.

And I tried to figure out my life.

I’d been trying for almost eight months, and so far I’d determined three things. I could survive without my parents’ help. My heart wouldn’t break if I never saw Tyler Cruz again. And I could and would make a home for my child.

I shifted on the car hood and peered down at the fading streetlights of my hometown. In a few minutes, the glow of dawn would eclipse the artificial light, and Trapp, Texas, would momentarily disappear. Good riddance.

Already the horizon glowed orange, and I sipped my iced coffee, letting its bitterness relieve the effects of the smothering heat. August had always been a source of pleasure, with its parties and cookouts, but now that I had no central air-conditioning or ceiling fans or swimming pool, fall looked better all the time.

I opened the Bible app on my cell phone and read my new favorite verse. Children are a gift from the Lord. I whispered it into the warm air, reminding myself that even though I hadn’t followed the proper time line; even though I had disgraced my family, my church, and my community; even though this baby had turned my life upside down … my little man was a gift.

It had taken me quite a while to accept that fact. I cried the entire first trimester and threw tantrums during the second, but now that the baby could kick some sense into me, I realized for the first time in twenty-one spoiled-little-rich-girl years, my life would have purpose.

The good Lord—cranky as He was—had gifted me with a mission I hadn’t thought to ask for. Not that He had rewarded my sin. On the contrary, I felt the sting of His punishment daily when people in town greeted me and then discreetly turned away. Last week my only remaining friend, Ruthie Turner, told me I’d get used to all that. But I wasn’t so sure.

The ever-brightening sky continued to pull the sun above the ground, illuminating miles of uneven pastureland and revealing all its browns and greens, which gradually appeared from the blackness. The wind whipped past me, slacking as though an oscillating fan had turned from high to low and causing my hair to hover above my shoulders before falling weightlessly down my back. I breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of cedar and sage, and waited for the sunshine and wind to erase my insecurity.

I shouldn’t have cared what people thought, yet the pious opinions of my parents and a handful of church members chafed my guilt like a new saddle. It didn’t matter if they never spoke the words, gave the looks, cast the blame, because I knew what they were thinking. I knew they expected me to marry Tyler Cruz. I knew they thought a wedding would cover a multitude of sins. I knew, in their eyes, marriage was the only way out of my mess.

I knew it … because I was them.

The sun poised golden above the horizon, seeming to buckle its seat belt before sliding boldly into the sky, but it didn’t lighten my mood. I slid from the hood, turned my back on the rising sun, and studied the house, now bathed in morning fire.

The paint had long since peeled from the wood siding, the roof slanted precariously over the front porch, and a mesquite branch rubbed against a side window, screeching like the ghost of a centuries-old resident.

If my parents ever saw this house, they’d have a cardiac arrest. Their barn was nicer.

My sandals crunched dry grass as I dragged myself into my new home. My little guy deserved better than this.

But I probably didn’t.