2 March 1874

Breathing deep, I forced the space before my next breath to fall longer. It gave my ears more chance against the stiffening silence. There was nothing. I willed my heart to slow, anything to better hear through the darkness. But no noise reached me — no fall of hooves, no creak from the axles of an old wagon. Each passing night made it harder to bear the delay. By any measure they were late — too late for my liking.

I leaned against the doorframe. The shaved wood still smelled of pine, and the sap was sure to stick to my clothes. Molly would lecture me again, when next it came to do wash. I had ruined many shirts while building our cabin and a few pair of pants playing with the children outside. We had been here the better part of a year, passing the winter in town while the Old Man and I worked at the cabin on the days where the wind didn't bite too hard. This country air filled our hearts — a place to heal. But it came with the price of an ever-growing mending pile I left to Molly.

Around me the sounds of night bloomed, and the moon fell in uneven fashion. In its light, the giant oak cast a shadow across a thin trail as it snaked its way through the meadow. The children had forged other paths as well. Their feet plodded the tall prairie grass, cutting deep to reveal the mud underneath, as if a giant knife had scarred the earth. The lights were out at the Old Man's cabin, where Emeline slept sound in her room. She still knew the Old Man as . Someday we would tell her the truth. She visited her mother often, buried a short distance from the oak. I pushed the recollection of that night from my mind. I would never wash the blood from my hands or the taste from my mouth. I drew consolation in keeping my promise to the dying woman. I had watched over her little girl and delivered her safe to her father.

In our cabin, Daniel slept in his small loft — the only room on the second floor. His bouncing amongst the rafters drove Molly crazy, though I regarded it a small price. He adjusted well in this place, accepting Molly and I as guardians after the loss of his family. I imagined Colonel Norris standing alongside the Great Spirit, enjoying the irony in our patchwork family. He had long fought for his Confederacy. Yet a half-bred Indian and the man he had despised most — Abraham Lincoln — were among those who raised his grandson.

Taking in the cool night air was like drinking water from a deep well. As I pulled it into my chest a call echoed amongst the hills. The locals said there had never been a wolf in the area before, at least as far back as anyone could remember. But every night she tilted her head skyward, paying homage to some ancient wildness. Her song fell upon the land, long and intense. The howl rose and fell, only to start anew. This night she seemed closer, making her way from the rolling hills to the north. No call ever answered. It seemed odd she would be so far east, or alone. The Great Spirit created these social creatures to travel in packs. They taught the first men about loyalty and family. But this wolf had lost her pack, or been forced from it.

Behind me, the loose flooring creaked. I had not finished fastening it down, focusing instead on the roof. We needed shelter from the rain and scorching sun that would come with late summer. We had been here only two months, yet with the Old Man's help we made tremendous progress. As soon as we could move into the small cabin Molly insisted we make it ours, even as I finished it from within. She tried to be quiet to surprise me, but her feet fell heavy on the rough-hewn pine planks. Without turning, I spoke before she made it to the porch.

"Thought you'd catch me with whiskey?"

Of late I had done well, though the shakes would not leave my hands. As long as I had no need of a gun or knife, I needed no whiskey.

At first Molly said nothing, wrapping her arms around me as her head buried into my back. She pulled me in, breathing deep in the crisp night.

"I worry that you don't sleep."

"I can't."

"I know."

The remnants of slumber held her voice, muted as she pressed her face against my back. Her forehead filled the space between my shoulders, her breath warm.

"It's been too long," I said. I stared toward the tall oak. "Something happened."

Molly nodded. She abandoned any attempt at excuse. Nothing fit. She knew it as well as I. My mother's last telegram came from deep inside Georgia, five weeks earlier. She sent it after she found Aurora, the little girl I had lost so many years ago. They headed north to us. Molly and I postponed our wedding until their arrival. But the days stretched, and then the weeks turned to a month.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"They could be anywhere. I can start with the telegraph operator, but I don't know if it will be much good."

"You can't go south," Molly insisted. "They know you to be dead — as does the North. The entire country thinks Joseph Foster is long buried."

Faking my demise the year prior had been my only manner of escape. It bought our freedom from the Industrial Barons — a consortium of the rich and powerful. They had long run the country through corruption and manipulation. Years earlier, with the great Civil War about to falter and die, I had saved the Old Man from John Wilkes Booth. With that simple action I pushed the Old Man into the hands of the Barons. They used him as political power. Trapped in the White House, he enforced the Draft — a system to supply their factories with free child labor. All the while the last embers of our great Civil War held the South in a simmering conflict.

When the Old Man resigned, clearing the way for President Johnson, it invoked the wrath of the Barons. The new president worked to undo their influence while re-building the country. He supported the labor unions and sent the children home. The Barons would love to see me dead, but thus far the assumption of my death had shielded us. No one had come for me.

"What would you have me do?" I asked.

Molly's hands clutched my suspenders. Her nightgown tossed in the light breeze. I knew she longed to pull me to her, to drag me back across the threshold until I stood inside. She would be happy then. And I might be too. Essary Springs existed as a slice of perfection — deep in western Tennessee. The Old Man lived at the other end of the meadow, and the people here were a rough mountain folk. They paid little notice to the nation's politics. Instead, they elected the Old Man as their mayor without care that he had once been our president. Pure heaven would fall short in describing this place, though the thought of enjoying it eluded me. I needed Aurora — to hold my daughter once more.

No matter how patch-worked our family was, it would never be complete without her.

"I will go to town tomorrow and telegraph Pinkerton," Molly said. "He will have some advice."

I drew her near. She always knew what to do. Allan Pinkerton, the famed detective to the presidents, had employed us both.

Only his network of informants and spies reached deep enough into the South. They would be of use in finding my mother and daughter.

"Until then, I know you won't sleep," Molly continued. "I'll put on some tea."

"Lie down, Molly. I shouldn't keep us both awake."

She drew me close once more, resting one hand on the side of...