MARY

* * *

With his tattered boots clutched in one hand, Will Curtis quietly backed down the loft ladder, hoping his Pa would still be sleeping. As his bare feet touched the cold kitchen floor, a gruff male voice resonated from the frosty gloom, verifying that Pa was up and grumpy.

"Is that you, Will? Go hitch my horse to the buggy."

"Ya-ya-yes, sirrr," Will's stressed thirteen-year-old vocal cords squeaked.

He stumbled backward to the hearth and his skinny butt hit the chilly stones hard. Those darn stiff boots weren't cooperating—got to force them onto cold bare feet; no time for socks. His socks had big holes in them anyway.

"Move along sharply, boy. I ain't got all day!"

"Yes, Pa."

Hobbling toward the cabin door while stomping on the last boot, Will gave wide berth to the large, dark shadow that had spoken. Grabbing his coat from a peg, he stumbled out into the crisp morning air. With a closed door between him and his volatile father, the apprehensive boy felt safe enough to stop and pull on the shabby coat. He removed a length of rope from one pocket and looped it around his waist because all of the buttons were missing.

At the dilapidated pole corral, he held out a handful of oats to attract Pa's large saddle horse, which sometimes doubled at pulling the buggy. Strong for his size, Will stood on his tiptoes to throw a heavy, stiff harness over the shying horse's back. With numb fingers, he soon had it strapped into place and the resisting critter was hitched to the ramshackle buggy. He'd made good time, but was it fast enough to satisfy his impatient Pa?

After leading the hitched horse to the front of the cabin, Will held tight to the bridle rein with trepidation. Pa approached out of the shadows into the dawn light. His gait and size reminded his son of a lumbering disgruntled bear. When the emerging form got closer, Will noticed his self-ordained minister Pa was wearing his black preacher suit. He wondered why—it wasn't Sunday.

Without speaking, Josh Curtis unwound the reins from the whip holder, stepped into the protesting buggy, and plunked his considerable bulk on the seat with a grunt. Will sighed, released his tenacious grip on the bridle, and stepped back from the horse.

"Mrs. Hinkle will be over with your sisters soon," the dark image on the buggy seat announced. The tense youngster flinched at the sudden brusque sound. "Tell her we'll be back by supper time. Mind you, finish them chores 'fore you go running off anywheres!"

Reins slapped the slouching horse's rump, and the buggy moved up the lane toward the rudimentary road that led to New Haven, West Virginia.

"Ya-ya-yes, sir," Will managed to shout before the squeaking buggy reached the gate.

Returning to the empty log house, the despondent boy hesitated just inside the door. Tentative fingers of early morning sunlight filtering through dirty window panes did nothing to dispel the gloom in the sparse room. For a fleeting moment, he expected to see his adored mother at the hearth of the once-cozy kitchen, cooking his breakfast, where she'd been every morning of his life until six months ago.

Reality slammed into his distressed mind. She couldn't be there—she'd died giving birth to his baby sister, Anne. Never again would he see her smiling face, feel her warm hugs, or have her brush back that unruly tuft of auburn hair that fell across his forehead. Tears welled. He clinched his jaw and blinked them away; be darned if he was going to keep crying like a baby. Besides, he had other things to worry about.

He'd been told the family would soon be moving to a homestead in faraway Kansas. Even more shattering, he'd overheard Pa tell his Uncle Zeke that he'd found a young replacement for Will's departed Ma from among his scattered religious flock. The resentful youngster guessed that was why Pa was wearing his preacher suit on a weekday. Likely, she was the other person in the "we" of his Pa's curt message: "We'll be back before suppertime." No one could ever replace his dear mother. He vowed to hate anyone that tried!

By late afternoon, with the chores finished, Will sat in his special spot under a majestic oak tree on the bank of the Ohio River, with bony knees pulled up under his chin. His old dog, Crusher, slept curled beside him, and his buddy since early childhood, Hawthorn "Skeeter" Cranston, sprawled nearby.

"I'd of come up and helped you with them chores if I'd knowed your Pa was gone," Skeeter said.

"It ain't fair that Pa thinks you're a heathen and a bad influence. I'm sure sorry he won't let you go to Kansas with us," Will lamented. "I'll bet Ma could have talked him into it if she was still here."

"Everybody knows your Pa's a religious nut," Skeeter declared.

Will agreed with that assessment, yet he felt obligated to defend his sanctimonious father. He'd heard the story many times of how Pa found his religion on the Bull Run battlefield, when his Union cavalry unit was facing annihilation.

"Well, Pa's got some problems, right enough, but Ma told me the war done that to him."

"Maybe it started in the war," Skeeter allowed, "but seems to me he's getting worse since your Ma departed."

"Yeah, I guess he is. Uncle Zeke says Pa's courting a gal that's only eighteen years old."

"Well now, that there just proves how crazy your Pa is—thinking he can replace your Ma with a gal what's only five years older `n you!"

"Will-l, Will-l!" The sound roared through the trees and descended on the boys like the growl of an enraged grizzly bear. "Y'all come to the house—right now—to meet your new ma!"

Will lunged to his feet and his eyes darted toward the demanding voice.

"Oh my gosh—Pa's back! I'd sooner take a whoopin' than go meet his new wife, but I'd best hightail it `fore he busts a gut."

"I hear ya-a-a, Pa-a-a-a," he hollered toward the house, fracturing the high notes. "I'm on my w-a-a-ay."

"Yeah, y'all better haul your butt." Skeeter's face took on a sad, hangdog look. "I'll—I'll be seeing you again `fore you leave for Kansas, won't I?"

"I just may not go!" Will said as he started toward the house.

"You'll go alright, if your Pa wants you to, or he'll take your hide off,"...