Mercy Creek had a way of hiding its ugliness behind beautiful things.
At sunrise, the Wyoming Territory looked almost holy.
Golden light spilled over the distant ridges. Frost glittered on the grass. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and the wooden storefronts along Main Street glowed orange beneath the morning sun.
Visitors saw a peaceful frontier town.
They saw horses tied outside the mercantile, cowboys drinking coffee, women sweeping their porches, and children chasing one another between buildings.
They did not see the fear.
They did not see the families who had lost their land.
They did not see the men who disappeared after refusing to sell their ranches.
And they certainly did not see two four-year-old girls hiding behind a saloon every morning, waiting for someone to throw away enough food for them to survive another day.
Lily Bell had learned not to complain about hunger.
Her mother had taught her that.
“Being hungry is painful,” Clara Bell had once whispered. “But being careless when you're hungry can be worse.”
So Lily had become careful.
She watched.
She listened.
And she always made sure June ate first.
That morning, Lily found half a biscuit beneath an overturned wooden crate behind the Lucky Star Saloon.
She picked it up, brushed away the dirt, and examined it.
“It's still good,” June whispered.
Lily broke it in two.
She gave the larger piece to her sister.
June frowned.
“You always give me more.”
“You're smaller.”
“We're twins.”
“You were born second.”
“By eleven minutes.”
“Eleven minutes is a long time.”
June considered that.
Then she ate.
Lily slipped her own piece into the pocket of her faded dress.
She would save it.
Saving food was something Mama had taught her.
Tomorrow might be worse.
Lily didn't know exactly what tomorrow meant.
She only knew it was always waiting.
The girls had been alone for months.
Their father, Elias Bell, was dead.
At least, that was what Sheriff Abram Holt had told everyone.
Their mother, Clara Bell, was supposedly in Cheyenne.
Again, that was what everyone said.
But Lily remembered the night her mother disappeared.
She remembered the pounding on the door.
She remembered men shouting outside.
She remembered her mother's frightened face.
And she remembered one sentence.
“Whatever happens, protect June.”
Lily had done exactly that.
She had protected June.
She had shared food with her.
She had kept her warm.
She had lied whenever strangers asked where their mother was.
And she had never told anyone about the blue floorboard.
That was the one secret Clara had left behind.
Unfortunately, secrets had a way of attracting dangerous people.
And on that morning, someone new had arrived in Mercy Creek.
His name was Caleb Rourke.
He had come into town just after dawn riding a dark bay horse.
He wore a black hat, a weathered coat, and a gun belt that looked older than some of the buildings.
He was not a young man, but he wasn't old either.
Perhaps thirty-five.
Perhaps older.
Grief had a way of making a man's age difficult to guess.
Five years earlier, Caleb had buried his wife, Eliza Grace.
He had never remarried.
He had never stayed in one place for long.
He worked when work appeared, rode when riding was necessary, and avoided conversations about the past.
Mercy Creek was supposed to be another temporary stop.
He planned to stay three days.
Maybe four.
Then he would move on.
He had no idea that two little girls were about to change everything.
Caleb first noticed Lily and June when he heard something behind the Lucky Star.
A metallic crash.
Then whispering.
He turned his horse toward the alley.
He saw two tiny figures crouched beside the refuse barrels.
Caleb frowned.
Children shouldn't have been there.
He dismounted.
The girls immediately froze.
Lily stepped in front of June.
It was an instinctive movement.
Small body.
Bare feet.
Torn dress.
But she stood like a guard protecting a castle.
Caleb stopped several feet away.