Catriona held tight to her younger sister’s arm, knowing better than to loosen her grip when surrounded by such tempting delights. For once, she could buy Nora almost anything a mercantile might offer to satisfy the desires of a seven-year-old girl’s heart. But as she’d spent the bulk of her life skimping and doing without, rarely knowing the contentment of a full belly, much less a full cupboard, not even the thick wad of bills Ryan had mailed back to the family in Ireland could persuade her cautious nature to yield to extravagance. Not with so uncertain a future.

“Let go of me cape, Cattie!” Nora pulled hard, her frown more severe than usual. “I’m only pinin’ to take a keener look at her.”

“A keener look, you say!” Catriona kept her voice low, mindful of the busy mercantile but especially of one man’s scrutiny from behind the counter up front. The proprietor, she guessed, based on his close interest and the air of authority he wore. Apparently store owners in the town of Franklin held the same low opinion of the Irish their counterparts in Nashville did. They hung the same shingles above their entryways too—No Irish Need Apply. But the sign just above that one outside—No Freedmen Allowed—bothered her far more. The word freedmen had been crossed off, and another word, a vile word she’d learned upon disembarking in New York City, had been scratched into the wood.

So much for a warm welcome to America. And to Franklin, Tennessee.

She tugged her sister closer, aware of other patrons looking their way. “Child, you’re forgettin’ that I know what a keener look from you is akin to.” She shook her head. “Nay. You no more want to take a keener look at that doll than I want to travel in soot and cinder for another three days goin’.”

Nora again yanked hard in response and lunged for the porcelain doll propped against a vase atop a much-too-low shelf. The determined little scamp was surprisingly strong for one so wee, and the heat of her temper rivaled the flaming red of her hair. But Catriona held fast. While she didn’t share the fiery Irish kiss of her sister’s curls, her own hair a darker shade, she did share her temper and matched it full on.

“Nora Emmaline O’Toole, quit your olagonin’,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “You’ll mind yeself, or we’ll be havin’ more than words when we get back outside. Are you hearin’ me?”

Nora glared up, her slender jaw set like granite. Not for the first time, Catriona felt more like the mam than the older sister, and with seventeen years between them, no wonder. That feeling scared the starch right out of her wits. Because she was no mother. A sister? Aye, she knew that role well enough. But she strongly suspected that Nora needed far more than she could give. And the girl deserved it. But one thing Catriona knew for certain: experience had taught her to hold tight to her sister lest the cute little rapscallion take to doing what she wanted to do instead of what she’d been told, much as she’d behaved on the voyage from Ireland.

Recalling what could have happened brought Catriona a shudder. She’d crushed Nora to her that night, so grateful nothing worse had befallen her young sister in that dark corridor aboard the ship—and so thankful that Ryan had insisted on teaching her how to handle the dagger he’d given her before he left for America with his three closest friends. Yet even as relieved as she’d been once they’d made it safely back to their cabin, she’d also wanted to throttle Nora within an inch of her life for giving her such a fright.

The mere recollection of the memory stoked her ire and sickened her stomach, and Catriona doggedly continued in the direction of the dry goods, half dragging her sister behind her. But the mercantile was packed with patrons, and progress was slow.

She would make the scant purchases they needed, then leave the crowded store before Nora could do any harm. Not that she was eager to face their next undertaking here in Franklin. Far from it. Every day since they’d boarded that ship more than a month ago, she’d felt this particular dread growing inside her. If there were any way to avoid calling upon Colonel John McGavock, she would do it.

But in Ryan’s last letter, her twin brother, so full of family honor, wrote of his determination to confront the man whose grandfather had cheated the O’Tooles out of their ancestral land years ago. Why he felt such a compulsion to settle that score after all these years, she didn’t know. Yet if Ryan had found his way to John McGavock’s home, the man might at least possess some information regarding her brother’s whereabouts, and that was information she desperately needed. Because Ryan’s last letter, the envelope dated the twenty-ninth of November 1864, well over a year gone now, was the last they’d received from him. And that had taken more than five months to find its way to Ireland, arriving ahead of the wrapped bundle of bills by only a handful of weeks. This money will be enough to bring the family here, and to let us start fresh, Ryan had scribbled on a scrap of paper tucked inside the currency. Keep it from Da. Don’t let him spend it on drink, and come as soon as you can. So me heart can feel whole again. Believe me ever to be your loving brother . . .

Catriona couldn’t wait to see him, her baby brother—born five minutes later—who stood a head taller than her and had shoulders as broad as a doorway. And she had come to America as soon as she could. But how would she find the words to tell him the cruel twists and turns life had taken in recent months? Da had been the first to succumb to dysentery, which she’d written to Ryan about last summer with little emotion other than relief. But the events that followed were too painful to put to the page. A month after Da’s death, when they’d been set to sail for America, Mam, Bridget, and Alma all took ill with the same ravaging disease. Bridget and Alma had walked a hasty path through the veil. Only eighteen days. But Mam . . .

Mam had lingered for weeks, wasting away despite Catriona’s caregiving and repeated prayers. Bridget and Alma, scarcely twelve and ten, had passed on the very same day, as close in death as they’d been in life. For that reason, she chose to bury them together, and half of her heart had lowered into the earth with them. The rest of it had been buried along with Mam. In the days following, she’d taken to bed herself, weak and exhausted from caretaking and grief. But Nora, youngest and strongest of them all, had never shown a hint of sickness. And now, finally, here she and Nora were. In America. But where was Ryan?

Had he ever received her last letter telling him about Da’s passing? If so, he’d never responded. Perhaps he’d written a separate note with instructions on where to meet him over here. Only, she’d never received such a letter. Maybe it arrived after she and Nora had sailed from Dublin. Whatever the case, how would they ever find each other in this endless sea of a war-torn country without help? So like it or not—and she didn’t—Colonel John McGavock seemed to be her only hope.

Strong-arming the fear inside her, she pushed it away, as she did the question that plagued her day and night: Was Ryan still alive? She’d heard of mothers sensing when their children had died, but she’d never heard of a sister able to feel the death of a brother. Even a twin. But if it could be done, she was certain she would have felt that moment if Ryan had breathed his last. They’d been inseparable growing up, bonded in a way that even she couldn’t explain after twenty-four years. She’d loved him all her life, and from the moment Da had started beating on him, she would have given her life for his. So surely if Ryan was gone, she would know it. She would feel it in her bones. But she didn’t. Which had to mean he was still alive.

And once she located him—and she would—the three of them would find a way to move on. Together. She would fulfill her promise to Mam to find her “baby boy,” and they would make a new start here, just as Ryan said. Things would be better then. He had such a way with Nora. He, of all people, could bring their little sister back to the land of the living. Nora had never made any secret of the fact that Ryan was her favorite. So despite the theft of their ancestral land by the McGavock family, if lowering herself to prevail upon them would assist in finding her brother, then she would—

Somehow Nora broke free. Catriona spun to lay claim of the girl again, but she couldn’t, and the next few seconds seemed to stretch forever.

Nora turned and lunged for the doll, and this time managed to grab the hem of its skirt. But she also bumped the shelf. For a heartbeat, both the vase and the porcelain Southern beauty teetered, the doll’s stylish blonde curls bobbing as though she were debating whether to remain where she was or take a headlong plunge to her certain demise. The weight of the vase proved more substantial than Catriona would have first imagined, and she hoped that perhaps—

But no.

The vase pitched forward and brought the blonde-headed beauty along with it. Catriona braced herself for the impact.

The crash of glass on hardwood silenced the thrum of patron conversation, and the subsequent absence of noise was deafening. Catriona’s face burned as curious onlookers turned to stare. She looked at Nora. Gone was her little sister’s former bravado, her creamy white complexion now pale. Though not as pale as that of the porcelain-faced doll, now lying in a most unladylike heap at their feet, her silk skirts in disarray, her once-lovely painted countenance and even her demure porcelain hands strewn in pieces across the floor.

Nora looked up, eyes wide, and Catriona bit back the harsh words begging to be let loose—especially when she spotted the proprietor barreling down the aisle toward them, his face all manner of red.

“You’re gonna have to pay for what that daughter of yours just did! That doll was special-ordered from Paris, France. And the vase was pure Flint glass!”

The accusation in his tone only deepened her embarrassment, and she didn’t bother correcting his misassumption. “Aye, sir, I’ll be payin’ for the damages. We’re at fault.”

“You bet you are.” His eyes slid from her to Nora, then to the damage done, then to her again. “First, your kind comes in here trying to steal me blind, taking what don’t belong to you. Then you waltz in and start breaking everything in sight. Problem is you all got no respect for others’ property. So like I told you, you’ll be paying for every last penny of what that cost me. Plus what I stood to make before your little urchin went and—”

“I’ve already given you me word, sir. I’ll be payin’ what we owe.” His anger scalded her pride, but his arrogant contempt prodded her temper. Catriona nudged Nora to stand behind her, wanting to shield her from the man but also to shield him from her. Her sister looked as sweet as Mam’s butterscotch pie, but the girl was ornery with a capital O. And yet Nora was her sister.

“One question does come to me mind, sir. Somethin’ I find a wee bit curious.” Catriona managed a partial smile. “Why would you be placin’ so precious a doll on so low a shelf? And beside a vase made of pure Flint glass and all.” She purposefully pronounced the phrase with the same hoity-toity inflection he’d used—and judging by the crimson creeping up his beefy neck, her insinuation wasn’t lost on him.

He took a step toward her, but she didn’t shrink away. From a young age, she’d learned to stand her ground when pitted against a man’s anger, and this man wasn’t five pints full of whiskey and rum, which always made the situation more precarious. That said, her father had never taken a hand to her or her three sisters when deep into his liquor. He’d saved that for when he was sober. As though he wanted to remember the feel of the back of his hand striking them across the face. Yet Mam and Ryan had borne the brunt of his rage, his being sober or not. Catriona had tried to protect them both, but Mam had known how to draw Da’s attention away. And Ryan, God bless him, had come into this world with a sense of chivalry that wouldn’t allow him to stand aside. He’d considered the duty of protecting the women as his alone. Through the years, their father had made certain Ryan paid for that decision. Again and again.

Ryan had struggled with the decision of going to America, not wanting to leave the rest of them vulnerable to Da’s wrath. But when he’d been faced with either starving to death or bearing the brunt of their father’s abusive nature, the decision had been clear enough. And, along with Mam, Catriona had managed to protect the younger ones.

She never realized how much she hated their father until she saw him lying in that pine box, his hands folded over his chest so easy and gentle-like. Such a contrast to the hand raised in rage. She’d sworn then never to waste another tear on the man, and she was finding that an easy pledge to keep.

“The doll was displayed where patrons could see it!” The proprietor’s tone, tough as steel, matched the glint in his eyes. “And if you’d read the sign right there—the one written in good American English—you would’ve known the doll was fragile. And anyone with half a brain would know the vase was too.” The smirk curving his mouth darkened his eyes as well.

Sure enough, a handwritten placard stared mockingly from the shelf, affirming his claim, which only fueled Catriona’s irritation. “How much am I owin’ you, sir? For the doll and the vase?”

His eyes narrowed. “Sixteen dollars and fifty cents.”

Soft gasps rose from onlookers standing nearby, and Catriona had to quell a gasp of her own. The amount was far more than she’d wagered. She had that much—and considerably more—thanks to Ryan, though it pained her to part with such a sum under the circumstances.

“So will you be paying what you owe? Or should I fetch the authorities?”

Clear challenge lined the man’s ultimatum, and Catriona caught a hint of pleasure in his tone as though he hoped he’d be called on to do the latter. “Aye, sir. I’ll be payin’ you. As I said I would.”

Disbelief furrowed his brow.

“But I’ll be needin’ a bit of”—she softly cleared her throat—“privacy to retrieve the funds.”

His gaze moved over her, though not in a lewd manner. More as though she were some wretched pup wandered in from the fields covered in muck and mire.

She sighed. “Could I make use of a storeroom, perhaps?”

“I’m not letting you go in there by yourself. You’ll rob me blind, then take your leave out the side door, and that’s the last I’ll ever see of you and your little girl.”

“Me name is Nora!” Nora pushed past Catriona, tiny fists on her hips. “And I’m her sister, you nasty oaf, not her daughter.”

Catriona yanked Nora’s arm and sent her a scolding glance. But the bravado in Nora’s eyes had returned. This child . . .

“Sir,” Catriona continued quickly, eager to see the situation resolved, “I’m not a person who shirks her debts. But since you’re not trustin’ me, enlist your clerk there, the girl behind the counter, to be goin’ with us.”

Begrudgingly, the proprietor made the arrangements. But Catriona felt his gaze on her and Nora every step of the way as they followed the young clerk into the storeroom. Catriona gestured for Nora to precede her and gave her another look, daring her to do anything other than stand statue-still and hold her tongue.

She had to find a way to get Nora under control. The child had grown up without proper constraints. How many times had she warned their mother about that? “But Nora’s me youngest, Cattie, and me last,” Mam had whispered in her final weeks. “One day you’ll understand, when you’re havin’ bairns of your own. You’re goin’ to have to be both sister and mam to her. But I know you can. I’ve seen you with her. Go to America, find Ryan, and make a good home . . . the three of you. But please, let me Nora be a child for as long as she can. This world thieves away youth so swiftly. Much as it did for you. Much as it’s still doing, me sweet, stubborn Cattie. Remember what I’ve been tellin’ you time and again—God’s help is nearer than the door. Don’t let life harden you, dearest. There’s still much good in this world despite all the bad. Sometimes it’s just hard to see for all the nettles.”

Recalling her last conversations with her mother and the promises she’d made against her better judgment caused her throat to tighten. Mam had endured such a difficult life, thanks mostly to Da. Catriona swallowed hard. Never did she want to be yoked to a man like her mother had been. Life was challenging enough without willingly taking on that added burden. Best to go through life alone. She had Nora and Ryan, after all. That would be enough.

Aware of the clerk’s somewhat shy attention, Catriona turned to the side and discreetly lifted her skirt. When she’d sewn herself a new reticule, she’d also fashioned a money pouch with laces that tied snuggly around her upper thigh. She didn’t trust stashing the money in their trunk as they traveled, and she for sure wasn’t about to carry it around on her wrist in a reticule.

She untied the money pouch, then retrieved the additional cash she needed. Sixteen dollars and fifty cents. Such a sum for a silly blunder. What would she have done if she hadn’t had the money? Ryan must have saved every last dollar he’d earned after being conscripted into the Confederate Army before sending it all back home. She’d read about the wealth and prosperity that could be found in America, but she’d had no idea a soldier in the recent war could earn so generous a wage. Especially a soldier on the losing side.

Yet even knowing that, she found the claims of this country’s bounty unaligned with what she’d witnessed upon arriving in Nashville late yesterday afternoon. If it were possible for a city to mourn itself, that’s how she would describe the Nashville she’d seen. Buildings boarded up, the faded names of businesses lingering in ghostlike letters on dilapidated brick walls. Streets largely deserted save the contingents of armed, blue-clad Federal soldiers on nearly every corner. Women draped in black and brown—much like her and Nora—their heads bowed, most of them with ragamuffins in tow. But the clusters of men in tattered trousers and coats, former Confederate soldiers from the looks of it—the outcome of the war written in their stooped shoulders, in the lostness in their gazes—reached deepest inside her and tugged hard. She’d searched each of their faces, hoping to see Ryan’s.

She counted the bills she’d withdrawn a second time and slipped the rest into her reticule, then secured the pouch again to her thigh and adjusted her skirt. With the pouch facing outward, the folds of fabric hid it well enough.

“That was very brave,” the young clerk whispered.

Catriona turned and looked at her.

“What you did out there. Standing up to old Mr. Pritchard. That’s what people call him behind his back.” The girl glanced toward the door leading into the mercantile.

Hearing admiration in her tone, Catriona shook her head. “I’ve no patience a’tall for people who treat others with such disdain. ’Specially someone they don’t even know. Some people look at a person and see what they’ve decided to see instead of what’s truly there. But I have to be tellin’ you”—she lowered her voice—“it did feel right good to stand up to the ol’ tyrant.”

The girl laughed, and Nora did too.

“What’s your name, dear?” Catriona asked.

“Braxie.”

Catriona smiled. “Now there’s a name with a story comin’ behind it, to be sure.” She guessed the girl was around eleven or twelve. Bridget’s age. She was pretty in an understated way, and her brown eyes had a cleverness about them that issued a warning. Anyone wise enough to see it would do well not to underestimate her.

“My papa named me after a boy he grew up with back in North Carolina. A friend of his. Turns out, that friend became a general in the war. General Braxton Bragg.”

She’d stated it with pride, and Catriona nodded for her to continue, sensing there was more.

“I shortened it to Braxie some time back, though. Me and Mama figured that sounded more like a girl.”

“I agree. And I’m likin’ the name. It suits you. Have you ever met your esteemed namesake?”

“No, ma’am. But I hope to one day.” Braxie’s eyes brightened. “General Bragg commanded the Army of Tennessee for a while.”

“The Army of Tennessee?” Catriona found her interest piqued. “Me brother was in the—”

“Our brother!” Nora peered up, her expression obstinate as she fiddled with a ball of string she’d found who knew where.

Catriona confiscated the string and placed it on a nearby shelf, countering her sister’s mulishness with a sharp look. Nora responded by turning up her nose and stuffing her hand into the pocket of her cloak. Even before the girl withdrew its contents, Catriona narrowed her eyes. She’d warned Nora to stop picking up those blasted stones. But everywhere they went, she insisted on gathering them. She’d even hidden a sack of them from home in their trunk. With defiance glittering in her blue eyes, Nora held out a handful of rocks, and Catriona took a deep breath, determined not to take the bait. She turned back to Braxie.

“Our brother was in the Army of Tennessee,” Catriona continued, her voice determinedly even.

“He fought in the war here?” Braxie looked back and forth between them.

“Aye, he did. He and three of his mates came here from Ireland in spring of ’62, and straightaway they were conscripted into the Confederate Army.” In the space of a blink, the vivid image of Ryan, Liam, Brody, and Ferris—friends since childhood—leaving to board the ship in Dublin rose to mind. Dear Ferris had been killed early on in the war, Ryan had written. A bullet to the heart. Ryan penned that when Ferris had stumbled beside him, he’d leaned down to help him up only to discover his friend already gone. Catriona couldn’t fathom. “So,” she continued, pulling her thoughts close again, “we’ve come to Franklin to—”

“Braxie! Aren’t y’all done back there yet?”

Irritation sharpened the proprietor’s voice, and Braxie moved to open the door, though none too hastily. Catriona silently applauded the girl’s gumption.

“All is fine . . . Uncle.” Braxie gave Catriona a pointed look, and a smile tipped her mouth.

“He’s your uncle?” Catriona whispered, cringing at how she’d described the girl’s relative a moment earlier.

Braxie’s smile gave way to laughter. “I took no offense to what you said. He may be my uncle, but he’s an ol’ tyrant too.” With a reassuring look, Braxie led the way back to the front.

Catriona followed, grateful for the girl’s understanding and to discover the mess in the middle of the aisle cleaned up. To her relief, most of the patrons who’d witnessed the debacle were nowhere to be seen. With Braxie’s assistance, she located the items she’d come for and proceeded to pay.

Braxie blew out a breath, fingering the bill in her hand. “I haven’t seen a fifty-dollar greenback in forever.”

Catriona smiled, slightly uncomfortable at the attention Braxie’s comment drew from patrons close by but even more so beneath Uncle Pritchard’s close attention. He stood only feet away, silently auditing the transaction, no doubt making certain she paid for her transgressions.

Beside her, Nora had grown sullen, which was more customary than not these days. These dark clouds usually descended in late evening, closer to bedtime, and most always they portended a bout of silent sobs. Hearing her sister weep like that broke her heart. Once, shortly after dysentery finished its cruel work and Mam had passed, she tried pulling Nora close to comfort her. But Nora pushed away. Only after she’d finally surrendered to sleep could Catriona coax her little body close and attempt to soothe the hurt. The same hurt breaking her own heart.

Braxie counted out her change, then held out the cloth sack containing their purchases. “You and your sister please come back anytime,” she said in a friendly yet overtly conspiratorial tone.

Grateful, Catriona accepted the sack and glanced over to see if Mr. Pritchard had noticed, but he’d already moved on to help another customer. “Thank you again for your help, Braxie. Maybe we’ll see you again while we’re in town.”

“I hope so.” Braxie glanced to Nora, then looked at Catriona again. “I just realized I don’t even know your names.”

“Oh, forgive me. I’m Catriona O’Toole, and this is me sister Nora.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Likewise, to be sure.” Catriona peered down to see if Braxie’s comment might have drawn her sister out a bit, but the dark frown remained. With Nora’s hand securely in hers, she’d just started for the door when she spotted Mr. Pritchard carrying the porcelain doll to the storeroom. He was meticulously brushing the dust from the doll’s skirt when it occurred to her that . . .

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir!” she called out.

He didn’t respond.

She tried again. “Mr. Pritchard!”

He paused, and then gradually, almost begrudgingly, he turned. His eyes narrowed. She waited, but apparently a hateful expression was all the response she merited.

“We’ll be takin’ that doll with us, please.” She gestured, closing the distance between them.

He looked at the doll, then at her. “But it’s ruined. Worthless.”

She couldn’t be certain, but she would’ve bet all the money in her reticule that he didn’t believe that. “She’s broken, not ruined. And not beyond some form of repair, I think. So we’ll be takin’ her, thank you kindly.” Catriona held out her hand.

He made no move to comply.

“I’ve paid good money for that doll, sir. Far more than she’s worth, in me good opinion. And I’m not of the mind to be leavin’ her behind. I’ll take the vase too.” The expensive glass was broken to bits, but some pieces were larger, and she wouldn’t risk him working those into something else and getting one cent of value—or satisfaction—from the item she’d paid for so dearly.

“The vase is already in the rubbish bin.”

She cocked her head. “Then it won’t be difficult to be pourin’ the pieces into a sack, now will it?”

The tightening in his jaw told her he’d about reached his limit. He glanced around them, then back at her. “You’d best watch your tongue, girl,” he said low. “A lot of folk around here don’t take kindly to you people moving in, trying to settle in our town.”

She widened her eyes. “Who’s sayin’ I’m movin’ in? Although seein’ as how kind everyone’s been to us, this might not be a bad place to be puttin’ down roots.”

Meanness slid in behind his eyes, and while she didn’t fear him acting on his anger here, in the middle of a mercantile with onlookers, the slight weight of the dagger hidden up her sleeve gave her courage. She’d used the blade only once before, in self-defense in that corridor on the ship, but the outcome had been quite effective despite how her hands had shaken. She’d vowed then to always keep the weapon with her. Because she knew men. Knew the wrath, and wrong, they were capable of.

Pritchard retrieved the broken shards and thrust the bag at her, then held out the doll before letting go prematurely. Catriona managed to catch her, sparing the now faceless and handless beauty a second trauma for the day. She flashed Pritchard a triumphant if not a tad gloating smile. “Nice doin’ business with you, sir.”

She didn’t waste another look at him as she and Nora left the store.

Outside, a cruel March wind snaked a chilling hand inside their woolen cloaks, and Catriona pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. She reached down to do the same for Nora, but her sister batted her hand away. Fine, then. Once those little ears turned to ice, she’d think differently.

They walked in silence down the muddy street. She spotted a church on the corner a short distance ahead and squinted. Franklin Presbyterian Church. Constructed of brick, the building was fancy enough with its stained glass windows as tall as two doors placed end to end and with a steeple as high as heaven itself. A person could probably see the church from miles away. Not that she planned on darkening the doors of that building anytime soon. She’d given up on the feeble promises such places had to offer. But the lovely grove of walnut trees bordering the church . . . Now, that she would welcome anytime, along with a lazy summer afternoon.

They continued on for a piece until they passed the Williford Hotel they’d visited earlier, the hotel the porter at the train station recommended. She’d already secured a room for them for the night. Then, depending on what she learned from John McGavock today, if she learned anything at all, they’d move on from Franklin to . . . somewhere.

Her eyes filled unexpectedly with the flood of weariness and grief she’d coerced into submission for weeks, nay, months now. But the long-denied emotions fought back with a vengeance and near stole her breath away. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe the Almighty saw people’s plights and worked on their behalf. She did. She simply no longer believed he would do that for her.

“I’m hungry, Cattie!”

Catriona breathed deep, struggling to find her voice—and the tiniest thread of hope. “Finally, you’re speakin’ again.”

Nora’s scowl grew fierce. “I’m not likin’ this place. And I’m not wantin’ to be here.”

“Truth be told, I don’t like it much either. But rarely do we get to be choosin’ our path in this life. We talked about that. Do you remember?”

Nora said nothing, but her eyes narrowed to slits.

Catriona sighed. “We’re here because it’s the last place we know for certain our dear Ryan said he was goin’ to be. Franklin, Tennessee. He wrote that in his last letter. I read that part to you again on the train. So we’re goin’ to walk some distance from town to make inquiry of a man I’m hopin’ can help us find our brother.” Catriona reached into the cloth sack and withdrew a box of crackers, then held them out. With Braxie’s help, she’d stealthily purchased a special treat for her sister as well, but she was saving it for later that night, at bedtime when Nora would need it most.

Without a word, Nora grabbed the box, then opened it and began shoving the salty bits into her mouth.

Catriona waited, then pointedly eyed her sister. “I’m beggin’ your pardon?”

Nora peered up sweetly. Too sweetly. “Thank you, Catriona . . . for the dry crackers.”

Catriona heaved a sigh, tempted to snatch the box away. After all, Nora couldn’t be that hungry. They’d shared a generous plate of hotcakes, eggs, and bacon in Nashville before boarding the train earlier—and a cinnamon bun too. They both adored confections of any kind, one of the few things they could agree on these days.

But if she took the crackers away from her sister now, she’d have to deal with tears or rants or worse, and she had neither the patience nor the will for any of that at the moment. So she walked on, attention trained ahead and intent on her task, all while the ache for home and family carved an even deeper hole inside her.

She looked at the field spreading out to their right, all wintry gray and lonely feeling. How she missed the brilliant blues and greens of home, standing on the edge of the cliffs in County Antrim and staring out to sea, the spray of the ocean chilling her face even as it kindled memories of what she and Ryan had dreamed America would be like for their family. How different that dream was turning out to be.

The road leading south from town narrowed as they went, and to avoid the worst of the wagon ruts clawed deep into the center, she edged her way to the right-hand side and gestured for Nora to do the same. The clerk at the hotel had given her directions to the McGavocks’ home. “It’s about a mile or so southeast of town, along Lewisburg Pike. The Harpeth River will be on your left, Carnton on your right.”

Carnton. So the McGavocks had taken a bit of the homeland with them when they left Ireland behind all those years ago. Despite the grip of British rule, Gaelic was still common enough in County Antrim, but she found it odd that the McGavocks would choose to describe their home in America with such a word. Cairn. A pile of stones. A memorial. To honor the dead, no less. Like a cemetery. A macabre choice to name a home, in her opinion. For as long as she could remember, she’d loathed cemeteries. Hated the finality they represented and the images they conjured from childhood. Images she determined to let stay buried back in Ireland.

Something the hotel clerk added still rang uneasily within her. “You can’t miss the place.”

That sounded as though John McGavock had done more than a little all right for himself—by treading on the backs of the O’Tooles, of course. Printers by trade for generations, her family had never been wealthy, but they’d done well enough—especially since Ryan possessed a special talent for illustrations and decorations. He had an astounding eye for detail and a deft drawing hand. Wealthy people paid a goodly sum for such things.

She shook her head. How different her own family’s legacy might have been if John McGavock’s grandfather hadn’t cheated her great-grandfather out of their land. Without land, a family was nothing. And that’s what hers had become. Nothing. She laid a weighty measure of the blame at her father’s feet. He’d squandered what inheritance he’d been given, little though it was, on drink and wagers. But maybe if he’d been given everything due him, he’d have been a different man. A better one.

Gray clouds billowing overhead finally made good on their threat, and soft sheets of drizzle, fine as the fanciest lace, fell without a sound, soaking everything that moved and didn’t.

“I’m thirsty, Cattie!” Nora whined, several steps behind her.

“Then tip your head back and open up that gob o’ yours. You’ll be findin’ your thirst slaked soon enough.”

A moment passed.

“Me feet are achin’! Och! These boots you bought me are good for nothin’.”

“They’re a far sight better than the wafer-thin slippers we had before we left home, so hush up and keep to walkin’. We’ll be to where we’re goin’ soon enough, then you can rest yeself.”

An exasperated sigh was all the comment Catriona got, and she offered no response. She focused instead on what she’d rehearsed to say to John McGavock. Right at the outset, she planned to state who she was, and admittedly, she was eager to see if a flash of remembrance lit the man’s eyes at the name O’Toole. A bundle of years and more had passed since her family’s land had been thieved away, long before she was born. Her father himself had been only a wee lad. But she’d heard Da recount the story so many times that she could recite the woeful tale herself.

Next, she’d ask McGavock about Ryan, her real reason for coming here, and whether her brother had ever called upon Carnton to speak with him. If Ryan had made it there, hopefully he hadn’t left social relations with McGavock on so poor a footing that the man would intentionally withhold information from her for spite. She hoped against hope to be leaving Franklin on the morrow with some scrap of detail about—

A curdled scream rose behind her.

Catriona nearly turned around before she caught herself, knowing better. “Nora, I know you’re tired,” she called out. “But I’ve no more time or patience for your theatrics today. So hush your whinin’ and keep movin’. We’ll be there soon.”

“Cattie! Help me!”

Anger flared hot in her chest, and Catriona quickened her pace, throwing the words over her shoulder like stones. “Nora Emmaline O’Toole, I am weary to the bone of your—”

“H-help me, C-Cattie. Please!”

Catriona slowed. It wasn’t in her sister’s nature to beg. She turned around, but as soon as she spotted Nora perched atop an old tree stump, taking a rest, her anger spiked again—until she read the look of terror on her face. Catriona dropped the two cloth sacks and ran.

She’d scarcely raced fifteen paces off the road when she saw it, like something from Dante’s Inferno. At the base of the stump upon which Nora sat huddled, face buried in her knees, was a hand protruding from the earth, its fingers stiff and twisted, reaching up as though to grab hold and drag you under. Time and nature had eaten away most of the flesh, and Catriona swallowed a scream of her own. Especially when her foot sank into the mud and met with something solid beneath. She looked around and sucked in a breath. Not six inches behind her was a skull. But what shook her to the core was that it appeared to still be attached to a body. The one beneath her boots.

She lifted Nora into her arms and ran, tripping over what appeared to be a crudely made head marker that bore a name and other markings she didn’t stop to inspect. When they reached the road, Nora’s vise-like grip around her neck grew fierce, making it even more difficult to breathe.

“Nora . . .” Catriona gasped for air. “I’ve got you, dearest. I’ve got you.”

But Nora kept her face buried in the curve of her neck. Her little body convulsed, whether from fright or cold or both, Catriona couldn’t be sure. She held her sister tighter and smoothed the bright red curls down her back while whispering over and over, “It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right,” just as their mam had done before she died. Yet even as the promise left Catriona’s lips, she tasted its hollowness.

She squinted and stared across the field that stretched for a good mile or more, and she spotted countless other protrusions from the earth that, from a distance, had lent the appearance of a furrowed field in early spring. But now she suspected differently. At that moment, the wind shifted, and she put her hand to her nose, her suspicions confirmed.

Nora’s arms tightened around her neck, and Catriona kissed her and cradled her close, pondering what sort of fiendish hell had visited the sleepy little town of Franklin—and hoping with everything in her that their dear Ryan hadn’t been part of it.