With Penelope tucked under a heavy blanket on the couch, and a comforting pile of embers glowing in the fireplace, Mrs. Caldwell stood in the doorway. She took one last look at their simple cabin and the headstrong teenager sprawled on the couch. Her sight wandered upward as if she could see through the ceiling the three children upstairs.

Her heart ached, but she squared her shoulders and resolutely stepped backward out of the cabin, the safety and security of home, into the night. The children would know what to do. She’d left a note, and the girls would know to have Benjamin read it for them. They were an unruly bunch at times, but with their father’s blood in their veins no one stood a chance who meant to do them any harm.

Mrs. Caldwell stepped slowly off the porch, checking the drum of the pistol to see that it rolled free. Her calloused finger traced the letters etched on the handle, “E.H.M.” Memories washed over her sight, obscuring the road ahead. How many years? How many lives? What now?