Prologue

Journal entry: Monday, April 1, 1867

I, Bethany Leanne Stafford, am writing in a leather-bound journal, which my dear friend Mrs. Valerie McCabe gave me for a going-away gift. She suggested I write my memoirs of my impending journey West and about my new life as a schoolteacher in the wild

Arizona Territory. Valerie said she wished she’d have kept a diary of her escape from New Orleans and a loveless marriage from which her husband Ben had rescued her.

For continuity’s sake, I shall back up from the day I left Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In September of last year, upon leaving the city, I took the train to Jericho Junction, Missouri. My traveling companions were Pastors Luke and Jacob McCabe and Gretchen Schlyterhaus, a German widow. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had worked as a housekeeper for Captain Brian Sinclair, who, at the time of our departure, was declared dead—drowned in a boating accident on Lake Michigan. Mrs. Schlyterhaus felt her livelihood had ended too, until Pastor Luke convinced her to go West with us. Weeks later, the captain was

discovered alive in a Chicago hospital. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had been certain that he would insist upon her returning to her duties in his household; after all, she’d signed a binding contract with him. But to her surprise, the captain allowed her to resign and even sent her a bonus (a tidy sum, I heard). Richard and Sarah brought it with them when they came for the Christmas holiday. Uncharacteristic for the captain, but Sarah said he’s a changed man. He found the Lord—and a good woman, whom he married—and he’s living happily

in Milwaukee where he owns a shipping business and a store. Richard is now his business partner and an equally important man in Milwaukee.

But I digress. After a full day’s train ride, we arrived in Jericho Junction, where I’ve lived for the past seven and a half months and earned my teaching certificate. In that time I’ve gotten to know Sarah’s relatives. How I wish I were part of this family! Pastor Daniel McCabe is a thoughtful, gentle man, unlike my own father who is a hard, insensitive soul. Mrs. McCabe has been more of a mother to me than I’ve ever known. My own mother died when I was eight. My father remarried, and my stepmother is as lazy as she is lovely (and she’s beautiful!). My half brother Tommy was born when I was nine, and nearly every year since my stepmother bore another child for me to look after in addition to my chores on the farm.

Forever, it seemed, I dreamed of escaping the drudgery of my life by marrying Richard, except God had other plans. Richard married Sarah. At first I felt jealous, but seeing how much Richard loved her, I couldn’t begrudge them their happiness. I did fear, however,

that I’d be forever trapped on my father’s farm caring for my brothers and sisters and working my body to the bone. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying as a spinster who’d never accomplished anything meaningful.

So when Luke McCabe offered me this chance to teach in the Arizona Territory, I jumped at it. In spite of my father’s protests, I packed my meager belongings and stayed next door with the Navises until the day of my departure. Needless to say, I left my family on a sour note. My father said he never wanted to see me again. I can’t say as I give a whit. I’m glad to be gone!

And as for the trip itself, we will depart in just a few short hours. We will follow the Santa Fe Trail along with other migrants—most of them families whom we met last night in the hotel’s dining room.

I am ever so excited about my adventure. Still, I’m quite aware that traveling by oxen-drawn, covered wagons may, indeed, prove to be a hardship, but both Mrs. Schlyterhaus and I are ready and eager to face each new challenge. As required by the United States, more than one hundred wagons are signed up to leave this morning. Due to the threat of Indian attack no less than a hundred can travel the trail.

But I must cease my writing now. Luke is knocking at the door. It’s time for breakfast…and then we’ll be on our way!

Journal entry: Wednesday, June 12

There has been no time for me to write. It’s been a long and exhausting journey thus far. During the daytime I walk beside the wagon while Luke and Jake take turns driving and scouting the trail ahead by horseback. After we make camp I prepare dinner, and then we clean up and get some sleep. But this evening by lamplight I simply had to pen what occurred today. I saw, for the first time in my life—a rattlesnake! On the farm in Wisconsin, I never saw anything larger than a pine snake, and even though they can bite, pine snakes are not poisonous. But I happened upon this deadly reptile quite accidentally as I unloaded our wagon this evening. I nearly stepped on the horrid thing and it poised, ready to strike me. In those seconds that passed I was sure I’d be bitten and die. But Luke saw the snake the same time I did. He pulled out his rifle and shot it dead before it attacked me.

Afterward I just stood there, gazing at the creature’s lifeless, beady black eyes. I burst into tears, realizing how frightened I had really been. Luke put his hand on my shoulder and said, “There, now, Beth, that buzzworm’s dead as a doornail. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Luke saved my very life that day, and I thank God for him.

Journal entry: Friday, June 14

Yesterday a horrible thing happened involving another rattlesnake, but this time it resulted in a tragedy. A five-year-old boy named Justin McMurray got bit. His passing was the saddest thing I ever witnessed. The strike happened during the day, but the McMurrays didn’t want to make the entire wagon train stop because of Justin. By the time several men and one doctor went by the McMurray wagon to see if they could be of help, it was too late. The poison had gotten into the boy’s system, and he had a raging fever. Then Luke and I went over and talked to Justin. Despite the fever and chills, he was coherent and in a tremendous amount of pain. My heart immediately went out to him, but also to Mrs. McMurray. She looked so sad and helpless as she held her child whose life was slipping away with each passing second. Instinctively, I put my arm around the woman’s shoulders in an effort to comfort her while Luke talked to the boy about heaven. Justin listened intently. I choked back a sob and glanced at Mrs. McMurray, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. Luke’s eyes looked misty too, but instead of weeping, he started singing. He knew so many songs about rejoicing in heaven

that Mrs. McMurray actually smiled, and Justin even laughed a couple of times.

Finally the Lord took the boy home, and while I was happy that Justin is in the Savior’s arms, I felt a bit sick inside. I still do.

Journal entry: Sunday, June 30

For the past two weeks since little Justin McMurray’s death, I’ve been having nightmares. Each time I doze, I envision rattlesnakes everywhere—in the wagon, even

in my hair! I awaken with a start, and Mrs. Schlyterhaus hushes me, since we both sleep inside the wagon while Luke and Jake make their beds on the ground below us.

My fear of rattlesnakes grew along with the exhausting desert temperatures to the point where I refused to get down from the wagon and stretch my legs during the day. At night I begged Mrs. Schlyterhaus to start the fire and make supper. I did not have any appetite and would lie down inside the wagon and pray for some peaceful sleep . . . which never seemed to come. Finally last night Luke said, “Bethany Stafford, you climb down off that wagon this minute!” I told him I would do no such thing. He asked me why, but I could

not admit how afraid I was to leave the wagon and have a rattlesnake kill me. However, Luke guessed the trouble. He said, “There’s no snakes around, so come down now or I’ll climb up and get you myself.”

Still, I refused, but I tried to be polite about it. Next thing I knew Luke had his arm around my waist, lifting me out of the wagon. Then he announced we were taking a stroll around the wagon train encampment.

I begged to stay back, but he would not be dissuaded. I went so far as to threaten him, saying if I died of snakebite, it would be all his fault. He said, “I’ll take my chances.”

So I pleaded with him to at least carry along his rifle. Luke replied, “No, ma’am, we’re only taking the Lord with us tonight.”

The fear inside of me increased. My heart pounded and my legs shook with every anxious step. At last Luke said folks were going to get the wrong impression about us if I did not begin to walk in a ladylike fashion. To my shame, I realized I was stepping all over him in order to keep away from the rattlesnakes that I knew lurked beneath the sands of the Cimarron.

Luke’s voice became very soft and gentle. He said, “Beth, God does not give us the spirit of fear, so don’t be afraid. Our heavenly Father was not surprised when Justin McMurray got bit by that snake. That home-going had been planned since the beginning of time.”

I knew he was right, and somehow his straightforwardness caused me to relax. Then he mentioned what a nice evening it was for a stroll, and for the first time I realized the sky looked clear and the air felt cool and clean against my face. Amazingly I even felt hungry then. I loosened the death grip I had around Luke’s elbow. He chuckled as though he was amused. I felt horribly embarrassed, and he laughed again. I like the sound of his laugh, so slow and easy. And it’s a funny thing, but with God and Luke right there with me, I didn’t fret about rattlesnakes the rest of the night.

Journal entry: Sunday, July 21

After walking in oven-hot temperatures for ten to fourteen miles every day, except Sundays, we finally arrived in Santa Fe. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m ever so disappointed with what has met my weary eyes thus far. Santa Fe is not at all lush and green like Wisconsin during the summer months. Everything is a dismal brown. Most houses are single-story adobe structures with dirt floors. There is a telegraph office, and we learned that Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His name is Samuel Richard. I must say that Luke and Jake seem quite proud of their youngest sister and newest nephew. I’m genuinely happy for Richard and Sarah.

As for myself, I am bone-thin, and the traveling dresses I made for the journey hang from my shoulders like old potato sacks. Luke is worried about me, and so we will remain here for a couple of weeks while I regain my strength.

On the last leg of our journey we escaped both Indian attack and bad weather. But we did encounter a buffalo stampede, the likes I hope to never witness again! The ground shook so hard my teeth rattled. That same day we saw abandoned wagons and fresh graves, which proved an almost eerie forewarning. Days later, a strange fever made its way around our wagon train, and several people died, including four small children.

Although both Luke and Jake gave encouraging graveside messages, having to leave the little bodies of their children behind, coupled with the fear of animals discovering them, proved more than the three young mothers in our camp could bear. They wept for days,

and my heart broke right along with them.

Luke soon enlisted my services, and I prayed with the mourning women and helped with their daily chores. Luke said I was a blessing to them. Oddly, in assisting them, my own heart began to heal. When Mrs. Schlyterhaus took ill with the fever, I nursed her back to health as well. Both Luke and Jake said they didn’t know what they’d have done without me.

As for Mrs. Schlyterhaus, Jake has decided that, although her health is improving, she will remain here in Santa Fe permanently. He has arranged for her to stay with a missionary family and work as their housekeeper. Mrs. Schlyterhaus is very accepting of this arrangement, although I will miss her. She has softened considerably since leaving Milwaukee and has come to realize how unhappy she has been since her husband’s death. But she said the thought of another four weeks traveling through Indian territory frightens her senseless.

In truth, it frightens me also. But, as Luke is fond of saying, God does not give us the spirit of fear, and from the human standpoint, he and Jake have taken precautions to ensure our safety. He hired a guide— a physician named Frank Bandy, one of the few white men who have made peace with the Apaches. The Indians allow him passage through their territory because he has been able to minister medically to their people.

But, alas, I must stop writing for now as there are numerous tasks I would like to accomplish—although if Luke discovers I am not resting, I may have some explaining to do.

Journal entry: Monday, October 7

I have discovered I keep a poor journal. Truth is, I forgot about my diary these past months as it has been tucked away in my trunk of belongings. However, this morning I shall do my best to bring the events up to date. I fully recovered from my journey and now spend much of my time becoming familiar with my surroundings and the people here. We arrived in Silverstone on August 27, and I had only a few days to prepare the classroom as school began on Monday, the second of September. I have thirteen children in my class, ranging from first to eighth grades. Three of my students are from one family. They lost their mother just a few short months ago in childbirth. I hope to be able to help them deal with their loss as they might prove to be the brightest children under my tutelage this year.

Meanwhile, the Arizona heat has been ghastly. Rain compounded the misery by turning everything to mud. I doubt I shall ever get used to this place. I find myself looking forward to my cool baths every morning at the break of dawn when several of us women go down to the riverbank, as is the custom of the Mexican women here. The muddy water looks red and the river’s current is swift; however, after wilting in the previous day’s heat, it is a welcomed respite. Silverstone itself is located twenty miles north of Arizona City and the Yuma Crossing on the Colorado River. Beyond the town the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. The majestic mountaintops seem to touch an ever-azure sky, and the swirling red river water flows beneath them. But the town is an eyesore by comparison. It’s a hot, dusty, unpainted freight town. The people here are an odd mix of prospectors, ranchers, freighters, Mexicans, and Indians, and they keep Main Street (if it may be called such a thing) lively with regular brawls, which I abhor.

On one side of the rutted, unpaved road there is an adobe government building, which houses the sheriff and a jail. Ironically, right next door, there is a rickety wooden saloon called Chicago Joe’s and, above it, a house of ill repute. On the other side of Main Street is the Winters’ Boardinghouse, in which I am presently residing. The Winters also operate a dining room and the post office. Beside their place is a dry-goods store and next to it a freight office and a bank. Luke maintains the church at the end of the thoroughfare and delivers the Sunday morning message each week. Jake does carpentry work when he is not riding the circuit and preaching. Beside the church there stands a small one-room schoolhouse, where I teach.

As one might guess, the two sides of Main Street are largely at odds with each other. Mrs. Winters says we are the “good” side, and those across the way (particularly the women in the brothel) are the “bad” side—all save for Sheriff Paden Montaño, of course. Silverstone’s sheriff has been commissioned by the United States Army and oversees the shipping and receiving of government freight landed in Silverstone by river steamers. Then it is transported across the Territory by wagon. Sheriff Montaño’s father was a rugged vaquero (cowboy), and his mother was a genteel woman from back East.

I think the sheriff seems to have inherited traits from both parents; however, he is a sight to behold. He is a darkly handsome man with hair so long it hangs nearly to his waist. One would never see such a man in Milwaukee, Wisconsin!

At first glance, he resembles a fierce Indian, but his actions are polite and refined. Like his vaquero father, he is a capable horseman and masterful with a gun. Like his mother, with whom he was raised, he is well educated. Some say Sheriff Montaño is a Mexican and Indian sympathizer, out to use his status as a United States lawman for his own purposes, but Luke says he’s a fair man. I must admit I have found the sheriff to be charming.

And then there is Ralph Jonas, who is quite the opposite. He claims to be a Christian man, but he can be quite disagreeable. His wife died during childbirth just before we arrived in town, and Mr. Jonas is desperately trying to replace her—just as he might replace a mule. I was insulted when he proposed to me, and I find his philosophy on marriage highly distasteful. Thankfully, Luke had a talk with him. I don’t know what he said, but now Mr. Jonas keeps his distance for the most part.

I must admit that I hate it here in Silverstone. I want to return to Jericho Junction. I’m praying the McCabes will find something for me to do there, but first an opportunity will have to present itself. But worse is the next wagon train won’t depart for Missouri again until next spring.

Six months. Six long months.

Will I be able to survive that long, here in this Godforsaken land?

One

Aknock sounded once. Then again, more insistent this time.

“Coming.” Bethany set down the quill and capped the inkwell. Closing her journal, she stood from where she’d been sitting at the desk Jake had crafted for her use. Then, before she could open the door, Trudy poked her round, cherubic face into Bethany’s bedroom.

“Mama says breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Trudy. I’ll be down shortly.”

A grin curved the flaxen-haired girl’s pink mouth. “Reverend Luke and Reverend Jake are already here. Sheriff Montaño is too.”

Bethany wasn’t at all taken aback by the familiar way in which Trudy referred to both Luke and Jake. Because the men shared the same surname, the townspeople called them by their first names.

“I’ll be down shortly.” Walking to the looking glass, Bethany brushed out her long brown hair. It had dried from her earlier bath in the river.

Thirteen-year-old Trudy stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind her. “I’ll bet we’ll hear some lively conversation. Something about cattle stealing. Papa said the Indians have been causing trouble again.”

“Oh, dear.” Bethany tried not to show either her discontent with this town or her unease with the natives of this land.

Prologue

February 1954

Didn’t they know they were shouting so loud the neighbors could hear?

Kristin Taylor huddled in bed, drew her knees to her chest and clapped her hands over her ears. Through the thin wall she heard Daddy’s voice rise and Mom burst into tears. It was past ten o’clock. She was supposed to be asleep, but they woke her. Kristin gritted her teeth and began to hum her favorite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

A moment of peace settled over the brownstone apartment. Kristin smiled and wiped her eyes. It worked every time, even if she couldn’t hit the high notes.

Dad started yelling again. She groaned, pulled the covers over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. They were going to be a while.

Something smashed against the other side of her wall and shattered. More yells. No way to sleep with this racket going on. She sat up and turned on her bedside table lamp.

Kristin hopped off her bed and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her thick flannel robe. Cold air chased her as she quick-stepped across the faded rug to her dresser. She ran her fingers along the stack of books squashed between two hand-carved wooden bookends. The frayed bindings of Heidi, Jane Eyre, Great Expectations and Pride and Prejudice and the Bible she’d received at her confirmation shared space with all the Agatha Christie novels Kristin could get her hands on. Every once in a while Mom came in to clean, found them, and threatened to throw them out, but Daddy wouldn’t let her.

“The child has an inquisitive mind, Val. We should encourage that.”

“And you do a fine job,” Mom retaliated. “She’s only twelve years old! She should be reading something more…genteel…what’s wrong with The Brontë sisters?”

Kristin remembered the Ian Fleming book hidden under her bed and grinned. Dad snuck it in to her room a couple of nights ago. She’d start it now. Hopefully she could finish the whole story before Mom got her hands on it.

Her eyes landed on the silver framed black-and-white image of Daddy getting his Pulitzer two years ago. They said he was probably the youngest journalist to ever receive the award. She should be proud. She was, but Mom didn’t seem so happy about it. Everyone wanted Daddy to go all over the world now.

As their shouts died down again, she heard the distinct sound of drawers being pulled open and slammed shut. So, he was leaving. Her stomach tightened but she ignored disappointment and tried to imagine her father’s exciting world beyond their brownstone apartment. As she waited to see if they’d start up again, a faint cry reached her ears.

Teddy.

Kristin crept down the hall to her brother’s room. The lamp on the dresser shed a soft glow over Teddy’s round face. He sat up in his bed, fists curled into balls held against his chest. His eyes were scrunched tight—as if that would make it stop. He opened one eye as she entered the room, probably afraid she’d make fun of him for being a crybaby.

Not tonight. Tonight she wanted to cry too.

She skipped over Lincoln logs and Tinkertoys and scrambled up onto the bed beside him, eager to get her cold feet under the covers. “Scooch over.”

Teddy’s bottom lip quivered but he made a supreme effort to stop crying, and shifted his small frame to give her room in the twin bed. She put an arm around his trembling shoulders and squeezed.

He let out a long sigh matching her own. “Is…Daddy…gonna leave again?”

Hot tears pricked her eyes and told her she wasn’t so brave after all. But she couldn’t give in. Teddy needed her. Later, Mom probably would too.

“I don’t know. I heard them talking earlier. His editor wants to send him to Vietnam.”

“Vietnam?” Teddy looked up at her, fresh tears pooling. “Where’s that?”

Kristin rolled her eyes but guilt nudged off impatience. He was only ten for crying out loud. Well, almost ten. She couldn’t expect him to know everything. “Some place far away.”

“Why do they want him to go there?”

“Because the French and the Vietnamese are fighting a big war and they want him to check it out.” Because their Dad was the best war correspondent that ever lived. Kristin ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “He has to go talk to some important people and write a story about it.”

Teddy shook his head and tugged on his blanket. “Why can’t somebody else do it? I want Dad to stay here. Tomorrow’s my birthday. We’re going to the ice rink, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

He shivered and leaned against her shoulder. “But he’ll come back, right?”

Kristin screwed up her nose. Couldn’t he figure something out for himself for once?

“Kris?”

“What?”

“He’ll come back, right? And then we’ll go skating?”

She tried to smile but her heart pounded too fast. “Of course he’s coming back. He always comes back, dummy.”

“You promise?”

She hesitated a moment. What if Dad didn’t come back? What would they do then? “I promise. Now can you go back to sleep? It’s getting late.”

Mom and Dad were yelling again. Their voices seemed louder, closer. Kristin scrambled off Teddy’s bed and went to the door. She poked her head out in time to see her parents brush past her. Daddy held a suitcase in one hand, his battered leather briefcase in the other. And his coat was slung over one arm. Would he go without saying goodbye?

Kristin glanced back at Teddy, about to tell him to stay put, but her brother was already behind her, standing barefoot in blue cotton pajamas.

She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

With Teddy squeezing her fingers so hard she thought he might pull them off, she ran down the stairs and drew up short at the entrance to the living room. The French doors were open. Teddy slammed into her and jumped back with a yelp. Mom and Dad turned their way.

Mom let out a little cry and shook her head, then put her mad face on. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“We couldn’t sleep.” Kristin pushed hair out of her eyes and stuck out her chin. “You were making a lot of noise.”

Mom threw up her hands and huffed as she sank onto the couch. Kristin couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear her hair down, but tonight it fell around her cheeks and curled on her shoulders. She would have looked pretty if her face wasn’t so red and her eyes all puffy.

“I would’ve woken them anyway, Val.” Dad’s voice was gruff, but he didn’t sound angry anymore.

Mom glared at Dad, pulled at the belt around her green woolen dress and kicked off her high heels. “All yours then, Mac.”

Dad set his bags down and released a sigh from somewhere deep inside. His lips stretched apart in a feeble attempt at a smile. Dark circles lined his brown eyes and stubble covered his jaw. He looked from her to Teddy as if he didn’t know what to say.

The air suddenly got sucked out of the room, like someone untying the knot of a balloon. Kristin shook her head and yanked the sash of her robe as tight as it would go. Dad dropped to one knee in front of them and held out both arms. “Come here.”

Teddy ran to him. She knew he would. And he’d probably start blubbering again. Kristin folded her arms and pushed her toes into the rug. The goodbyes were the worst part. Try as she might, in the end she never could keep from crying.

Dad concentrated on Teddy. Her brother always believed everything.

She stood there, like playing statues in gym class, listening while Dad gave his excuses. Teddy would be satisfied with promises of season tickets to the Red Sox and a long train-ride from South Station to Grand Central and back, but she didn’t need bribes. She understood his job. Sort of.

Kristin blinked through her tears as her brother threw his arms around Dad’s neck and hugged him tight. Then Mom took Teddy by the hand and led him back upstairs.

Kristin shifted, her feet like ice. She should have put on her slippers. Dad’s knees creaked as he rose and made his way toward her. He reached for her hand but she tightened her arms. A tear escaped and rolled off down her cheek. Kristin lowered her head.

“Oh, Kris.” Dad knelt before her. His hands warmed her arms through the sleeves of her robe. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

Kristin slowly raised her chin until she made eye contact. “Sorry.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

She shrugged, but couldn’t think of a thing.

Kristin noticed for the first time a few streaks of gray in his hair. His white starched shirt sat open at the collar, his thin black tie slightly askew. Dad’s eyes were bright, sad. His mouth lifted in a grin as he wiped a tear from her cheek with the base of his thumb. When she sniffed, moisture shot up her nose. She gave a small involuntary shiver.

“Are you going to Vietnam to write about the war?”

His mouth twitched, like he was surprised she was so smart. Then something chased off the sad look and he smiled. “You’re going to make a fine journalist one day, young lady.”

Kristin raised her shoulders again and pushed out her bottom lip. “Mom won’t let me.”

“Sure she will. By then you’ll be all grown up. Making your own decisions. Leaving your old man in the dust.”

“We could write stories together,” she offered. “Taylor and Taylor.” Her grin faltered as she watched his eyes moisten. Kristin sucked in a breath. Dad never cried.

He pulled her to him and rested his lips against her forehead for a moment. “Sounds good to me.” He sat back on his heels, solemn. “Look after your brother.”

“I always do.”

“And don’t fight with your Mom.”

Kristin looked down, studying the scuffs on his normally shiny shoes.

“Kristin?”

“Okay. I won’t.” She met his eyes again and the lump in her throat got bigger. Her skin prickled. He’d left before. Lots of times. But this felt different. “You’re coming back, right?”

His face cracked in a funny sort of smile. “Of course I am. But you’ll pray for me, every night, just like always?”

“Yeah.” She tried to smile back. “God will keep you safe, Dad. He always does.” Kristin rested her head against his shoulder as he hugged her. She inhaled by habit. Tobacco and coffee mingled with the cologne he always wore. She could never remember the name of it, but they got a bottle for his birthday every year. He said he didn’t mind, but maybe this year they should do something different.

A flash of headlights chased dust across the room. Dad stood, his smile gone. “There’s my cab.”

Mom came forward and Dad took her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered at the same time. Mom stepped back, rested her palm flat against Dad’s face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. His hand came over hers and their eyes met as he pulled her closer and kissed her, a long kiss that seemed to go on forever. Kristin almost felt she shouldn’t be watching. But she was glad she was.

“Why does it have to be tonight?” Mom asked.

Dad shrugged, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “War doesn’t wait on birthdays, Valerie.” Dad pulled on his coat, gave Mom a final kiss and picked up his bags. “I’ll call when I can.” He turned to Kristin. “Bye, kiddo. I love you.”

The little girl in her wanted to run back into her father’s arms and beg him not to go. But she wasn’t a little girl. She would turn thirteen this year. “Bye, Dad. Love you, too.”

Mom walked with him to the door. Kristin raced to the window at the front of the room, pressed her nose against the cold glass and watched him get into the waiting cab.

A light snow swirled around the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp outside their building. Maybe it would storm and his flight wouldn’t be able to leave Boston. Kristin pushed harder against the windowpane. It wouldn’t matter. He’d get another one. His job was very important. More important than anything else.

Even them.

The taxi pulled out onto the deserted street and Kristin squinted through the window. Her breath made it fog up and she wiped furiously, seeing Dad raise a hand in her direction. She waved back just in time before he drove away.

“The past cannot be erased, nor forgotten. Flash photography; hellish images carved into our minds, emblazoned in our hearts forever. Golden threads hold yesterday together and form the foundations for tomorrow.

But what of today?”

Kristin Taylor – Yesterday’s Tomorrow: Vietnam – My Story. 1974.

Chapter One

February 1967, Saigon, Vietnam.

Kristin shuffled along in the line of travel-weary passengers as they exited the plane. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the daylight, shook off sleep and gripped the handrail of the metal steps. When her shoes hit the tarmac of Tan Son Nhut airport, her hand went to the intricately carved cross that hung around her neck. She rubbed the thick gold between her thumb and forefinger and took in her surroundings.

The early morning sun’s rays jack-knifed off the tarred surface. A stifling heat sliced through her sneakers, raced through her and smothered her in its welcoming embrace.

Teddy was right. It was hotter than hell.

The pungent smell of gasoline flooded her senses and stung her eyes. Kristin pulled on dark sunglasses, tried not to breathe too deeply and looked down the runway. She stepped aside to let others pass as she surveyed the area, the slow thumping of her heart picking up its pace as she began taking mental notes.

Aircraft of varying description lined the blacktop. Everything seemed larger in real life, from helicopters to small fighter jets to the Pan American Boeing 707 that had brought her here. Gray, green and brown flying machines blended together in an impressive show of US military power.

It was impossible to imagine jumping aboard any of them. Or jumping out.

Army personnel moved smoothly around the aircrafts, refueling and working on engines. Rows of enlisted men lined up to board a larger plane also being loaded with cargo. Soldiers sweating in the heat heaved supplies on to the plane’s cave-like interior. Commanding Officers barked like dogs to be heard over the noise as they rounded up their companies. She scanned the groups of soldiers and searched their faces. Some looked anxious, their eyes shifty even as their bodies remained stiff, while others seemed impassive, stone-faced and resolute as they stood between the world they knew and a world gone crazy.

During a lull in the activity on the tarmac, a low rumbling somewhere off in the distance reached her ears. Her throat tightened as she turned toward the outline of mountains beyond the airstrip.

The sound of war needed no introduction.

Kristin caught up with the rest of the arrivals and moved along through Immigration, then pushed through the crowded airport to retrieve her bag. Vietnamese men and women dressed in colorful pajama-like clothing darted in and out of the maze of olive-green and khaki uniforms. Strong scents of heady perfume, spicy tobacco and rancid body odor made a tactile assault on her already queasy stomach.

Her eyes tracked the Vietnamese signage while her ears captured the quickly spoken foreign tongue on every side of her. Relief cheered her on as she spied the doors that led out of the airport. She put her passport back into the green canvas knapsack on her shoulder and headed for the exit. Her eyes began to water as her body revolted against her present surroundings. She didn’t have a clue what lay beyond those doors, but she needed air.

The four journalists she met on the flight stood outside on the pavement and she nodded their way. They’d been in Hong Kong for R&R and had been quite happy to chat with her. Their stories fascinated her. Scared her a little, although she wouldn’t admit it. The Frenchman’s tales seemed a bit too dramatic. He wore a teasing look the whole time. Caroline, the only female in the group, hailed from England. She worked for a small newspaper that Kristin had never heard of.

Kristin confessed she wasn’t working for anyone. Yet. This didn’t seem to bother them and they gave her plenty of tips on how to find work.

“Ah, Kristin, chèrie.” There was an odd comfort at the sound of her name being called in the midst of this foreign chaos. The Frenchman, Jean Luc, lumbered over, carrying two large cases. “Have you got your stuff?”

“This is it.” She tugged on a beat-up brown duffel bag. It weighed a ton thanks to her typewriter. But she refused to leave that baby at home. Sweat formed on her brow and a drop rolled down the side of her face.

“You have got a place to stay, oui?”

Kristin swiped sweat out of her eyes. “No, actually, I don’t.” This adventure slowly inched out of her control. “It’s okay. I’ll find a place.”

Jean Luc took a step back and hissed out air. “Oy.” His suitcases hit the ground with a thud and he ran a hand through his slick black shoulder-length hair. A sudden image of him tooling around Provence on a Peugeot made her smile. “Let me talk to my friend.” He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle aimed at the group gathered on the far side of the terminal building. “Caroline, sweetie, a minute please…”

The English girl looked their way. Jean Luc pulled a faded red bandana from the chest pocket of his Safari shirt and wiped his brow as he pointed a finger at Kristin. “You don’t move, oui?”

“Oui.” Not moving sounded pretty good.

He met Caroline halfway and they engaged in a lively debate. She was fluent in French apparently, hand motions and all. Kristin let her bag slide off her shoulder and positioned herself on the top of one of Jean Luc’s large leather cases. Maybe quitting her job at The Daily and hopping a plane to Vietnam wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. But, despite the sheer exhaustion and more than a little trepidation tailing her, it was arguably the most exciting.

Kristin glanced at her watch and calculated the time back in Boston.

Mom would be pacing the living room, holding the letter Kristin left for her or ripping it up. Either way, the next time they saw each other would not be cool.

The worst of it was that her mother actually agreed with Kristin’s chauvinist pig of an editor. Former editor.

Vietnam was no place for a woman.

And then she’d pulled the old religious guilt trip. Had Kristin prayed about it? How did she know it was God’s will for her to go to halfway around the world, into a war zone no less?

What a joke. God didn’t care one way or another. She’d stopped consulting him a long time ago—the day they got the news that Dad had been killed in Vietnam.

Kristin pulled her hair into a ponytail, sweat stinging her eyes. She longed for a cold drink and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, but refused to allow her mind to go there. She needed a plan, a way to get out beyond the city and do what she’d come here to do. Report on the war. Find the truth, whatever it was.

And tell it to anyone who would listen.

Jean Luc returned, his sizeable schnozz glowing like Rudolph’s. “Okay. We have got a plan.”

Caroline stood beside him, a tall leggy blonde with a face so flawless she could be a model, but the wariness in her eyes betrayed the confident smile. “Jean Luc says you need a place to stay.”

Kristin nodded. “That’s right.”

The Grace Kelly lookalike raised a thin eyebrow, lit a cigarette and blew smoke over Kristin’s head. “My roomie’s gone back to New Zealand. It’s a one-bedroom flat, two beds, small kitchen and bathroom, a block away from The Caravelle, a hotel where a lot of the press guys stay. I’m in and out of the city. It’s not The Ritz, but if you’re interested…”

Interested was an understatement. But her savings would last a month or two at best until she got work. “Um. How much…I…”

Caroline smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a job, do you…what was your name again?” She ground her half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement with the heel of her boot, taking along Kristin’s last shred of hope.

“Kristin Taylor.” She pushed herself to a standing position. Although they were probably around the same age, Caroline gave off an air of superiority she hadn’t picked up on earlier. She crossed her arms and shook off insecurity. “I plan to get work as a stringer. I’ll have the money.” For all she knew, the woman could be psychotic. Kristin ran her tongue over dry lips. The alternative was…well, there wasn’t one.

“You know you’ll need press credentials if you want to get anywhere outside the city. I’m sure something will come up though. Listen, why don’t you go have a look at the place? I’ve got to get to a meeting with my boss, but here…” Caroline foraged in her shoulder bag and came up with a notepad and pen. She scribbled, then handed over a piece of paper.

Kristin squinted at the barely legible writing. “Thanks, where—”

“Righto, I’ve got to run. Oh, here’s the key, but the apartment should be unlocked. Madame Dupont, my landlady, does laundry for me. She always forgets to lock the door. Just ignore the mess. I’ll stop by the flat later and we can chat. Cheerio.” Caroline marched off to rejoin her comrades, leaving Kristin to suck air in her perfumed wake.

Jean Luc clapped his big hands together. “Voilà! We can share a cab, oui?”

“Sure. As long as you know where I’m going.” Kristin picked up her bag and allowed a smile. She had a place to stay. Next, a job.

The drive to the apartment building in Saigon turned in to an interminable journey of stopping and starting. The odors inside the beat up blue Renault taxi were almost worse than the airport. Jean Luc grinned and pinched his nose. Kristin leaned a little closer to the open window, seriously wondering about body hygiene in this country.

Men, women and children jostled for space along narrow sidewalks. Peddlers in brightly colored tunics and trousers and large conical shaped hats bowed under the weight of a wooden bar balanced across their shoulders on which a straw basket hung from each side. Avocados piled high in some, while other baskets held bright oranges and some other fruit she didn’t recognize.

Her own heavy duffel bag no longer seemed significant.

Tall trees lined the city sidewalks, their lush branches giving much needed shade from the blistering sun. It was odd to see these massive trees in the city, but then again, she hadn’t known what to expect. They passed rows of concrete buildings, some almost comparable to what she’d left back in Boston, but no skyscrapers. The architecture, especially the churches and the larger houses, appeared French in design, which made sense given the country’s history. The painted shades of blue, peach, pink and yellow put on a happy façade.

She snapped a few photos as they drove. It was tempting to pretend she was merely a tourist on vacation. But this was Vietnam. A place of death—the place her father died—the place where countless others fought for freedom out there beyond the confines of the city. At this very instant men were losing their lives.

Tomorrow she hoped to be taking very different pictures.

As they veered off onto smaller side streets, shops of every description almost sat on top of each other. Striped awnings overhung many of them. They passed a large market where she spotted fruit and vegetable stalls and…oh… Kristin covered her mouth with her hand. What was that?

“You don’t eat from there. Ever.” Jean Luc pointed at the hanging animal carcasses and made a horrible face.

Kristin looked beyond the vile sight and shook her head. “Thanks for the tip, Jean Luc.”

As they drove further along, burnt out shops and dilapidated structures here and there revealed the ravages of war, and its toll on the city. She turned to him, spider legs crawling up her spine. “I thought Saigon was relatively safe.” Her palms were moist against the ripped leather seat of the cab.

The Frenchman grinned and lit a cigarette. “What is relative, chèrie?”

Kristin nodded. “You’re right.” No wimping out. She’d come here to do a job, once she got one, to cover the war. Of course it would have been much easier if her Dan the Pig had just given her that chance. Instead, they’d chosen to send Joe Hines, twice her age and overweight. Joe wouldn’t last a week here.

Kristin stared out the window again. The number of vehicles on the roads startled her. Cars, military jeeps and trucks jammed every bit of the asphalt. Pedal-bikes and motorcycles zipped on by, weaving in and out of the traffic. Gasoline fumes took fresh air prisoner and made breathing a chore. The cab inched along until there was a break in the traffic.

Men pushing pedicabs ran along the side of the road. Kristin flinched each time they passed one, thinking the cab would surely hit it, and send the runner and his passengers flying.

Heat emanated through her pores. She hated the cold, but hadn’t anticipated the oppression of this sauna-like atmosphere. She should listen to her brother more often. Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her jeans and felt for the thin envelope, his last letter to her before she’d left the United States. She wiped sweat from her brow and frowned. He hadn’t revealed his location of course, but she knew he was a combat medic. He could be anywhere. Hopefully she’d find out where and be able to get in touch. After leaving Mom in her wigged-out state, being able to tell her Teddy was alive and well would be the least she could do.

The cab pulled up outside a large white five-story building with a rounded front. The words Hotel Caravelle in large black lettering teetered at the top of the building.

“This is me.” Jean Luc gathered his gear and grasped her hand. “Later, chèrie. Come for a drink, okay?”
“Cool. Thanks.” Kristin watched her only friend in Vietnam disappear through the glass doors of the hotel and fiddled with the cross around her neck. Suddenly she was back in junior high on the first day of a new school, riding the bus for the first time. Alone.

About ten minutes later, the cab shuddered to a stop. Kristin squinted up at the three-storey building in front of her. Distinctly French in architecture, pink paint crumbled in places where the cement had shifted. Two sorry-looking potted palm trees sat sentry on either side of a weathered wooden door. A small brass nameplate read: La Maison Dupont.

Good enough. She paid her driver and made her way inside, entered a small living room area and glanced around. There wasn’t much to see. The worn wallpaper looked like it had once been pink. A tattered Persian rug curled at the edges lay on the floor in front of the reception desk. Two faded rose-patterned easy chairs were positioned in front of a fireplace. Kristin almost laughed at the sight as sweat dripped down her back.

She peered over a raised wooden desk into a miniscule office. “Hello? Madame Dupont?” Nobody answered except a black cat that jumped down from the counter and prowled around her legs. Kristin cringed and moved aside. “Stay out of my way, cat, and we’ll get along just fine.”

She called out again but the place appeared deserted. The smell from the full ashtray on the counter tickled her nose but jogged a sudden memory of her father and served up a fresh shot of courage.

Kristin turned toward the only set of stairs in view. Caroline said her flat was on the second floor, first door on the left. She heaved her bag to her other shoulder and went to the darkened stairway, pushing thoughts of Psycho from her mind.

The stairs creaked under her. A thin carpet runner proved more of a hindrance, bare in spots and easy to trip over. Nails stuck out of the wood and slowed her down as she picked her way over them. At the top, a long dark hallway stretched out into blackness. Where was the light? Two bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. Finding the switch, she flicked it upward. Nothing.

Kristin squinted at Caroline’s instructions in the semi-darkness. Even if she could see the writing, she probably couldn’t read it. She stumbled toward the door on the left. Tried the knob and sure enough, it was open.

She found the switch on the wall and thankfully this time the overhead light came on. Kristin let out a low whistle. This was more than just the mess Caroline had warned her about. A hurricane had ripped through the small apartment. That, or her new roommate was a total slob.

She stepped over piles of clothes and magazines. A large pair of muddy combat boots sat in one corner near the door. She didn’t bother to pull up the blinds as she poked through the boxy rooms—a tiny kitchen and one bedroom with two twin beds. She dumped her bag and looked around. One bed was unmade, sheets tangled every which way. The second bed was covered in a light mauve bedspread, what looked to be freshly folded sheets sitting on the single pillow. Heaven.

The battered-looking dresser was cluttered with newspapers, camera film and notebooks. A cramped bathroom tiled in white lay off the bedroom. A shower just big enough for one thin person, a cast iron claw-foot tub and toilet took up most of the space. She didn’t dare pull back the shower curtain. Towels lay strewn across the floor. Judging by the musty smell that filled the room, they’d been there a while. But the small circular tiles on the wall sparkled and coaxed a smile. Perhaps she could just live in the bathroom.

Thirst scratched her throat as she retraced her steps to the kitchen. Her hand shook as she turned the tap. It squeaked and sputtered, then spat out a slow stream of water. Kristin frowned at the brown tinge. She washed her hands but decided not to drink it. She’d have to boil water to keep in the fridge. Assuming there was one.

A brief scan of the room revealed a cubic four by four, almost hidden behind the door. Bits of rust showed through the white paint. She pulled the handle, opened the door and quickly shut it again, gagging as the odor of sour milk reached her nose.

Back in the living room Kristin surveyed the mess. Ear-splitting honks from the street below startled her. Closing the window would be out of the question. An upward glance showed her a ceiling fan, and she tugged the cord. The groan and shudder it gave made her jump out of range, but the blades began to move and warm air circled around her. Better than nothing.

Kristin went back into the bedroom, her muscles aching. Maybe she could take a nap while she waited for Caroline to show up. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. The empty bed looked inviting. Another yawn overtook her. And suddenly sleep was the only thing that made sense.

~

Luke Maddox entered his apartment, chucked his duffel bag across the living room and shuddered as a yawn escaped him. Jonno sauntered in after him.

“Holy cow, what happened in here? Looks like a tornado hit the place, man.”

Luke ignored his friend’s observations and made for the kitchen. He yanked on the rusted fridge door, scanned the contents and quickly stepped back. Whatever he’d left in there had died a slow and painful death. Moldy cheese, maybe. Combined with milk—yellow milk, and…well, he didn’t know what that was. Something green and slimy, definitely not edible. Only a jug of boiled water hiding on the bottom shelf remained safe. Madame came in to refill it every morning.

He shut the door and let out the breath he’d been holding. “There’s no grub. I haven’t been home in a while. Sorry.” He returned to the living room to find Jonno already stretched out on the couch.

“Too tired to eat anyway. I’m just gonna…sleep.” Jonno turned on his side, pulled an issue of Time from under his head and dropped the magazine to the floor.

“Okay.” Luke pushed his fingers through his hair and frowned. Dirt was embedded in his pores. He knew if he looked in the mirror his face would be covered in the red soil they’d ripped over for half the night. He’d shower and get some sleep too.

If he could shut his mind off long enough.

He clenched his jaw and strode over to the window, pulled the camera strap over his head and set the Nikon down on the round table. Photographs covered almost the entire wooden surface. He poked at the black and white prints with a grimy finger.

Glancing over his shoulder, Luke saw Jonno’s eyes flutter closed. He turned back to the table, pushed the pictures out of the way and retrieved a small leather wallet hidden beneath them. He never took it with him. Couldn’t risk losing it.

He flipped it open and allowed his eyes to rest on the familiar smiling images. Melissa’s two year-old cheeky grin tugged at his heart. The dull ache in his chest returned.

“Y’all get any good shots yesterday?” Jonno’s Southern drawl drifted across the room.

A smile inched up one corner of Luke’s mouth and he pushed the wallet back under the other pictures. “Thought you were asleep.”

Silence. Another yawn from Jonno.

“Luke?”

“What?” He placed his palms flat on the table and drew in a breath. He blinked a couple of times. Couldn’t remember when he’d last slept.

“Do you ever wonder if…if it’s the right thing to do?”

Luke pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and squared his shoulders. It wasn’t that he couldn’t answer the question. He did answer it, every day, each time he went back out there and stepped into hell. But lately his answers weren’t as consistent as they used to be.

His pulse throbbed through a tendon in his jaw and he rubbed the bruised spot. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “I can have you transferred to somebody else. Just say the word.”

“Nah.” Jonno grunted. “Don’t sweat it. I’m cool.”

“Okay. Sleep. I’m going to shower.”

~

Kristin stirred from deep slumber. Still in her jeans and t-shirt, she glanced around the darkened room, getting her bearings. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Then bolted upright.

‘You’re listing to Armed Forces Radio, Vietnam. Current time is 9.0.0. We’re looking for a high of ninety-eight degrees today, folks. Now, here’s a little Rolling Stones to get you going this fine morning. ‘It’s Not Easy’. You all stay safe out there…’

The radio. Kristin ran a hand down her face and let out her breath. Caroline must have

arrived. Male laughter filtered through the closed door. And brought some friends back with her.

She worked the kinks out of her neck, pushed herself off the bed and wandered barefoot across the threadbare carpet out into the next room.

“Don’t move.”

Kristin jumped back and stared down the barrel of a small pistol.