Prologue

April 1881: Near Lee's Ferry, Utah—on the bank of the Colorado River

A rifle shot split the air with a crack.

The sound halted Maddie in her step, and she looked around for the source. Maybe Peter or James had bagged some game for dinner—a wild rabbit, perhaps. It would taste good after eating dried fruit and jerky for nearly two weeks. But something told her that wasn't right. The shot did come from the river, where animals would be drinking, she thought.

Curious, she picked up her pace, hurrying to the river with a water pail in each hand. A second blast rang out, this one accompanied by a cry—a man's cry. Her heart speeding up, Maddie dropped the buckets and ran to the river. Just as she rounded the last rise, she saw an Indian walking with his gun leveled at Roland, who gripped his upper arm with one hand. His horse whinnied with fear and pulled at its lead rope tied to a shrub. Feet frozen in place, Maddie took a sharp breath when she realized Roland had been shot. As the Indian drew closer, Roland held his hands as if in surrender.

"Please . . ."

Before he could say another word, a third shot blasted and sent Roland staggering backward. He collapsed to the ground.

Horror washed over Maddie; she couldn't even scream as she stared at Roland grasping his chest. She couldn't breathe either, only gaze at her beloved fiancé as a dark circle spread across his shirt. The Indian simply stood there, looking as calm as the wisp of smoke curling from the tip of his rifle.

A cry finally ripped from her throat. "Roland!"

The Indian's face snapped to the side, and he stared at her. He wore a torn shirt, buckskin leggings, and moccasins. His brown skin sparkled with sweat in the springtime sun. In one smooth motion, he raised the rifle, leveling it toward Maddie. She sucked in her breath and stared at him, hating the man for shooting Roland. Defiant, she dared him to try the same with her. Her knees threatened to buckle with fear, and for a moment she thought she might faint, but she refused to show it on her face. When she didn't flinch, the Indian lowered the gun and looked at her, clearly surprised she hadn't run. Even this close, he seemed to have no life in his black eyes—no emotion, no regret, only a fierce glare that seemed to imply that he took what he wanted when he wanted it. A shiver went down Maddie's back, knowing he could do anything. The man grabbed the lead rope on Roland's horse, drawing the animal away from the river. In one swift movement he mounted the horse and rode away, throwing a final, threatening glare over his shoulder.

As he galloped off, Maddie regained the use of her legs. She raced to Roland's side, stumbling over rocks and holding her skirts high. She sank to the ground and leaned over him, caring nothing for staining her dress. She held his head between her hands and tried to make eye contact. "Roland? Roland!" His eyes were half open, but they couldn't focus.

His breathing was labored and frighteningly shallow. Blood soaked his shirt. "Roland, please talk to me."

Hurried footsteps sounded behind her, and she looked back to see James and Peter, running at full tilt from camp. "What happened?" James asked breathlessly as they arrived at the scene.

"Move over," Peter demanded of Maddie. "Let me check him." He edged her aside to examine the wounds.

Maddie pulled back only slightly and watched, praying that Peter could save the man she loved. Her hands clasped together at her chest, and she felt Roland's ring. The reminder made her clutch her fingers so tightly that the band bit into her skin.

How far were they from a doctor? She had no idea but guessed too far. Days and days away from St. George, where she and Roland were to be married in the temple—but her thoughts stopped there. She couldn't let herself think about that now.

Trying to retard the flow of blood, Peter pushed his fist into the worst of the wounds. But the color in Roland's face was draining. A heaviness in her chest told Maddie that it might already be too late. The thought made her cover her mouth as a wail choked her.

Roland managed to look over at her. "Maddie." His voice was breathless, and with it came bubbles of blood from the corners of his mouth.

She pushed Peter to the side and knelt against Roland. "What is it?"

His mouth opened a fraction of an inch, but he didn't say another word. Instead, his body went limp, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"No!" Terror swept through Maddie, and she began patting Roland's face. "Open your eyes, Roland! You can't leave me." Her voice rose as she cried, "You can't!" She began pushing against his chest, frantically shaking his body to try to bring him back.

Peter and James tried to pull her away, but she yanked out of their grasp with ferocity. "Don't!" She patted Roland's face again. "You'll be fine. Just look at me. Talk to me. Breathe!" She waited for a response, and when none came, she sat on her heels and looked up into the heavens.

"Father, make him breathe! Please!"

Sobs overtook her, and she lowered her head beside Roland's, holding his head in her hands. The reality of his death suffocated her as she wept.

He was gone. And there was nothing she could do about it.

"Maddie, go with Ellen." Peter spoke softly and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. His voice broke through a hazy fog into Maddie's consciousness. She didn't know when her sister had arrived or how much time had passed since the moment her life had changed forever. In a matter of days, they would have been sealed for eternity. She looked up at her older sister, whose tears had washed rivulets into her dusty cheeks.

"Come with me," Ellen said, urging Maddie to her feet. Dazed, Maddie took a few steps toward camp. But the thought of abandoning Roland by the river kept her from moving farther. She couldn't walk away from him, not yet. She tugged her hand from her sister's and stepped backward, shaking her head and wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't."

She sank to Roland's side, then stroked his face lovingly and closed his eyes. The action made her squeeze her own eyes shut as uncontrollable pain welled up inside her chest. "I love you, Roland, more than life itself! I always will." She pressed his hand to her cheek and kissed the back of it, tears falling onto their hands as she rocked back and forth in despair.

Chapter One

Salt Lake City, Utah—August 25, 1883
Almost two and a half years later

"Lazy good-for-nothing Lamanite. Ruined my plow."

"What do you expect, hiring one of them?"

The voices stopped Abe mid-step. The paper in his hand crinkled as his hands fisted. Teeth clenched, he looked to the side of the road where two men stood talking as they leaned against a fence. Did they realize he was there, or was it pure coincidence that he, a so-called "Lamanite" by birth, happened to be walking by at that moment?

The men caught his eye and stared him down. For one wild moment, Abe wanted to lash out and tell them his mind. But that would only validate their view of Indians. Better to move on, say nothing—especially for his mother's sake. If he made a ruckus, it would impact her as well.

It's not just me anymore, he reminded himself.

Jaw working, he unclenched one hand, nodded in their direction, and forced his mouth to curve into what he hoped looked like an easy smile. "Good day," he said, then kept walking, his cheeks burning with anger.

After rounding a bend in the road, Abe let out a big breath. This was supposed to be his home, and yet, as an adopted Shoshone, he knew he'd always be an outsider. Always had been, always would be. To everyone but his mother.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and continued down the road, trying hard to shake the look of distrust in the men's eyes. His thoughts were so preoccupied that he didn't notice the young woman walking toward him until he bumped into her.

She pulled back in surprise, dropping a package. "Oh, excuse me." She bent down to pick up the parcel, but Abe had already reached for it.

"I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry," he said, holding the package out to her. His hand paused as he looked at her for the first time, and his heart lurched. She looked so much like Lizzy. The same playful smile, the way she swept her hair off her neck. She even had similar brown eyes. Eyes that held no fear when she looked at him, though they surely saw someone different from herself. It was the same refreshing lack of prejudgment he had found in Lizzy.

"Thank you," she said with a nod, gently tugging the package away from him. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled as she continued on down the road. Abe stood there staring at the bumps and divots in the dirt. Would he ever get over Lizzy? He hadn't seen her in what, about four years? And every time he thought he had moved on, something happened to remind him that his heart still belonged to a girl in Logan—a girl who was now married to someone else.

With a grunt of frustration, Abe kept walking toward the pharmacy on an errand for his mother. I've been home a full year now, he thought. And I can't take it anymore. He had thought at first that being in Salt Lake would be easier—at least here he was known as Clara Franklin's son, not an "outsider" as he had been in Logan. And here there weren't the constant reminders of Lizzy, who would never be his. But there were reminders enough.

And he was still miserable. Maybe it was time again to discuss with his mother the idea of moving to California. He walked on toward the pharmacy, his mind troubled with every step. Just as he rounded the final corner, a voice boomed from the front of the store.

"Drop the rifle!"

Abe came to an abrupt halt, nearly bowled over in shock at the scene before him. Three men stood together, looking into the barrel of a rifle held by a Negro man. Abe recognized the speaker, the man in the center, as Marshal Burt. At his sides were Wilcken, who had been a bodyguard to Brother Brigham, and Brother Elijah, a faithful Negro Saint.

The anger in the gunman's eyes sent a shiver down Abe's back. The man wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger, Abe was sure of it. A coldness in his eyes told Abe that this wasn't the first time he'd aimed a gun to kill.

"Sam Harvey, there's no reason for this."

"Then why're you trying to cart me off to jail?" Sam sneered, his gun still pointed at the marshal.

"Because you pulled out a pistol, then threatened Grice and his patrons, that's why," Marshal Burt said, his voice surprisingly calm and even. He had his own weapon out, but his face had drained of color. "We're just trying to keep the peace. You've had a bit too much to drink. I suppose you're not thinking as clear as you should. So I'll say it one more time—drop the gun."

As he stepped forward, the gunman took a matching step. A bright flash exploded from the end of his rifle, sending the marshal reeling backward, clutching his chest. Hazy smoke curled from the tip of the gun. The shot missed Wilcken by inches, but he didn't flinch. Before the smoke had cleared, he jumped forward and wrested the weapon away from Sam. He threw it to the side, where Abe kicked it out of reach. Sam took a step back, fear registering in his eyes as he looked around. People were watching him, and Wilcken was coming for him. Sam glanced at his gun, lying on the ground behind Abe, then took another step and had started to turn when Wilcken and Elijah pounced on him, one of them gripping him by the throat.

"You don't think you're gonna get away after shooting the marshal, do ya?" Wilcken said between huffs.

"Let me go!" Sam roared, trying to yank his arms away. The men continued to fight, saying nothing between kicks, punches, and the occasional curse.

Behind the scuffle, Marshal Burt staggered backward into the pharmacy, blood flowing from both sides of his chest. The bullet had gone in one arm, through his torso, and into the other arm, leaving him with several bleeding wounds. Through the pharmacy window, Abe could see the marshal collapse on the floor. Abe had to grasp a door frame so his knees wouldn't completely give out.

More cries from Wilcken, Elijah, and Sam brought Abe back to the scuffle. He glanced around at the crowd; some had run screaming at the first shot but had since returned. Dozens of people watched tentatively, but seemingly assured that all would turn out right. A few men hesitated on the fringes as if wanting to help but not sure what to do.

A second shot cracked the air, and Wilcken let out a cry. He gripped his left arm and stumbled away. Sam boldly stepped forward, holding a pistol at arm's length and pressing it against Wilcken's body. His finger moved on the trigger, ready to release another round.

With strong hands Elijah grabbed the pistol away just in time. Sam brought his arm back, aiming a punch, but Elijah ducked. Abe rushed forward. If they could only get Sam onto the ground, they could tie him up and wait for the authorities. Abe focused on Sam's arms. Who knew if the man had yet a third weapon to brandish.

Abe held onto Sam's right arm with all his might, trying to pull it behind his back and hold it there. The smell of alcohol and Sam's unwashed body came over Abe like a cloud, making his nostrils burn. He had to stifle a gag and focus on keeping the man under control, but Sam managed to work one arm free, landing a punch square on the right side of Abe's head, making his ear ring and his head pound as he held on.

"No you don't, Harvey." Wilcken had reentered the fray, grabbed the arm, and yanked it behind Sam's back, making their captive wince with pain. Blood poured from Wilcken's arm, but he didn't back down. He pushed Sam's elbow up, twisting it from its natural position and making the man cry out and fall to his knees. Even then he wouldn't be subdued. He lashed out with his legs, making Abe and Elijah dodge kicks until they shoved him face-first into the ground. Wilcken turned his face toward Elijah, looking pale and disoriented—clearly ready to pass out.

"I got him," Elijah said, taking Wilcken's hold on the arm before he fainted. Wilcken stood, staggered to a building, and leaned against it, cradling his arm. Sam writhed on the ground, threatening violence. As Abe helped hold Sam down, he feared that he and Elijah wouldn't be able to subdue him for long; Sam was surprisingly strong. The punch to Abe's head had him seeing stars, and he worried he'd pass out.

"We need more help!" he called. A man hesitated only a moment before adding his strength in holding down Sam Harvey. Several other men rushed forward, allowing Elijah to get off Sam and tie him hog-style. Sam still pulled against the restraints, fighting like a mad dog.

"I'm tellin' ya, Sam Harvey," Elijah called as he pulled the ropes tighter and ducked to avoid a kick. "Stop fightin' and ye won't get hurt." With Sam secured, Elijah stood back, hands on his waist as he puffed with exertion.

Abe stood and let out a shaky breath as he stepped backward, thinking just how much worse the situation could have been if Elijah hadn't taken away the pistol when he did. Abe tried to rub his hands, but they wouldn't stop shaking. He turned away, still trying to catch his breath, when he heard snippets of stunned conversation around him.

"Who got shot?"

"That's Brother Wilcken."

"Who else? I heard another shot."

"I think it was the bishop."

"No! Are you sure?"

"Wasn't it the marshal?"

"The marshal is a bishop."

The onlookers continued to gasp and point at Sam Harvey on the ground, Wilcken rocking by the sidewalk, and then the pharmacy, where Marshal Burt lay. As Abe looked from the crowd to the spectacle, his throat grew dry.

The officers arrived in two wagons, and the crowd made way. The law men hopped off and quickly took control of the situation. They dragged Sam to the first wagon. Two men picked him up and tossed him into it like so much cargo, Sam landing on the wooden planks with a thud and a groan. Another man emptied the ammunition from the offending rifle then threw the gun into the wagon beside the perpetrator, muttering, "Stupid Negro."

A fellow officer nodded. "What did he think he was doing coming to Utah anyway? His kind don't belong here."

The words pierced Abe. So this wasn't just about a murdered bishop.

Several men jumped on board, but instead of taking seats, they took turns kicking Sam. With each blow, he cried out and curled up in pain, which only spurred the men on more. Nausea bubbled up, and Abe covered his mouth, turning away. He couldn't believe what he was seeing—or hearing. Sam Harvey may have been a cold-blooded killer, but these men were no better. Some in the crowd applauded.

"You show him, brothers!" one called out. "No Negro's gonna kill our bishop and get away with it."

They left the second wagon behind for the injured, and moved the first one out. The wheels creaked as Sam Harvey was taken away. A good number from the crowd followed behind the wagon. The shooter was in custody—surely that was the end of the spectacle. Why were they following? The thought made Abe's stomach clench.

A moment later a doctor raced through the street, carrying his black bag. "Where's Burt?" he demanded. Abe pointed to the pharmacy, and the doctor raced to the door. But he stopped when he saw Wilcken and knelt down to probe the wounds.

"Is it just this arm, or are you hurt elsewhere?"

Blood trickled from Wilcken's upper arm, but he didn't look at it. Pale and visibly shaken, his voice remained clear. "Burt." He nodded into the pharmacy. "Check him first."

Dr. Benedict glanced over his shoulder. His brow furrowed as he turned back and hastily tied a handkerchief around Wilcken's arm to staunch the bleeding before entering the pharmacy. Abe stood in the doorway, watching as Dr. Benedict stepped inside and worked over the injured marshal. Even though Abe could only see the marshal's feet, there was a dark red pool around him. Something in the doctor's expression said that Marshal Burt wasn't long for this world.

With solemnity, the doctor reached forward and closed the marshal's eyes. "Bishop Burt is dead," he said in a low voice as he stood. He glanced at the waiting crowd outside and sighed. Abe felt his stomach sink. He stepped closer and lowered his head in respect. The doctor withdrew a handkerchief, opened it, and covered the marshal's face. Then Abe, Dr. Benedict, and several other men helped carry the body to the waiting wagon.

At seeing the body of their beloved marshal and bishop, the crowd began to moan and gasp. Abe saw a woman cover her face with her hands and burst into sobs.

"I say hang!" came a gruff voice from the street. "Who goes with me?"

A chorus of people calling, "I do! I do!" followed.

Hanging? Abe's stomach flipped over, and as soon as the marshal's body was safely inside the wagon, he stepped back into the shadows, a shudder going through him. The feeling increased as the sentiment gained acceptance. As he stood in the pharmacy doorway, his hand gripped the frame. What were they thinking? Wasn't this a people whose own Prophet had been slaughtered by a mob only a few decades earlier? Shouldn't they recognize the need for justice through the courts, even if it was one of their own bishops who had been murdered?

The sheer energy in the air mounted as anger and outrage became almost palpable. Abe glanced around at people eyeing him furtively in a way he recognized all too well. Their eyes narrowed as they stared at his black hair and brown skin. He was an outsider for sure. Fear prickled his scalp, and he eased a few steps backward. He wasn't a Negro, but he was different, and plenty of people regarded any of his race with suspicion. Just like they did Sam Harvey.

Only I've done nothing, Abe thought as he pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and scanned the crowd, wondering how Elijah felt, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Must have hightailed it out of here, Abe thought. Not a bad idea.

"Let's go tell 'em about the marshal!" The suggestion came anonymously from the crowd, but almost everyone seemed to agree, and the throng began moving toward city hall, where Sam would be searched in the marshal's office. Abe thought of Sam Harvey in the wagon, the men who had followed it, and now the people headed that way who wanted Sam hanged.

"Kill him!" This time the call came from a young voice, and Abe looked over in shock and horror to see a boy of no more than ten punching his hand in the air just as his father did beside him. "He killed a bishop!"

"Stop!" a voice called from the middle of the crowd. Only a few people heeded it; most kept walking, but a handful paused and looked back at the man speaking. He was probably in his thirties, with blond hair and a moustache. Abe didn't recognize him, but the man was clearly frustrated. "I said stop! You can't do this. We can't do this. Let the law see to the man. Trust that he'll get justice."

"We'll see that he gets justice," came a faceless response from somewhere in the crowd. Most of those who had paused continued going toward the city hall.

The blond man jumped on top of a hitching post and tried again, calling at the top of his lungs. "Are you going to let a murderer turn you into the same thing he is? Are you? Is that what we've lived and taught?"

Someone walked by and pushed the man, who fell off the post and onto the wooden sidewalk. He grunted and sat up, the look on his face one of defeat. Abe crossed the road and helped the man to his feet.

"At least you tried," Abe said. "Thank you."

"Didn't do any good," the man said with a shrug. He headed in the opposite direction of the crowd, and Abe almost followed, but something kept him connected to the mob going the other way. He had to know what lay in store for the mob and the man they hated. He slipped into the crowd and tried to blend in, but knew he'd stand out no matter what he did. Perhaps it didn't matter—the crowd was so focused on their goal.

"What's a person like him doing here anyway?" a woman beside him asked her friend.

For a moment Abe thought she meant him, then realized she referred to Sam Harvey.

"He's a vagrant, just come from Ogden or someplace up north," came the response of a man near her. "He was out of work but refused a farm job, they say. Bickered in Grice's restaurant or something."

"No surprise. Don't know what else you can expect from colored folks but laziness."

"Naturally," a friend of hers agreed with a shudder. "They all make me nervous."

The first woman tilted her head. "Except the ones who're Saints, of course." Her tone implied charitable acknowledgment. "They're different. Like Sister James."

"Oh, of course," came her friend's reply.

So drawing lines by race and religion makes it all acceptable? Such talk made Abe's heart cold and heavy. As he walked along the street and listened to several such conversations—hat still pulled low—he never once heard anyone refer to Sam by name. He was only the Negro, the colored man, or worse.

A year ago Abe's mother had asked him to give the Saints a chance. "We're not all like your father," she had assured him.

Unfortunately, enough were.

Heartsick, Abe felt drawn to continue with the crowd, to not leave Sam. Both curiosity and shock drew him along as they walked to the city hall. The crowd grew in number, and by the time they reached First South, Abe could hardly see where it began—there had to be a couple thousand people by now. He snaked his way closer to the front, afraid for Sam. But when Abe arrived at the building, the wagon was nowhere to be seen.

A few moments after the crowd had gathered before the city hall, someone ran inside the building and yelled, "He killed the marshal!" The man turned back to the throng and repeated the words. "The Negro killed our marshal!"

The people were getting antsy—they wanted some action.

"Get a rope!"

"Hang the heathen!"

"I bet they're moving him out the back door to the jailhouse. Let's go get him!"

Another voice was so quiet Abe almost missed it. An elderly woman a few feet to his left was shaking her head and holding a handkerchief to her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. "Is it come to this?" she cried, presumably to herself. "Oh, Brother Joseph, at least you aren't here to see this!"

The crowd stampeded down an alley on State Street to the yard between the city hall and the jailhouse. At the door, Officer Salmon met the crowd.

"You are hereby ordered to disband," he yelled at them. "Go home. This is a matter for the law to decide."

As he looked over the yard, his eyes shifted back and forth. The crowd jeered and cried out, mocking him for his weakness, demanding he turn over the murderer. He took a step back, obviously unsure what to do with the number of people screaming at him. Half a dozen men pushed forward, grabbed the officer, and fought briefly before tossing him to the side and rushing into the jailhouse. The mob cheered. Abe looked around, hoping to find another kind face in the crowd, but the woman had left, and everyone else had wide eyes and faces flushed with rage and energy.

The men raced into the jailhouse and moments later dragged out Sam Harvey. He tried to walk, but his legs kept buckling beneath him, so the men resorted to dragging him. Sam's face was red and swollen, and his lips bled as they pulled him.

The crowd cheered, and the anger in Abe's chest intensified. Someone cut leather straps from a horse's harness and passed them into the crowd. Like a wave on the sea, onlookers raised their arms to keep the straps moving forward, and Sam's captors grabbed them. A man tried to tie them into a noose, but they were too short.

"A whip!" someone called, and the man obliged, using the straps to beat Sam while someone else found a rope to be the noose. Sam grimaced with each stroke, eyes filled with fear as he strained against his bindings.

This can't be happening, Abe thought in shock. Surely of all people . . . They won't really . . .

But his disbelief gave way to horror when his eyes saw the truth. Men from the front of the mob gripped Sam under his arms and dragged him to a stable shed at the end of the yard. Sam fought with all his might, his heels making chaotic tracks in the dirt as he kicked. They opened the stable doors wide so more people could see the spectacle. By the time they had the rope secured on a beam, Sam's body was almost spent from fighting. They tied him, hoisted him up, then stepped back to view their handiwork. The mob roared their approval.

The sudden loss of air sent Sam struggling against the ropes and groping at the restraints. Abe wanted to scream, to run into the stable loft and cut Sam down. But fear kept him from moving; if he were to say or do anything, his fate might be the same. And Sam wouldn't be any better off.

When Sam's body finally went limp, Abe felt bile rise in his throat, and he turned away to retch onto the dirt road. He stayed there, doubled over, his eyes pressed closed as he tried to catch his breath. A moment later, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbled away from the crowd, too sick to view the dead man and hear the cheers.

He ran hard all the way home, arms and legs pumping to take him away. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder, afraid someone might be following him—someone who might see him as another intruder, another threat. With the farm in sight, he scrambled behind an old oak tree and collapsed against the trunk. Holding his head in his hands, he tried to catch his breath as tears streamed down his face.

I've never felt at home here, he thought. But now, am I even safe among the Saints?

He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Saints. Ha.

What would they do next—to someone like him, another not of their race, not of their religion? Abe glanced over his shoulder, horror still coursing through his veins.

Enough.

With or without his mother, he had to leave. And the sooner the better.