Chapter One

Logan, Utah—August 1877

A heavy cough from the other room forced Lizzy to lay aside her journal. She swung her legs to the floor and hurried to six-year-old David's side.

"I thought you were asleep," Lizzy said, reaching for the spare blanket at the base of his bed. She wrapped it around her little brother as he coughed again. "You're going to catch cold."

"I already have a cold, Lizzy, remember?" David attempted a laugh and started a new round of coughing. She sat down and held him until the attack subsided. The doctor had warned the family that David's condition might develop into pneumonia, but no one talked much about the prospect, as if fearing to tempt fate.

"I couldn't sleep," David whispered. His eyes looked particularly haggard tonight. Lizzy felt his forehead. He was very hot, but he shivered and his hands were cold.

David peered around her to where candlelight spilled out of her room. "Didn't Mama tell you last night that we couldn't spare the candles?" He gave her a weak grin.

Lizzy's parents had been after her to go to bed early, saying she was too tired in the mornings and that they couldn't spare the extra candles. But with the rest of the family away at Grandmother Pearson's funeral, Lizzy had made an exception. She stayed home with David because he was too ill to travel, and since no one else would be using any candles over the next couple of days, an extra for herself wouldn't be missed.

"All right, I'll go to bed. But not until you're asleep." Lizzy wagged a finger at her brother.

"Could you get me a drink of water first?"

"Of course."

Lizzy made a move to stand, but David went on. "And I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep unless you read me something . . . please?"

His puppy-dog eyes tugged at Lizzy's heart strings. "If you insist." She picked him up and carried him into her room. After she set him down, David scooted to the far side of the bed—his usual spot for listening to Lizzy read. She climbed in next to him, and he snuggled into the crook of her arm. He closed his eyes as if going to sleep. Brushing David's hair out of his face, she felt a pang of sadness.

Brother Sorensen had helped administer to David again before her family left. She didn't see what good it did. The first blessing hadn't made a difference either. She wondered if her own doubts were part of the problem; perhaps she shouldn't be around during the blessings. But David always insisted that his sister hold him, so she had, pretending to believe but instead resenting God for allowing her brother to be so sick.

Perhaps, she thought, as David seemed to drift back to sleep, her own faith had been stronger at David's age. But she had lost it somewhere in her twenty years. Lost it somewhere wasn't exactly true. Lizzy could list the dozens of small moments that had compounded the problem. The first memory came from when she was ten years of age and had broken her foot the day before the school picnic. She prayed all night for her foot to be miraculously healed as her mother's had been on the journey to Zion. But by morning Lizzy's foot was swollen and purple. Instead of racing to the picnic, she watched from the window as her classmates skipped along the road to school without her. Ten years later Lizzy could see the silliness in expecting such a prayer to be answered, but she still remembered the sting of disappointment all the same.

At age twelve Lizzy had lost the necklace given to her by her best friend, Joshua. At the time the necklace was her most prized possession.

"It's for you, Beth," Joshua had said, using his pet name for her. He'd adopted it years ago to distinguish Lizzy from his sister Elizabeth, who also went by "Lizzy." He'd put it around her neck. "It's only made of glass, but I think it's pretty."

"It's beautiful," Lizzy had said, fingering the beads. "Look! The sun makes it sparkle. I'll pretend they're diamonds." She wore the necklace to church meetings, parties, and community dances. Until the day it was lost. One day after church Lizzy had put it on her bedside table, and in the morning it was gone. She must have prayed a dozen times for help finding it, but to no avail. Lizzy still wondered if her cousin Jimmy had taken it as a prank and then forgotten about it, as was his nature. Her fingers went up to the golden chain around her neck, another gift from Joshua on her sixteenth birthday, which she wore always for safekeeping.

As she looked at her innocent brother, she tried not to remember the most painful incident, the one that had started her doubt in the promises of her family's faith. It had happened when she was only six years old—when she was still so believing, so trusting. Just like David.

Shortly after Lizzy's third birthday, Richard Junior was born. Another brother, named for her grandfather Josiah, had died at birth, but Lizzy had been too young to remember him. Even so, she could never forget Richard's chubby legs as he crawled around the house. As he grew, she loved being a second mother to him, toting him around, feeding him, pretending he was hers, even with only three year's age difference between them. By the time Lizzy was six, Richard was constantly running and getting himself into trouble. That was also when he contracted polio.

At the time, Lizzy knew that if she prayed hard enough, her faith could heal her brother. Sometimes she knelt at her bedside and poured out her six-year-old heart. Other times she went into the trees by the house, like she had learned that Joseph Smith did, and prayed there. She was so sure back then that it wasn't a question of if Richard would conquer his illness, only when.

But he died.

Even as a young woman, Lizzy couldn't help but shudder at the feelings the memory stirred inside her. Sorrow at losing her brother. Confusion over why he died when she had prayed as she had been taught to do. Guilt that her faith wasn't strong enough. And anger at a Heavenly Father who would take away her brother—at a God who left her parents clinging to each other at night, crying with great, hacking sobs that sent fear through Lizzy's six-year-old heart as she stood by the doorframe and watched them grieve.

Though only moments had passed, Lizzy knew that if she let herself, she could think about such moments all night. But no matter how she reasoned, the fact remained that never had one of her prayers, big or small, been answered. At least, not any she had been aware of. She didn't count the prayers recited almost from memory, whether over dinner or with the family, where she asked for ambiguous things like peace, well-being, and protection from affliction. With a shake of her head to clear away the thoughts, she looked again at David, who opened his eyes.

"Can I have some water now?"

Patting David's leg, she smiled. "Of course."

She kissed his cheek, then headed down the dark stairs. Descending into the kitchen, she was glad the moon was almost full, sending light across the floor from the windows. As she ladled water into the metal cup, she eyed the stove. The first week of September was a mite early in the season to be warming water bottles for bed, but David could probably use one tonight. David's feet were always cold, even with thick socks.

Lizzy opened the heavy stove door and looked inside. A few glowing embers from supper remained. She poked at them, and sparks flew out, satisfying her that she could coax some flames. The wood box produced kindling and a few sticks, and she set to lighting the stove, once again glad she had stayed behind to care for David. The trip to Salt Lake City would have been more than he could endure. Even so, she regretted not being able to support her mother during the funeral. Lizzy's mother had been very close to her own mother, and Grandmother Pearson's death would be hard on her.

Lizzy blew gently on the embers, and the kindling caught fire. She sat back on her heels and sighed, remembering how hard her mother had prayed for a miracle to preserve Grandmother Pearson's life. Uncle William had written regular letters to keep the family abreast of Grandmother's health. He recounted the priesthood blessings she received, the long nights he and his wife spent at her bedside, the days when she seemed well enough that everyone believed she would resume her usual habits and be preserving bushels of peaches by fall. But as Grandmother had declined in health over the last month, Lizzy's entire family lived with daily anxiety, waiting for Uncle William's next letter; then the final one arrived, saying Grandmother had passed on.

Lizzy poked the fire, then stared at it while it greedily ate the fuel. What good were prayers and priesthood blessings if Grandmother died anyway? God didn't seem to care about His children. At least not anymore. Her parents and others had told her story after story recounting miracles on the plains. But was her family now unworthy, or their faith suddenly weak? Did He even notice when they cried out to Him? When they died?

What about Richard Junior? David? They were too young to be unworthy. What about her?

A heavy breath escaped as she shook off the thoughts, closed the stove, and filled a pot with water. She wiped her wet hands on a dish rag, then tossed the cloth aside and grabbed David's glass of water. Heading upstairs with only the moon lighting her way, she wondered if he would fall asleep before the water was warm.

"Here you go," Lizzy said as she pushed the door farther open with her toe. It creaked on its hinges.

David took the cup, drank the water down, and smacked his lips. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Lizzy set the cup aside and arranged her quilt around David. She glanced at the gable window, where the curtains swayed. The night breeze wasn't all that cold, but Lizzy closed the window anyway. No use taking chances at David getting a chill.

She leaned over her bookshelf, which stood next to the bench her father had made for her birthday four years ago. The bench was placed under the window and had quickly become one of Lizzy's favorite spots to read or dream of the future—mostly of the possibility of living with Aunt Louisa in New York and attending school there. And perhaps meeting a dashing young man who was dark and handsome and full of mystery.

The bookshelf beside it had since been filled—then stuffed—with books which she had read and reread until some covers held on by mere threads. Some day, she hoped, she would have loads of bookcases chock full of books. In the meantime she would make do with the ones she had, plus the new volumes sent from her wealthy aunt on birthdays and Christmas.

She traced the spines with her finger. "What do you want to hear tonight, David? Poetry? A novel? We never did finish Roderick Random."

"Poetry."

Lizzy withdrew her poetry anthology from the shelf. "There's Blake, Wordsworth, Shakespeare . . ."

"Tennyson."

Lizzy grinned. "That was my next guess," she said as she flipped to the red bookmark. David requested Tennyson often enough that Lizzy kept "In Memoriam," his favorite poem, marked. It was long, and Lizzy secretly hoped that David would be able to sleep before she finished it. She decided to check on the water around the twentieth section, then settled beside David. He closed his eyes as if already expecting a restful sleep to come.

The rhythm of the poem lulled David into even breathing sooner than she expected, although he was not quite asleep as Lizzy reached the eighteenth part of the poem. "‘A looming bastion fringed with . . .'" Her voice trailed off. She lowered the book to her lap, then sniffed the air, coughing at the smell.

David opened his eyes groggily. "What is it?"

"You rest for a moment. I'll go check." She tucked the quilt around him and hurried down the stairs.

As she entered the kitchen, she gasped at the sight of flames climbing up the kitchen wall. The curtains were completely devoured and little was left of the shelves as the fire spread upward. She flew to the counter, where she grabbed a bucket of water and aimed for the base of the fire. The water sizzled and steamed, but did little else. Thick orange ribbons still climbed, growing every second. The heat made her step back. A dense haze filled the room, and she coughed, covering her mouth to breathe. Hurrying up the stairs two at a time, her eyes stung from smoke. She burst into the room and grabbed David, quilt and all.

"What's the matter?" David asked, trying to sit up in her arms as he coughed.

"There's a fire in the kitchen," Lizzy said, trying to sound calm. "I want to take you outside for a few minutes while I put it out."

David stiffened, and his pale face grew even whiter. He pulled back. "But Mother said the night air isn't good for me," he said, as if that were the only concern.

"She'd approve this time," Lizzy said, covering his face with the blanket and heading down the stairs. Halfway down she had to put the sleeve of her nightdress over her own nose and mouth. The air felt heavy as she raced through the hot kitchen and out the back door.

They reached the wooden bench by the barn, and Lizzy set David on it. Without a word she scurried to the barn door, where she found two buckets, then raced to the well to fill them. When Lizzy reached the house, she discovered that the fire had spread over the entire wall and now licked the rafters. She emptied the buckets onto the fire, but there were no visible results.

Without a backward glance she returned to the well at full tilt, fighting panic. It can't be that bad, she reasoned as she refilled the buckets. I can save the house. But the very thought felt hollow.

As she went from the well to the fire and back again, she wished there was time to get Brother Sorensen's help. But with his farm nearly two miles away, it would be far too late before she could get there and back.

With a deafening crash, a corner of the roof collapsed, making a gaping hole. The jolt to her concentration sent one bucket flying out of her hand. She covered her eyes as sparks flew into the air, then she lowered her arm, gazing at the fire as it engulfed the house. Though she was breathing quickly, her heart beating double time, Lizzy suddenly couldn't take another step. She could do nothing but stare as her home was destroyed.

It was hopeless. She knew that now. If only she hadn't been alone. If only the family had been home. Papa and Mama, her cousin Jimmy and the boys, would have helped put out the fire. Matthew or Aaron could have even run for help to the Sorensen farm. With the family home, there might have been a chance. She stood rooted to the ground, transfixed by the bright colors making their way around and over the only home she knew.

Lizzy's fingers grew weak. The other bucket dropped to the ground, and water spilled onto the dirt and around her bare feet. Her hands covered her face, head shaking in disbelief. She peered through her fingers as white smoke rose into the black night, spiraling above the house. When flames reached her gable room, sparks jumped out of the window onto the maple tree.

"My books!" she cried in despair.

With a swipe at the ground, she filled her hands with rocks, screaming as she threw them with all her might. She collapsed to her knees in sobs, then looked to the dark sky, pounded the muddy ground and cried, "God, how can you do this to me?"

"Lizzy."

She felt David's touch and looked around. Her brother's hand emerged from the folds of the quilt. He held out the anthology. "You still have this one."