Prologue
Willow Lake, Arizona Territory
November 1885
“Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory,” Layla sang sweetly.
Today would be a splendid day; Layla was just sure of it. The sun was shining through the freshly polished glass panes, and the heat of the day had yet to creep into the house. She fluffed the folds of her brand-new blue cotton dress and tucked her feet into a pair of brown leather ankle boots. “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory, children of the Lord,” Layla clapped her hands with the tune as she finished dressing. On top of her well-worn wooden dresser, right next to a nearly empty water pitcher, was her hairbrush, which she grabbed.
She ran it through her long black hair, thinking of how she might fix it on this special occasion. After all, today was her eighteenth birthday, and she wanted everything to be perfect, including her hairstyle. Once the long strands were detangled, she pulled, yanked, and twisted them to create a clean and intricate hairdo. Satisfied with her quick work, Layla shot herself a glance in the mirror that hung over the chest of drawers.
“Happy Birthday,” Layla whispered to her reflection, her clear blues eyes twinkling back. She looked around her small room, with the walls painted a light lilac-colored, and she was completely satisfied. With a spring in her step, Layla made her way to the kitchen.
“Rise and shine, Papa!” Layla called as she walked briskly down the hall, unable to keep the spring out of her step as she moved. She hadn’t felt this happy in years, not since her mother, Rosamund, passed away, and it felt remarkable to be celebrating this notable birthday. On her way to make breakfast, it only made sense to stop in her father’s room and awaken him so that he might be able to share in her joy.
“Give God the glory, glory,” Layla sang to the heavy wooden door. “Papa,” she said in the same singsong tune. “Are you awake? It’s going to be a lovely day. Up and out of bed because it’s—” She paused, listening. Typically, she would have heard her father’s raucous snores through the door, but not today.
Layla’s senses tingled all at once. While it was still relatively early, her father tended to rise with the dawn, or at least he had before her mother died. In the last few months, he had taken to drinking more often, which made him sleep later. But on most mornings, he still usually awoke earlier than most.
She stopped singing. There was no need to jump to conclusions. Her father might just be getting dressed, or he might have rolled to his side while he was sleeping, making it difficult to hear his snores. Layla rapped her small fist three times on her father’s bedroom door.
“Father,” Layla said softly. Waiting, she listened for any response from within. “Papa!” Layla called out once more. She swiveled her head, looking up and down the hall, but she did not hear him or his footsteps anywhere throughout the house. “Papa, I’m coming in,” Layla announced as she turned the brass doorknob and pushed the door to enter his bedroom.
The entire room was in disarray: the bed was unmade, with gray, red, and white blankets haphazardly pitched onto it. Clothing had been pulled from drawers as Layla could see canvas breeches thrown into a pile near the corner of the room and her father’s favorite wide-brimmed straw hat tossed onto the bed.
What’s happened here?Layla thought. At the general store her father, Emmett Fitzpatrick, owned, he was known for his attention to detail. All available goods and wares had their predetermined place, and people from all over Willow Lake could come in and find exactly what they needed because Ol’ Emmett always had the goods arranged just so.
Turning quickly on her heel, Layla left the disorder and made her way back down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Papa!” Layla shouted again. Since the kitchen was rather small, she quickly ascertained that he was not in there. He wasn’t in the dining room or sitting room either.
Layla continued down the stairs, through the general store, and out onto the front porch. No sooner had she opened the red front door that she heard a groan.
“Father!” she shrieked, looking down toward the source of the sound. She called out again, her heart beating erratically.
He was sprawled, face first, on the wooden slats of the porch. Layla could see a rip in the sleeve of his shirt, and she worried that he might be injured. Swiftly, she knelt by his side and spoke in concerned tones.
“Papa, are you hurt? Can you tell me what has happened?”
Her father moaned, and Layla reached out to try and comfort him. She was shocked by what she saw. His hair was a rumpled mess, and sweat stains were evident in the pits of his gray cotton shirt.
Using soft hands, Layla prodded her father near his shoulders. “Papa, I need you to tell me what happened. Are you all right? Can you speak?”
He groaned once more, and then, moving sluggishly, he shrugged his shoulder. Layla watched as slowly, torturously, her father rolled over. His upper body moved first, and then his legs followed. As he rotated, a smell bubbled up around him, a mixture of dirt, sweat, vomit, and whiskey.
“Oh, Papa,” Layla cried in understanding.He must have drunk too much again, she thought uneasily.
“Layla?” Emmett said, smacking his lips together in an exaggerated fashion. “Where am I?”
“You’re on the porch, Papa,” Layla replied, trying to keep her tone even. She knew now that her father had been drinking copious amounts of alcohol the night before. He often drank too much, but never had he been unable to make it up the stairs and into his bedroom.
It was clear he was still feeling the impact of his imbibing. Turning her head away from her father for a moment, she took a deep breath. She believed with all her heart that children were supposed to honor their mother and father, as it was one of God’s commandments, but sometimes, she found the task challenging.
“How did I get here?” Emmett asked, slowly surveying his surroundings. His gray eyes had thin lines of red shooting through them, and his chestnut brown hair was sticking up on one side of his head. Layla reached out a hand to smooth it out.
“I don’t know how you got here,” Layla said carefully, scanning her father over from head to toe, “but I’m glad you made it home. Let’s get you inside.” She reached down to help him so that he moved from sitting, to kneeling, to standing.
They shuffled up the stairs, through the sitting room and kitchen. Emmett’s hip bumped into the smooth kitchen countertop, and he mumbled his displeasure incoherently. Layla had to pause in their procession as she leaned heavily against the white-washed wall.
