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man standing in the doorway, not much more than a shadow in the night. The shape staggered in, coming toward his bed. Thunder cracked, making Jem jump, then there was a moment of deathly quiet.
    He jerked upright, his pulse deafening in his ears. “Pa?”
    “Hush up, boy!” The slurred command sounded like a gunshot. It was Pa, drunk again. He struck Jem across the jaw with the back of his hand.
    Something broke inside of Jem. He finally snapped, like a branch bent back too far.
    “No, Pa! You hush up!” He scrambled out of bed and shoved Pa away.
    His father stumbled backwards. He roared in anger, swearing. A flash of lightning lit the room. Jem saw the glint of metal in his pa’s hand. It all happened so quick. Pa rushed him before he could get out of the way. Pain lashed across his chest. It was hot at first, then icy cold, all over.
    “Git on out of here, boy!”
    Pa’s string of cusses weren’t anything Jem hadn’t heard before, but he was already at the breaking point.
    “I hate you!”
    “You good for nothin’! Go on. Git!”
    Jem didn’t wait for a second swipe of Pa’s hunting knife. He ran out the door. For a second, he glanced back, hating to leave his one treasure behind, but there was no way to get it now. He ran through the storm, feeling the safety of the black night immerse him.
    He was done with Pa. He was done with Pa’s cussing. He was done with Pa’s drunkenness. He was done with Pa’s beatings. He was finally on his own.
     

SEVEN
     
     
    T he Pearsons’ household was quiet with sleep. The sound of thunder woke Becky, returning her to her anxious thoughts. She’d be a married woman soon. Shivering from the cold and perhaps something else as well, she rubbed her feet against the sheets to warm them. She turned her head into her pillow, but sleep eluded her. Doubts had plagued her on the long voyage to Seattle—three seasick months with nothing else to do but think. She’d doubted her sanity, her common sense, her judgment.
    His name had convinced her to come.
    An Isaac for her Rebecca, as if God placed his approval on the match.
    But perhaps God hadn’t been telling her that at all.
    Maybe she’d made it up in her mind. Maybe she’d just wanted to believe it so bad. She’d wanted to leave.
    A soft sigh escaped her lips.
    It was a little too late for doubts now.
    Yesterday, Isaac’s height had dismayed her. She smiled to herself, remembering her relief as she’d met his dark brown eyes for the first time. They were nice eyes. Warm eyes. The eyes of a good man—if you could tell by a man’s eyes alone. Isaac seemed like a good man anyway, and they’d have the next few days to get to know one another.
    He was so different from Jack. Where he was dark, Jack was fair.
    Jack was lean, blond, and handsome. For years, he’d taught her everything a proper young girl shouldn’t know: from riding bareback through the orchard to shooting a rifle. He’d showered her with attention. Her first and only kiss had been with Jack Duncan. She’d dreamed of having a family with him, a house full of children and laughter. How she’d loved him. She remembered the night she’d found out he was back from the war and pressed her face deeper into the pillow, mortified afresh.
    When she’d heard the news, despite the cold, she’d hiked her skirts to her knees and run from Sullivan’s Grocers all the way to the Duncans’ family orchard. She banged on their door and pushed it open, so embarrassingly eager, not even waiting for so much as a hello. She’d seen Jack first. He was standing just inside the doorway, looking somehow different—older, more a man than a boy. She’d told herself that was why he hadn’t grabbed her up immediately and swung her around. He’d become a man, and a gentleman at that.
    “Jack!” She launched herself into his arms, wanting to show him how much she’d missed him with the strength of her embrace.
    “Becky, it’s good to see you,” he said, sounding