Summer 1847

Violet Hayes smoothed her skirts for the fifth time that morning, though there was nothing fine about them—plain cotton, worn by a country girl who spent more hours in the kitchens and stables than anywhere else. Still, she wanted to look her best. William was coming home.

Seven years had passed since she had first teased him for giving up on the young gelding her father insisted he learn on, since the afternoon she had looked up at him with far too much courage for a ten-year-old and asked if he might be her friend.

Seven years of stolen afternoons by the creek, seven years of laughter beneath the oak at the meadow’s edge.

She had been gap-toothed and shy back then, but William had not turned her away. Against all sense, and against his mother’s sharp glances, he had kept that promise of friendship.