Fifteen years earlier, there lived a little old schoolteacher by the name of Constance McKay.
She was a narrow woman—looked like a plank of wood walking down the street every morning on her way to the schoolhouse. When she was young, she'd had the lightest blonde hair you'd ever seen on a woman. By now, most of it had turned gray. She had a plain face and stood about five foot five.
She never caused anyone any trouble.
She did her job as good as—if not better than—any teacher around. She taught all eight grades under one roof. Eighteen kids total, ranging from six to eighteen years old.
Everyone in town called her Kay.
At the very start of the school year, two new little girls showed up.
One had thick brown hair, a tiny nose, and big eyes. The other had raven-black hair that looked far too long for her body. It was always ratted and messy by the time she reached school, on account of how long it was and how hard it was for such a small girl to manage on the walk in.
Both girls were very shy and never left each other's side.
They were twins.
They weren't identical, but it seemed as though they shared only one brain. Not that the girls weren't smart—they were very smart. Nobody could ever really tell, though, because they hardly ever talked.
Their mother had come from a fairly well-off farming family. She had very little dowry to speak of. That didn't matter to Henry Wagner.
Henry met Maria one day when he was passing through Ohio. He was a half German, half Irish watchmaker, lean and long-limbed from years bent over a workbench. His shoulders were narrow but strong, his hands precise, fingers long and restless, as if they were always meant to be working. His dark hair never quite stayed where it was put, and his eyes carried a constant sharpness—quiet, observant, measuring the world the same way he measured time.
Henry had stopped in a small town to bed down for the night on his way from New York to Chicago. Outside a store, he spotted a wagon—and beside it stood the prettiest thing he had ever seen.
Maria was slight, small-framed, with a softness that made her seem gentler than the world around her. Her hair was light brown, catching gold in the sun, worn long and simply tied back. Her face was open and calm, wide-set eyes taking everything in, her mouth often resting on the edge of a smile she didn't rush to give. She carried herself carefully, as if she'd learned early not to take up more space than necessary.
Henry ended up staying two extra days in that small town so he could begin his courtship of the pretty young thing.
At the time, Henry was still working with his father. He had worked for him since he turned twelve. He was now twenty-two years old, and Maria was fifteen, almost sixteen. Maria's father liked the boy right off, and the fact that they were both German didn't hurt matters none.
Henry did everything that he was taught.
He waited until the family had gotten home, then arrived clean-shaven and dressed nice. He asked Maria's father if it would be alright if he were to call on Maria the very next night. He wanted to take her out so they could get to know one another.
When the two of them started talking, it was like they had known each other since birth.
They read the same books. They liked the same art and music.
Ice cream, however, was another matter.
Henry favored vanilla, sometimes strawberry. Maria liked lemon.
Henry thought it would be better to add sardines to ice cream than to eat lemon. Just the idea made him a little queezy. Still, he knew ice cream was no reason to discard the idea of a perfectly good relationship.
He finished his trip to Chicago and stopped back in Ohio on his way home to call on Maria again. He stayed there a week.
After that, he asked her father if it would be alright if he took her home with him to New York so she could meet Henry's parents.
They ran into trouble in Pennsylvania.
Hill folk. Appalachian hills. Not too fond of… well, anyone that wasn't hill folk.
Three brothers—at least they looked like brothers—stepped out from the trees as Henry and Maria passed through. They were thick men, built low and wide, with heavy shoulders and crooked posture, like bodies shaped more by labor and violence than by standing upright. Their clothes were patched and worn thin, boots cracked and mismatched, belts holding more knife than leather. Beards grew wild across their faces, uneven and untrimmed, and their hair hung greasy and long, tied back with scraps of string or leather.
Their faces were the worst of it.
Hard eyes. Flat eyes. The kind that didn't look at you so much as through you, already deciding what you were worth. One brother's nose had been broken more than once, pushed crooked across his face. Another had a scar pulling the corner of his mouth downward, giving him the look of a man who never smiled, even when pleased. The third was younger, maybe, but his grin came too easy and stayed too long.
When Henry stopped to water the horses, they moved fast.
Two of the brothers grabbed Henry, dragging him backward, fists and boots coming down in practiced turns. The third seized Maria, lifting her clean off her feet and carrying her away into the trees as she screamed.
Whether they meant to make her a bride for one—or maybe all three—was hard to say. Neither would have been shocking.
Henry beat one brother down and stabbed another dead. It took him a full day and a half to track Maria to where they were keeping her. The last brother had locked her in a shack while he went to fetch his parents, so they could decide whether she was clean enough, or whatever system hill people had for evaluating the quality of a sixteen-year-old girl.
Henry freed her.
They made their way back to the city of New York.
They spent eighteen months in New York, living with Henry and his parents, and then they were married.
The apartment sat above the watch shop, close enough that the ticking of finished pieces sometimes carried through the floor at night. It was crowded but warm, always smelling faintly of oil, metal, and whatever Maria happened to be cooking. Henry worked beside his father during the day, sleeves rolled, hands steady, while Maria learned her place in a city that never seemed to sleep.
Henry also had a little sister who wanted to take over their father's shop when the time came. She watched everything closely, asked questions when their father wasn't looking, and had hands just as quick as Henry's. Henry's father wanted his son to take over the business, but Henry had plans of his own.
He planned to head west and set up a watch shop in California.
His sister was thrilled. It meant their father would have no choice but to teach her the ropes if he wanted the shop—and the family name—to remain a familiar sight on the streets of New York.
Henry saved money the entire time they lived there. He bought a wagon, gathered supplies, and prepared for the long journey ahead. They would need a trail boss to help navigate the country. Most of the trip was manageable if you knew how to fight. The Rockies were the real issue, along with aggressive Indians—not all were as friendly as the ones living just outside of Heedonville.
Henry's father tried everything he could to talk his boy out of leaving.
Henry could not stay.
He loved his family deeply, but his stars were laid on a different path than his father's. His parents could never understand why he wanted to leave. Everything he needed—or could ever want—was right there. They had access to everything. His parents even played cards with people on the city council every weekend.
But Henry had to blaze his own path.
And that path lay out west.
About a year after Henry and Maria left New York, Henry's parents fell ill with consumption and died. The watch shop was left to Henry's sister, Bonnie. Nobody knew what became of the shop after that.
But this story is not about the shop.
Not even about Henry or Maria.
They made it back to Ohio with little trouble—at least nothing like what they had encountered on their first pass of the trail.
Maria's father was more proud of the fact that he had pegged Henry as a stand-up man than the fact that his daughter had married. Maria's mother said very little. A trait that must have run in the family, skipping every other generation. She simply smiled at her daughter and cried.
By then, Maria had passed her eighteenth birthday. They held a small party. Her two brothers and three sisters were all there.
Maria would never be as happy again as she was that day—her family in one house, her husband beside her, and her life still wide open.
After enough time had passed, Henry gathered everything they would need for the next leg of the journey. Anything that wouldn't be waiting for them in St. Louis, he gathered in Maria's hometown.
With food packed by Maria's mother and his wife beside him, Henry made his way toward St. Louis.
The trail boss was late—but he arrived all the same.
Much drunker than when he had taken the commission.
He had once been a sharp man, full of knowledge and confidence, a map in his head and a mind for the trails. Now the years and drink had beaten him down. His broad shoulders still carried him with effort, but his hair straggled from under a battered hat, and his face was lined with the sun and hard decisions. He squinted often, trying to remember the way, leaning too heavily on the wagon tongue as he rode.
Beside him rode Lousy, the hired gun. Unlike the trail boss, Lousy was lean and taut, his body honed from years of living by the gun. His eyes were cold and precise, missing nothing; every movement along the trail registered to him instantly. He spoke little, only enough to issue a warning or command, and his hands never strayed far from the grips of the pistols at his hips.
Henry and Maria, along with three other families taking advantage of the trip, readied their wagons for departure. The morning sun struck the leather harnesses, glinting off metal buckles, and the horses stamped impatiently, snorting clouds of dust. Supplies were checked, water barrels secured, and provisions stacked carefully, though Henry knew no amount of planning could account for everything the trail would throw at them.
The party took the Santa Fe trail to Istanbul… No, surprisingly, they took the trail to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where they continued on down the Gila Trail, which would see them all the way to Los Angeles. The terrain was harsh and relentless: rocky passes, sunbaked plains, and narrow river crossings that tested both men and beasts. Each day the wagons creaked under their loads, and each night the campfires flickered with stories, laughter, and the occasional grumble from weary travelers.
As they neared the border with Old Mexico, Mr. Blake, their trail boss, decided it was time to spend the last of his money in a local bar and whorehouse. Henry kept his distance, watching the man stumble through the doorway, a shadow of the capable guide he had once been. Lousy, their hired gun, ensured safe passage through Arizona, but his vigilance couldn't stop the inevitable: dysentery struck, and he died shortly after. The families scattered. One woman decided to turn back to Santa Fe to find a new trail boss. Another family veered north, searching for land they felt they could settle. Henry and Maria pressed northwest.
It was near Heedonville, when Maria revealed she was expecting, that Henry made the decision to stay put for a while, letting their child grow before resuming the journey to California.
When Maria gave birth, it was a surprise of twin girls: Angela, the first, and Charlotte, the second. Even as infants, they were inseparable, sharing milestones with uncanny synchronicity. Crawling, talking, eating, dreaming—they mirrored each other so perfectly that onlookers would often do a double take, mistaking them for the same child.
One day, in the girls' seventh year, they woke to a house that was wrong in a way they could not name. Their parents, Maria and Henry, had not risen before them as they always did.
Maria was found dead in her bed. Henry was found dead on the front porch, still seated in his rocking chair as if he had simply stopped moving.
The police had no idea what had happened. There were no bullet wounds to suggest murder, no visible injuries at all. There was nothing strange in the room, no sign of a struggle, no odd smell in the air. At the time, there was little else to go on. Forensic science was not something that existed yet—at least not in any way that could help two dead farmers in a small town.
Because of the girls' young age and their circumstances, the decision was made quickly. They were to be sent to the nearest orphanage.
Their teacher, Kay, would not allow that.
Kay had fallen in love with the two quiet girls. She knew what happened to children sent to homes for wayward youth. There was a good chance they would end up in the gutter. Most likely sold off to some sicko within five years—or less. If not that, then they would run away and end up dead, or selling themselves for a meal.
Even if they were placed in a home, there was little chance they would stay together. Kay knew that separating them would destroy whatever spirit the girls still had. It would be something they would never truly recover from.
Kay went to the Sheriff and told him she would take the girls in as if they were her own. She would feed them. She would clothe them. She could take them to work with her every day, since she was the only teacher in town.
Kay was fond of tending her flower garden. From time to time, she would ride into town and sell her flowers to local shops, or sometimes just sell them on the street. Most days, the businesses bought up everything she brought. Often there was nothing left by the time she packed up to go home.
A little over a year ago—strangely enough—a group of riders showed up at the McKay place.
The girls had entered their 23 year. Kay was in her garden. The two girls were down by the water that ran through the property, reading as they often liked to do.
Five or six riders rode up without warning. Without provocation, they shot sweet old Kay in the head and burned the house to the ground.
The girls ran into town to tell the Sheriff what had happened. He went out to the place, but by then no one was there. He rode around for a while, but he had no tracking skills to speak of, and there was little he could do about the men who had killed the girls' benefactor.
The girls tried to rebuild. When they asked the city to issue them a deed for the property in their name, they were told no. Kay had never officially adopted them, and they had no legal claim to the land.
Kay had never made a will. She had always been in great health and reckoned she had plenty of time to get the deed transferred to the girls eventually.
Once again, the sweet and wonderful girls were lost and at the mercy of the fates.
The mayor told them that if they wanted the land back, they could buy it at auction.
Kay had kept a good nest egg saved up, but most of the money was not in the bank. It had been hidden in an old tin can under the floorboards of the house. Much of it burned in the fire.
The girls had saved a little money of their own from odd jobs they had done around town as children. They had buried it near the water where they liked to spend their time. They brought what they had to the land auction, only to be told by the mayor that there was a ten-dollar fee just to apply for a seat.
That fee would have taken nearly half of what they had.
No one showed up to the auction except the mayor. He didn't even bother to bid on the property. It reverted to the city and was later donated to the Bunny Soft Textile Company.
The mayor said it was good for the town. Said it would bring in more people. Said it would foster growth.
The girls burned through what little they had left on food. Conor let them stay in the rooms upstairs for free while they tried to find their footing. Over time, they grew comfortable living there.
They couldn't find steady work. They couldn't find much of anything. So they started seeing men upstairs to get by.
As long as the girls pushed the men to buy drinks—or better yet, put a dollar or two into a game of chance at night—Conor charged them nothing for the use of the rooms.
It seemed that something, or someone, had it out for those two girls. They were far too smart for this life.
I only hope they find their footing before they catch syphilis. Or something worse.