An Orphan’s Rocky Road to Love (Preview)

Chapter One

Sacramento, CA 1845

Simone’s stomach lurched as the train rumbled over a narrow bridge, her fingers gripping the armrest of her seat, worn smooth by countless other passengers. Beside her, Gennie was practically bouncing out of her seat, her face glued to the window, gray eyes wide with wonder.

“Look, Simone! There’s another farm with more grape vines!” Gennie exclaimed, pointing excitedly.

Simone managed a small smile. “I see it. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it was. Rows of neat trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Dark clusters of fruit hung heavy from the branches, while grapevines twisted on the trellises. The scent of ripened fruit wafted faintly through the air.

Just then, the conductor passed by, announcing their arrival in Sacramento. They had finally made it.

Simone’s mind drifted back over their journey. The long hours had been grueling, but the scenery…Her breath caught as she recalled the rolling golden hills dotted with majestic oak trees, the endless fields of wildflowers in vibrant purples and yellows, and the winding river that had accompanied them for miles, its waters glittering in the sunlight.

Gennie’s hand tugged at the sleeve of Simone’s dress. “I can’t believe we’re almost there,” she said, all but bouncing in her seat. “I can’t wait to explore the city!”

Simone nodded, her own excitement tempered by caution. “Remember, we need to be careful in the big city. It’s not like the small town of Folsom we’re used to.”

Gennie rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. You worry too much.”

The train let out a piercing whistle as it approached the station. Simone’s heart raced as she felt the locomotive slow, the screeching of brakes filling her ears. Steam hissed outside their window, momentarily obscuring their view.

As the train shuddered to a halt, Simone stood, reaching for their meager belongings. She handed Gennie her tattered suitcase and small satchel, identical to her own. Simone swallowed hard, fighting back a wave of melancholy. Their entire lives, packed into such small spaces. But she forced a bright smile for her sister’s sake.

As they made their way down the aisle, Simone’s mind raced with worries about their future and whether or not she had made the right choice in answering an ad for a typist halfway across the country. But she pushed them aside, determined not to dampen Gennie’s spirits. This was their chance at a better life, and she would do everything in her power to make it work.

They followed the throng of people exiting, and as they stepped off the train, Gennie’s excitement bubbled over. “Oh, Simone! Did you see how the mountains gave way to those endless fields? And those orchards! I’ve never seen so many apples in all my life!”

Simone smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm, but with her grip still tight on Gennie’s arm as they entered the bustling station. The cacophony of city life engulfed them. Train bells from other tracks clanged, mingling with the sharp whistle of the steam engines. The acrid smell of coal smoke hung in the air, occasionally punctuated by the warm, yeasty scent of fresh bread from a nearby vendor’s cart.

“It’s so…alive,” Gennie breathed, her eyes wide.

Simone nodded. “That it is,” she murmured, guiding them through the throng. Men and women, young and old, shouted greetings and farewells, their voices blending into a constant hum of activity.

As they emerged onto the street, Simone’s breath caught. Elegant brick storefronts lined one side, their windows showcasing goods far finer than anything Simone had ever seen. Yet, just beyond, narrow alleys revealed a grittier side of Sacramento—muddy paths, overflowing carts, and darting figures that Simone knew all too well.

“Stay close,” Simone warned, guiding Gennie as they walked. “Everything here feels bigger, faster, and more dangerous than anywhere we’ve been.”

Gennie huffed. “You worry too much, Sister. This is our chance for adventure!”

“Adventure, yes,” Simone agreed, her eyes following a group of ragged children as they darted between carts. “But we must be cautious. Promise me you’ll be careful, Gennie. No…old habits.”

Gennie hesitated, her eyes flickering with defiance before softening. “I promise, Simone. We’re here for a fresh start, right?”

Simone nodded, her fingers brushing the folded letter in her pocket—a reminder of their reason for being here.

She gently pulled Gennie to the side of the bustling street. “Let’s stop for a minute and double-check Mr. Edwards’ instructions again,” she murmured, withdrawing a crisp envelope.

Gennie peered over her shoulder, curiosity etched on her face. “From your new employer? The fancy lawyer?”

“Yes, he’s a prominent lawyer here in Sacramento,” Simone clarified, unfolding the expensive paper. The handwriting was impeccable—each letter precisely formed, a testament to the writer’s meticulous nature. “He’s arranged for us to stay at the Blue Train Car Inn until we find permanent lodgings.”

Gennie’s face lit up. “The Blue Train Car? Sounds fancy!”

“Let’s hope it lives up to its name,” Simone replied, her lips twitching with amusement. She folded the letter carefully, tucking it away. “Come on, we should find it before dark.”

As they walked on, Simone thought about what she knew of her new employer. Nathan Edwards—a self-made man, by all accounts. She admired that, even as a part of her remained wary. Men had made promises before, only to reveal ulterior motives. But this was different, she reminded herself. Mrs. Abrams had vetted him. That gave her the reassurance she needed.

They rounded a corner and spotted the inn—a modest two-story building painted a cheerful cornflower blue. Simone allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “Respectable enough,” she murmured.

The interior was a pleasant surprise, modest but inviting with polished wood floors, a carved oak reception desk, and framed paintings of pastoral landscapes lining the walls. The lobby was impeccably clean, with a faint scent of lavender hanging in the air. An older woman behind the desk greeted them warmly.

“Welcome to the Blue Train Car Inn! How may I assist you?”

Simone stepped forward, squaring her shoulders. “Good afternoon. We have a reservation under Hartwell. Arranged by Mr. Nathan Edwards.”

The innkeeper’s face brightened with recognition. “Ah, yes! Mr. Edwards has taken care of everything. Your room is ready—up the stairs, second on the right. The maid should be finishing up now. Fresh linens and all.”

Simone and Gennie climbed the narrow staircase, their worn suitcases bumping against the wooden railings. At the end of the hallway, they found their room, the door ajar.

A maid was inside, smoothing the folded quilt at the foot of the bed. She turned at their entrance, her eyes widening slightly.

“Excuse us,” Simone said softly, offering a polite smile. “The innkeeper said we could come up.”

The maid’s gaze swept over them, lingering on their tattered luggage and threadbare coats. Her lips thinned, her nostrils flaring slightly as she looked down her nose at them.

Gennie bristled beside Simone. “If you’ve got something to say, best say it plain?” she snapped, gray eyes flashing. When the maid said nothing, she continued, “It’s not polite to stare.”

“Gennie!” Simone hissed.

The maid’s face flushed an angry red. She huffed, shoving past them and out the door without a word.

Simone’s heart sank as she watched the maid’s retreating back. She turned to her sister, keeping her voice low and measured. “Gennie, we can’t afford trouble here. We need to make a good impression.”

“She started it with that look,” Gennie grumbled, crossing her arms.

“Regardless,” Simone sighed, “we need to be the bigger person.”

Gennie rolled her eyes dramatically, and Simone felt her patience wearing thin. She’s just scared, Simone reminded herself, trying to quell her own rising anxiety. This was supposed to be their chance at a respectable life.

“Come on,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Let’s unpack and get settled.”

As Simone moved to close the door, she caught a glimpse of curious faces peering from other rooms down the hall. Her cheeks burned, wondering how much they’d overheard. She shut the door firmly, leaning against it and closing her eyes for a moment.

Gennie flopped onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. Ignoring her sister’s theatrics, Simone turned to their worn suitcases, methodically unpacking and refolding each garment with practiced ease. Her movements were deliberate, almost meditative, as she arranged their meager belongings in the small dresser.

“What am I supposed to do while you’re off at work typing all day or whatever it is you’ll be doing?” Gennie grumbled, picking at a loose thread on the quilt.

Simone paused, a neatly folded dress in her hands. She glanced out the window, her gaze landing on a modest church across a green field, giving her an idea.

“You could volunteer at the church,” Simone suggested, her voice gentle. “Or maybe offer to watch the parishioners’ children. Oh! You’ve always had a talent for sketching. Why not take up drawing or even painting?”

Gennie scoffed, rolling onto her side to face Simone. “As if any of these people would want me around. Just like Mrs. Abrams. She only took a liking to you, not me.”

Simone’s hands stilled on the dress in her hands. A familiar pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She could hear the hurt beneath Gennie’s bravado, the insecurity that had taken root years ago.

“Gen, that’s not true,” Simone said softly, crossing the room to sit beside her sister. “Mrs. Abrams cared for both of us.”

But even as the words left her mouth, Simone knew they weren’t altogether true. Mrs. Abrams had seemed to take a shine to her over her sister.

Had she failed to protect Gennie? To nurture her confidence the way Mrs. Abrams had done for her?

Simone searched for the right words. “Mrs. Abrams saw something in me I couldn’t see myself. She believed in both of us, Gen. Without her…” Her voice trailed off as she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Mrs. Abrams had been gone a year now, and the pain of that loss still felt like it was yesterday. Simone cleared her throat. “Without her, we wouldn’t be here now. This job with Nathan, it’s all because of what she taught me.”

As Simone finished speaking, movement caught her eye. Gennie was fidgeting with something, turning it over and over in her hands. With a start, Simone realized what it was—a heavy brass key, unmistakably the one from their rented room in Folsom.

“Gennie,” Simone gasped, her eyes widening. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Gennie’s chin jutted out defiantly. “So what if I did? It’s just a key, they’ll never notice.”

Simone’s frustration flared. “We can’t start our new life by stealing! What were you thinking?”

“Not all of us have fancy typing skills to fall back on, Simone!” Gennie shot back, her voice rising.

The sisters stared at each other, the weight of their past and the uncertainty of their future hanging heavy between them. Simone’s anger melted into worry. She reached out and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “We’ll figure this out together, okay? No more shortcuts.”

***

As twilight descended on Sacramento, Simone and Gennie stepped out of the Blue Train Car Inn to find some supper, the earlier tension between them still simmering beneath the surface. The city was teeming with life that was both exhilarating and intimidating.

Gas lamps flickered to life, casting a warm glow on the brick storefronts. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor and the unmistakable musk of horses. Laughter and the tinkling of piano keys spilled from the saloons, a stark contrast to the quiet streets they’d left behind in Folsom.

Gennie’s sullen attitude quickly changed to one of excitement, her eyes sparkling as she took in the sights. “Simone, this place is so alive at night! It’s nothing like Folsom.”

Simone smiled, but her eyes remained watchful. “It certainly is different,” she agreed, her arm linked protectively through her sister’s. “Just remember to keep your wits about you, Gen. Big cities can be dangerous.”

Ignoring her sister’s warnings, Gennie walked on, gushing at the items in the shop windows.

“Look at that dress!” Gennie exclaimed, pointing to a stunning blue gown on display.

Simone saw the longing in her sister’s eyes and felt a pang in her heart. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, making a silent vow to herself. Someday, when she had saved enough from her new job, she would buy Gennie a dress just like that one.

“Come on. I’m starving. Let’s find something to eat,” she urged her sister away from the window.

They continued down the street, the enticing aroma of fresh bread guiding them to a small café. Inside, they shared a hearty beef stew and warm, crusty bread. As they ate, Gennie’s mood lightened considerably.

“Simone,” Gennie said softly as they finished their meal, “I know I don’t always show it, but…thank you. For everything. For bringing me here, for always looking out for me.”

Simone reached across the table and squeezed her sister’s hand. “That’s what sisters are for, Gen. And this is just the beginning. We’re going to build a good life here, you’ll see.”

As they walked arm-in-arm back to the inn, Simone felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could leave their troubled past behind and start anew in this bustling city.

As they rounded the corner, Simone’s grip on Gennie’s arm tightened instinctively. A narrow alley stretched before them, dimly lit by the flickering glow of a distant streetlamp. Silhouetted against the warm light was a tall, lean figure surrounded by a cluster of small, ragged shapes.

Gennie’s steps faltered. “Simone, look,” she whispered, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Simone squinted, her heart quickening as she took in the scene. The man stood confidently, his posture relaxed despite his worn clothing. Around him, a group of children huddled close, their tattered clothes and dirt-smudged faces telling a story of hardship all too familiar to the sisters.

“Orphans,” Simone breathed, a painful memory of their own past flashing through her mind.

The man’s head turned, and for a brief moment, his gaze met theirs. Even in the dim light, Simone could see the rugged handsomeness of his features, and she felt Gennie stiffen beside her.

“Maybe we should—” Gennie began, taking a half-step toward the alley.

“No,” Simone cut her off firmly, tugging her sister back. “We need to get back to the inn. It’s not safe to wander around at night in a strange city.”

Gennie’s eyes lingered on the group, particularly on the tall stranger. She seemed drawn to him, and that bothered Simone. She couldn’t shake the worry that Gennie might fall back into old habits. The stolen key from Salt Lake City was still fresh in her mind, a stark reminder of just how easily her sister could be tempted.

As they continued walking, Simone couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in her gut. She knew all too well how easy it was to fall into desperate situations, and how alluring the wrong path could be when you felt you had no other choice.

“Promise me you won’t go looking for trouble, Gennie,” Simone said softly. “We’ve come too far to risk everything now.”

Chapter Two

The flickering light of a single oil lamp cast long shadows across Wade Reisinger’s modest room. He sat hunched over a small desk, its surface scarred and worn smooth from years of use. The yellowed wallpaper peeled at the corners, and a faint, musty smell permeated the air. It wasn’t much, but it suited Wade’s simple tastes.

His fingers tapped restlessly on the edge of the newspaper spread before him. The words of an article on new land ownership laws swam before his tired eyes. As a clerk handling land policy for the state of California, Wade knew he should be more attentive, but after a long day of poring over ledgers and contracts, his mind refused to focus.

With a weary sigh, he folded the paper and leaned back. The chair groaned in protest beneath his muscular frame. Through the window, the steeple of the First Congregational Church loomed against the darkening sky. Its familiar silhouette brought a measure of comfort to Wade. He’d been going to that church since he first moved to Sacramento when he was a teenager.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Wade’s brow furrowed in annoyance. He’d already told Hank he wasn’t helping him with his rent again this week.

“He better not be here to ask me for money again,” he muttered, rising reluctantly.

He opened the door to find Virgil, his father’s deputy, sneering on the landing. The man’s thin lips curled as if Wade’s very presence offended him. Virgil wasn’t a big man. He was wiry and lean, with a narrow frame that contrasted sharply with Wade’s broader, more muscular build. He had pale blue eyes, a long beak-like nose, and his dark brown hair often looked greasy and unkempt.

“Evening, Virgil,” Wade said coolly. “What brings you here?”

“Your father needs you,” Virgil replied, his tone dripping with disdain.

Virgil despised Wade with every bone in his body and did nothing to hide it. Virgil knew Wade’s father, who was the current sheriff, was looking to retire soon, and he wanted his job. But Wade’s father was intent on passing on the job to his son. This put Wade right in the crosshairs of Virgil’s ire.

“There’s a situation that requires…attention.”

Wade’s jaw clenched. He knew what that meant—another attempt to draw him into law enforcement.

“I’ve told Pa before, I’m not interested in joining the sheriff’s office,” Wade said firmly. “Not even to provide temporary help either.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “Too good for honest work, is that it? Content to push papers while real men uphold the law?”

Wade’s fists clenched at his sides, but he held his temper in check. The man was just trying to goad him. He wouldn’t give in to his childish games. “My work is plenty honest, Virgil. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have reading to finish.”

As he moved to close the door, Virgil’s hand shot out, gripping the frame.

“Your father won’t wait forever, Reisinger,” the deputy hissed. “One day, he’ll see you for the coward you are.”

Wade’s vision went red. Before he could stop himself, his hand was fisted in Virgil’s shirt collar.

“Say that again,” he growled, his green eyes flashing.

For a moment, fear flickered across Virgil’s face. Then his sneer returned as footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs.

Wade’s grip tightened briefly before cooler heads prevailed and he released the man.

“Goodnight, Deputy,” he said coldly, and he went to shut the door in the man’s face.

“Hold on, Son. I want a word with you.”

Wade would know that voice anywhere.

Virgil’s words still rang in Wade’s ears as he released a heavy sigh and opened the door back up to reveal Sheriff Jude Reisinger, an imposing figure at over six feet, coming down the hallway.

Sheriff Reisinger looked at his deputy. “That will be all Virgil. I’ll take it from here. You go on downstairs and wait with the men.”

Virgil looked like he wanted to protest, but he thought better of arguing with his superior. He gave Wade one last sneering glance before turning away and heading back down the stairs.

“Well, are you going to ask me in?”

Wade stepped back, inviting his father in with a silent nod. The sheriff’s green eyes, so like Wade’s own, swept over the modest room, taking in the neatly folded blanket on the bed and the stacked papers on the desk.

“Son,” Jude began, his calloused hands twisting his hat brim, “this isn’t about work. It’s about justice. This man hurt his wife—badly. You used to care about things like this.”

His Pa didn’t waste time or mince words. Just shot straight from the hip. His disapproval still stung even though Wade was well past adulthood. He stiffened, his jaw clenching. “I still care, Pa. But I’m not a lawman. Never will be. You know that.”

The words hung heavy between them, laden with years of expectation and disappointment. It was a tired argument, one they’d been having for years.

Jude pressed on, his voice softening. “You were always so eager to hear stories of justice when you were a boy. You’d sit at my feet, listening to every word.”

The memory stung, and Wade turned away, staring out the window at the looming church steeple. “I’m not that boy anymore,” he muttered.

“No,” his father agreed, “but you’re still a good man. We could use your help tonight, Son.”

Wade considered his father’s words. He knew the man they were after, knew the whispered stories of bruises and tearful pleas. Part of him longed to ride out, to see justice done. But the quiet life he’d built, the orderly world of land deeds and contracts, pulled at him just as strongly.

He also knew how fast rumors spread in this town, too. One hint that he was out helping his father with arrests, and the next minute, he’d hear about how he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps. The gossip mill worked fast and didn’t need an ounce of truth to make their assumptions sometimes. He didn’t want to give them any reason to gossip, and he also didn’t want to give his father any false hope.

“I can’t, Pa,” he said finally, his voice tight. “I’ve made my choice. This isn’t my fight. It’s yours. You’ve got good men with you to help.” He didn’t include Virgil in that statement. The resentment between the two men was mutual.

Jude’s shoulders sagged, disappointment etching new lines in his face. “Every man has to choose his own path, I suppose,” he said softly. “But remember, Son, sometimes the right path isn’t always the easiest one.”

The words hit Wade like a physical blow. His father had never understood his choice of vocation; he only saw it as administrative work and pushing papers. Frustration and guilt boiled over, and before he could stop himself, his fist slammed down on the small table beside him. The wood cracked with a sharp report, startling them both.

“I said no!” Wade growled, immediately regretting his outburst.

Silence fell between them, thick and oppressive. Jude looked at his son for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I hear you, Wade,” he said quietly. “I just hope you can live with your decision.”

As the door closed behind his father, Wade ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair. The silence in the room was deafening as Wade stared at the cracked table, his father’s disappointment hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t like him to lose his temper like that, and he felt a bit of shame for having done so in front of his father.

Outside, he could hear the jingle of bridles and the low murmur of men preparing to ride. Slowly, he walked to the window, watching as his father and the group of men mounted their horses. The moonlight caught the glint of their badges as they rode off into the night, champions of justice in a world that so desperately needed it.

For a moment, he considered his father’s words. “…I just hope you can live with your decision.”

What if, in trying so hard to avoid his father’s path, he was losing sight of the man he truly wanted to be?

He sank back down into his chair, the cracked table a stark reminder of the turmoil within him. He was letting the men go without him, choosing the safety of his quiet life over the call of justice.

Turning back to his desk, Wade tried to focus on the newspaper article, but the words blurred before his eyes once more. His mind kept drifting to the woman and child left alone, vulnerable to a man’s brutality. A man he could have helped apprehend.

“I’m doing the right thing,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “I have my own life, my own path.”

But the words rang hollow.

Wade stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair. He needed air, needed to clear his head of the guilt threatening to suffocate him.

Grabbing his coat, he stepped out into the cool Sacramento night. The streets were quieter now, a far cry from the bustling energy of his childhood in Monterey. As he walked, memories of his youth flooded back—the salty tang of ocean air, the constant bustle of the harbor, the sense of adventure that seemed to permeate every corner of the coastal town.

“It was different then,” Wade mused aloud, his boots echoing on the wooden sidewalk. “Simpler.”

Sacramento was a city on the rise, full of opportunity and ambition. But it lacked the carefree spirit of Monterey, the sense that anything was possible. Here, everything felt more…confined. Structured. Just like the life he’d chosen for himself.

As he passed the newly constructed storefronts, Wade couldn’t shake the feeling that he was living in his father’s shadow. And Jude Reisinger cast a long shadow indeed—respected sheriff, pillar of the community, a man of unwavering principles.

“And what am I?” Wade asked, his face turned up toward the night air. “A clerk. Safe. Dependable. Uninvolved.”

The internal struggle raged within him. He’d always prided himself on his strong moral character, on knowing right from wrong. But now, as he walked the darkened streets of Sacramento, Wade wondered if he’d lost sight of what truly mattered in his quest for a quiet, orderly life.

Wade rounded the corner, lost in his internal struggle, as a shrill voice pierced the night air.

“Mr. Reisinger! Oh, Mr. Reisinger!”

Wade’s steps faltered, his shoulders tensing. Mrs. Willoughby, the elderly widow from down the hall, was waving enthusiastically from across the street. For a fleeting moment, he considered pretending not to have heard her, but his inherent politeness won out.

“Good evening, Mrs. Willoughby,” he called, forcing a smile as she tottered toward him.

“My, my, out for an evening stroll?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “You know, Sarah Thornton’s daughter is visiting from San Francisco. Such a lovely girl…”

Wade suppressed a groan. “How…nice,” he managed as she droned on about all the eligible women she knew, searching for a way to extricate himself from the impending matchmaking attempt.

Her relentless matchmaking irked him, but he smiled politely, though internally, he knew none of her suggestions would suit him. If he ever did settle down, it would be with the right woman—a gentle, kind soul who brought peace into the chaos. Wade believed a wife should be nurturing, not headstrong or brash.

That was how love should work, wasn’t it? Someone who fit perfectly into the life he envisioned.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to come up with any excuses for why he wasn’t interested because she had already latched onto a new topic. “Did you hear about that awful business with the Millers?” she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say your father’s gone to arrest Mr. Miller for beating his poor wife and their little boy!”

Wade’s jaw tightened. “Mrs. Willoughby, I don’t think it’s appropriate to—”

“Is it true?” she pressed, eyes wide. “Oh, I do hope the sheriff throws that brute in jail for a good long while! Think of that poor woman and child!”

Guilt gnawed at Wade’s insides. He could be out there, helping his father bring justice. Instead, he was here, listening to neighborhood gossip.

“My father will uphold the law, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Willoughby nodded, looking slightly disappointed. “Such a fine man, your father. You must be so proud.”

Wade mumbled a noncommittal response, bid her goodnight, and hurried away. As he glanced back over his shoulder and watched her toddle off in the opposite direction, relief washed over him. At least he wouldn’t have to escort her home and endure more chatter or matchmaking attempts.

Wade trudged up the creaking stairs of the boarding house, his mind a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The floorboards protested under his heavy footsteps as he made his way to his room. Once inside, he lit the oil lamp on his nightstand, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

As he unbuttoned his shirt, Wade caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror above the washbasin. His green eyes stared back at him, filled with uncertainty. He splashed some cold water on his face from the pitcher on the dresser.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he muttered to his reflection as he dried his face with the washcloth next to the basin. “A quiet life doesn’t mean you’re not making a difference.”

But even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow. Wade turned away from the mirror and moved to the window, pulling back the thin curtain. The steeple of the First Congregational Church loomed against the inky sky, a silent sentinel in the night.

Something caught his eye. A figure, shrouded in darkness, lingered near the side of the church. Wade’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer to the glass.

“What in the world…?” he whispered to himself.

For a moment, his instincts screamed at him to investigate or, at the very least, to open his window and shout to startle the person. But then he shook his head, stepping back from the window.

“You’re not the sheriff,” he reminded himself firmly. “It’s probably just someone seeking shelter for the night.”

Still, as he turned away from the window and prepared for bed, a nagging doubt persisted in the back of his mind. He extinguished the lamp and lay down, staring up at the darkened ceiling.

Sleep eluded him as his thoughts raced. The image of the shadowy figure by the church kept intruding, mingling with memories of his father’s disappointed face and Mrs. Willoughby’s words about justice.

As Wade finally began to drift off, a troubling thought surfaced: What if his desire for a quiet, orderly life was just a mask for his fear of failing to live up to his father’s legacy? What if, in trying so hard not to become his father, he was betraying the very ideals that had once defined him?