Chapter One
Wisconsin
Summer, 1840
“Mind your own business.”
Annie Martin mumbled the words to herself, forcing her attention on the sprouting weeds stretched out in front of her. She was lucky to have this job tending the gardens at the home of the wealthiest man in the settlement. No, more than lucky, Annie reminded herself. Darned lucky. Even if she was seeing weeds in her sleep.
Even if she could hardly keep her mind on her own business and her opinions to herself.
The rich earth turned over beneath her hoe as Annie worked her way down the row of tomato plants. Her gloves, trousers and shirt were a little big—better suited for a man. Her wide brimmed straw hat protected her face from the sun. But nothing kept the sound from assaulting her ears.
The baby.
Annie’s gaze drifted to the rear of the big white house that belonged to Josh Ingalls, her employer. Windows stood open, letting the gentle breeze cool the interior. Curtains billowed. And the heart-wrenching cries of the baby floated out.
“Mind your own business,” Annie mumbled again, turning her back to the house.
She’d worked here only three days, and for the last two she’d heard the baby cry endlessly. It took all Annie’s strength to keep from marching up to the house and demanding to know why no one was caring for the child, to keep from pushing her way inside and tending to the little thing herself.
But she didn’t dare. She needed this job. Desperately. If she lost it, who in the settlement would hire her? Already people were talking. Annie, her widowed mother and two sisters had moved here only weeks ago; gossip was spreading.
Annie gritted her teeth and turned back to her chore. If Josh Ingalls wanted to run his home this way, allow his baby to cry, it was his business. Certainly not hers. And certainly not her place to criticize.
She stopped suddenly and swept a trickle of sweat from her temple. Maybe Mr. Ingalls didn’t know. He spent his days, sunup to sundown—and then some—out in his fields, overseeing the work. At least, that’s what she’d heard. Most everyone Annie had met was more than anxious to talk about the elusive Josh Ingalls.
He was handsome, they’d said. Annie couldn’t confirm or deny that opinion. She had yet to lay eyes on the man.
Wealthy, they’d also said. From the looks of the fine home, the tended grounds, the orchards, gardens, and hundreds of acres of crops, Annie didn’t doubt it.
But the juiciest piece of gossip was about his marital status. A widower, they’d said. His wife dead for months now.
Which meant the handsome, wealthy Josh Ingalls was available.
Annie snorted and attacked the weeds with renewed vigor as she imagined all the young, single women in the settlement dressed in their finery, parading in front of him, vying for his attention. While at nineteen years old she was certainly the right age, and could have been just as attractive as any other girl, Annie wasn’t interested. She was more comfortable in trousers than fancy dresses, layers of petticoats, corsets and hoops.
With her gloved hand, Annie tucked away a stray lock of her blond hair. She wasn’t beautiful. She was tall—too tall for a woman, with not near enough curves, her mother often lamented. But Annie contented herself with knowing that her looks made her passably acceptable. No one gasped and turned away at the sight of her, small dogs didn’t bark and children didn’t cry out with fright.
Unlike most all the other young women in the settlement, Annie didn’t think Josh Ingalls was much of a catch, despite his supposed good looks and wealth. Not considering the passel of children that came with him.
Three, besides the baby. Annie had seen them running wild over the farm. Everyone said they were a handful. Annie believed that rumor without question.
She’d seen the children occasionally. Two girls, ages eight and four, she guessed, with a boy sandwiched between, running through the corn rows, chasing the chickens, always creating mischief. Small wonder Mr. Ingalls couldn’t keep a nanny.
All the children needed was a firm hand, Annie decided as she worked. A firm hand and a—
“Mind your own business,” she muttered again. “Mind your own business before you—oh!”
Annie grabbed her bottom. Something had stung her on the backside. A wasp? A bee, maybe?
Giggles drifted across the garden. She whirled and saw the three Ingalls children peeking at her through the cornstalks. Peeking, laughing, pointing—and holding a slingshot.
“You shot me!” she exclaimed.
The boy raised the slingshot, taking aim at her again. Anger zipped through Annie. She threw down her hoe, yanked off her gloves and took off after them. The children—completely taken by surprise—squealed and raced away.
They were small and quick, but Annie was mad. She chased them down the rows until they broke free into the meadow. Easily she passed the youngest child, left behind by the older two. Arms and legs churning, Annie pursued them down the hill to the edge of the woods.
She caught them both by the backs of their shirts and yanked them to a stop. The girl screamed. The boy tried to dart away, but Annie scooped him up under her arm and grabbed the girl’s wrist.
“Be still!” Annie commanded.
They didn’t, of course. A new cry joined their wails. Annie saw the youngest girl standing nearby, unsure of what to do.
“Run, Cassie, run!” the oldest girl shouted. “Run and hide!”
“Come over here!” Annie told her.
“No! Don’t!” the boy called, squirming. “Run away! Run fast!”
Annie gave him a shake. “Be still! All of you!”
The children stared up at her, their eyes wide and their mouths open. This, surely, was not the response they’d expected when they’d picked Annie for slingshot target practice. They quieted.
“All right, that’s better. Now, come here.” Annie led the oldest girl to the shade of the trees. “Sit.” When she did, Annie dropped the boy beside her. The youngest girl darted to her brother and sister and squeezed between them.
Annie stood over the three children, catching her breath. All had brown eyes and dark hair, the girls with long braids, the boy with bangs that would need trimming soon. Dirt smudged their faces. The girls’ dresses were soiled; the boy’s skinny knee showed through a rip in his trousers.
Grimy, disheveled, unkempt. Still, they were beautiful children. It would have been hard to be angry at them if Annie’s backside didn’t hurt so much.
She bent down and yanked the slingshot from the boy’s hand. “What’s your name?”
His bottom lip poked out. “Drew.”
“This is dangerous,”
