“It’s not that I don’t want to go,” Will said. “I’m just not sure.”

“I’d miss you,” Maria said. “But you’ll probably leave us someday.”

“How do you know?” Will said. “Maybe I’ll stay right here and pester you all my life.” He kept his tone light, but he was serious. Maybe he would stay in Oregon City, despite his comment to Mama last night about California. Did he really want the work and responsibility of earning a fortune? If he asked, Pa would probably find something for him to do.

Maria shook her head. “You’re destined for better things, bigger things, than Oregon City, William McDougall. I believe you can do whatever you set your mind to.”

“So you’re pushing me out, too?” he asked.

“No, silly.” She frowned. “But you’ll figure it out. You’ll find your way.”

“What of you, Maria?” He’d never wondered about her plans before. “What do you want from life?”

“Like Mama,” she said. “A family. A home. That’s all a girl can want.”

He harrumphed, sounding to himself like an old man. “You could teach. Like Hannah Pershing did. And Hannah also clerked in a store. Or Ruth Pershing—she’s still teaching. Or Faith Bramwell before she married. Or you could nurse soldiers, like Clara Barton. Girls can do lots of things.”

“But it’s harder for girls.” Maria sighed. “Particularly girls like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Indian blood. You forget about it, but I remember my mother was part Indian every time I walk into a store and see people staring at me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Will scoffed. “You’ve always been part of our family.”

“But it does matter, Will. It does.”

Later that morning, Will was in his room reading. But he couldn’t concentrate on his book. He kept thinking about what Mama and Maria had said—they both had great plans for him. Mama thought he could be a great scholar, like her father. Maria thought he was destined for something grand. Should he go to college? Was Harvard right for him? Should he stay and work with Pa? Should he strike out on his own?

Why did life have to be so hard?

Shouts sounded from the parlor. Then a scream.

Will raced downstairs.

Jenny stitched a pinafore for Maggie in the parlor, grateful for the silence in the house. Mrs. O’Malley had taken the toddler to the market with her, and Will and Maria were occupied on their own tasks.

A knock sounded on the front door. Jenny went to the foyer, opening the door with a smile. “Yes?”

A man burst inside, grabbing her arms and pushing her against the wall. “Jenny Calhoun?” he snarled, peering into her face. “It’s you, ain’t it?”

He was tall, burly, with bearded face and uncombed hair. His right hand grasped her tightly enough to bruise, but his left arm seemed weaker. “Who are you?” she quavered.

“You don’t remember me?” he growled into her ear. “I remember you. Every inch of you. I’m Jacob Johnson.”

“No,” she whispered in dread, searching his face in an effort to recognize the boy she’d known in Missouri. It was him. Her stomach clenched, and she grabbed her belly to protect the babe inside.

“Now you remember.” His left hand grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. “Look at me good. Be sure you remember everything.”

“G-go away,” she said. “Or I’ll scream.” Visions of her last encounter with Johnson flashed through her memory.

He guffawed, the sound low and mean. “Like you screamed last time? McDougall ain’t here to save you now.”

“He-he’ll be back soon.”

“Scuttlebutt in town says he’s in Portland.”

“The sheriff knows to watch for you.” She would say anything, anything to make him leave.

“There ain’t no sheriff here now, is there?” Johnson pushed her into the parlor. “So we’ll close this door and have ourselves a nice chat.”

Jenny prayed Will and Maria stayed upstairs. She didn’t want them to find her with Johnson. He’d hurt them. She knew what he could do to young girls—she didn’t want Maria to suffer as she had.

Keeping a hold on her, Johnson looked around the room. “You got yourself a fine home. Musta done all right over the years, you and McDougall.”

“Do you want money? I don’t have any here, but I could get some in town,” she babbled. Anything to make him leave.

“Well, now, that might be nice. But first I want you to say you’re sorry for killin’ my pa.”

“I didn’t kill him—”

“McDougall did,” Johnson said, his fetid breath stifling her. “And he ain’t here. I’ll just take your apology instead.”

“I-I’m sorry. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

“Is that why you shot me?” he demanded, shaking her with his right arm. “See this?” He flapped his left arm. “This arm ain’t never been much good since you put a bullet in it.”

“I’m sorry.” Jenny meant it. “Truly sorry. But you were going to—” She couldn’t even say what he’d been going to do to her then.

“I was gonna what? Have a little fun?” Johnson leered. “That weren’t worth maiming a man, was it?”

“N-no.” What would it take to make him go away?

“Let’s start up now where we left it back in Missouri. Shall we?” He pushed her onto the divan and threw himself on top of her.

She screamed.

Will rushed into the parlor. A man sprawled on top of Mama. Will pulled at the man’s shirt. “Get off her. Get off!”

The man turned from Mama and grabbed Will’s neck, slamming him into a wall. “You little bastard.”

It was that Johnson fellow from town. Pa told Will to keep him away, and now Johnson was in the house. Will had failed his father. He flailed, trying to land a punch. Johnson crowded close to Will to avoid the blows and squeezed Will’s neck with one arm.