The Blue Hour: A Novel

By Vicki Righettini

In this epic tale of love, loss, and redemption, the year is 1861, a time when women are expected to be married by a certain age. At 26, spinster Emily Wainwright has no reason to believe her sheltered life will ever change — until the charming Samuel Todd unexpectedly crosses her path. Samuel yearns to homestead and start a family in Oregon, but he first needs to find a wife. Blinded by Samuel’s good looks, and grasping at her final chance to have a husband and children, Emily accepts his marriage proposal. However, Samuel is not the man she thought he was, and her marriage becomes a cold, cruel prison, offering her no solace amidst the hardships of farm life. When Samuel dies and a second chance at love and happiness arrives in the form of farmhand Cole Walker, Emily must overcome her bitter past—or risk losing Cole and the life she has always dreamed of having.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634138307

Book preview

Ulrich

PROLOGUE

Oregon

1864

Emily Wainwright Todd stood facing the rough doorway of the little cabin, willing herself to go inside. Behind her, the world huddled, gray and still, under the cold hard dome of winter. She could hear the ring of pickaxes from mines in the nearby mountains, the sound carrying for miles in the crystalline air. She rested her forehead against the cold doorframe and wished she could go back in time. She wouldn't repeat the mistakes that had brought her here. If only she knew what to do. In the three days since Samuel's death, she had been carried on the momentum of the funeral preparations. Now he was buried in the hard winter ground, and the neighbors were gone, returned to their unaltered lives. She was left to navigate hers without benefit of compass or map.

Her hands were numb from the cold: as numb as she felt inside. She would freeze if she stood out here any longer. But she couldn't make herself take that step. It was too monumental. If only there were a ritual for such moments, when something as ordinary as entering a room seemed charged with meaning. But the time had come. Unless she wanted the neighbors to find her frozen body, she couldn't put it off any longer. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. She was twenty-eight years old, and, for the first time in her life, utterly alone.

She closed the door behind her and looked around, unsure of what to do next. The cabin was frigid – she could see her breath coming in white puffs. She went to the cast iron stove and peered inside: weak embers flickered in a pile of spent cinders. If she worked quickly she could revive them. She pulled the three-legged stool under her and carefully blew on the embers. They glowed beneath fluttering grey ash.

She fed kindling into the stove's belly, grateful to have the next few moments decided for her. On any other day she'd have been preparing the mid-day meal for Samuel when he came in from the fields. She'd be spared that chore for a while: her table groaned under the weight of covered dishes brought by her neighbors, more than enough to see her through the next few rugged days. Like her, most of them were scraping by, even more so in winter. She knew well what their generosity had cost them.

She also knew that the few souls who had braved the bitter February wind at Auburn Cemetery had come out of respect for her. Samuel had made few friends in the short time they'd lived in the Blue Mountains of Oregon: he'd kept to himself and preferred that she do the same. She'd rewarded the mourners with a brief service. Why make them stand in the cold and sing hymns for someone they barely knew? She'd watched impassively as the men strained to dig Samuel's grave in the frozen earth: their efforts would soon be over, while her struggle was just beginning. Few could survive alone in this harsh land, let alone a woman. They must assume it was only a matter of time before she packed up and returned to her family in Illinois.

She laid a small log on the fire and watched the clinging lichens burst into flame. The woodsy fragrance embraced her like an old friend as the crackling fire grew, magical and alive.

Fool! You're wasting the flame.

She clamped her hands over her ears in despair: it was Samuel's voice, lodged forever in her mind. She had instinctively braced herself for it. His harsh judgment would live in her head for all eternity. She would never be free.

She closed the grate and stood wearily, wiping her hands on her cloak. The sight of Samuel's rocking chair, cold and still, loomed before her. She shuddered and looked away, only to see his overalls hanging on a peg by the sleeping loft. Suddenly, she saw him in her mind's eye, as clearly as if he were alive: descending the ladder, jerking his sweat-stained overalls over his lean body, damning her with his dark, accusing eyes. His hateful presence permeated the space as it had in life, his contempt as solid as the table that stood in the center of the room. She had to gather every bit of her waning strength to keep from running out the door and fleeing to the frozen mountains.

She forced herself toward the kitchen, where she picked up the dipper with trembling hands and filled the iron kettle. The last time Andrew was here, before the funeral, he'd braved the icy yard and filled two buckets from the well. She had enough water to last several days. It was a small gesture, but so thoughtful. She would not waste his kindness. She would make herself a cup of tea. Then she would calm herself, and she would think.

Tapping her foot, waiting for the water to boil, she lifted the cover on a casserole. It was a meat pie. The savory aroma made her swoon. When had she last eaten? Ravenous, she grabbed a spoon. The tender crust shattered as she broke through it. She scooped up a huge mouthful and brought the quivering spoon to her lips. Her mouth watered in anticipation.

Then she stopped.

She would not behave like a savage just because she was alone. She would eat when her tea was properly brewed. With calm determination, she cut a slice of pie, placed it on a tin plate, and set it on the stove to warm.

Her cloak and bonnet now felt stifling in the toasty cabin. She went to hang them up and tripped over Samuel's cot: the bed where he had drawn his last shuddering breath. For a moment she stood shivering, despite the rising fire. Then, on impulse, she plucked Samuel's overalls from the peg, dropped them onto the cot, and shoved the whole mess into a dark corner. She arranged her cloak and bonnet on the peg and stepped back to study her handiwork. The first small change, she thought. The first of many.

Feeling undressed without an apron, she tied a reasonably clean one over her dress. How unnatural the women at the funeral had looked without their aprons! Samuel would certainly have approved. He'd never tired of complaining at the sight of her stained and tattered aprons. Well, he'd never have to see this one again, would he?

At last the water boiled merrily on the stove. She measured a heaping spoonful of dried chamomile flowers and another of dried lemon balm into her one remaining china cup, poured boiling water over the herbs, and watched as golden swirls infused the water. Then she covered the cup with a plate and forced herself to wait five full minutes for the tea to steep. She needed it strong. Maybe later she'd take one of her tinctures to help her sleep. It wasn't that she was afraid. This wouldn't be her first night sleeping alone in the cabin. But the thought that no one would ever again be coming home to her, not even Samuel, made her feel as desolate as if she were on the moon. If she didn't sleep, she'd spend the night straining for the sound of absent footsteps, consumed by the crushing reality of her isolation.

When her tea was ready, Emily picked up the warm plate with a flour-sack towel and carried it to Samuel's rocking chair, the most comfortable seat in the cabin, until now forbidden to her. She started to sit but wavered. This is my chair now, she said to the empty room, if there be no objections.

Hearing none, she eased into the chair. Sitting in Samuel's place seemed wrong, but she forced herself to stay. She raised a mouthful of the long-awaited pie to her lips. The silky richness of pork and winter vegetables burst in her mouth. This must be from Vina Norman, she thought. Bless your soul, dear friend.

Emily savored her meal, and took her time over her tea. She could do this. She could eat this meal, drink this tea. She could do this one, small thing. And perhaps if she did enough small things, she'd figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

__________

The logs on the fire had collapsed into whispering embers, submerging the room in murky shadows. Hours must have passed while she'd sat in an exhausted trance, gripping the cold cup. But she couldn't sit here forever. Exhausted as she was, there was still a farm that needed her.

Getting up was like pulling herself from quicksand. She was more tired than she'd been at threshing time, when her mind went numb from the unrelenting toil and her body cried out for relief. She hadn't thought it possible to be more tired than that. She didn't know if it was grief or regret which weighed so heavily on her, but she now understood that physical exhaustion was nothing compared to weariness of the spirit, which sapped all life, all strength, all hope.

She left the dirty dishes on the floor. They would keep until morning. Tomorrow she'd sort out what to do, how to survive. Life in the Powder River Valley was hard enough for two people, but now she was alone, and a woman besides. Perhaps she'd die out here, with no one to care, or mourn, or even notice.

But she couldn't think about that now, because then she'd have to think about how she'd gotten here, how she'd been deceived – how she'd let herself be deceived, as Eve was by Satan's evil snake – and that was more than she could bear. She stepped out of her dress, once her precious royal blue wedding gown, now her mourning attire, and tossed it carelessly over a chair. Then she unpinned her hair and made a few half-hearted swipes at it with a wooden comb.

Finally, as the pale winter sun slipped below the horizon, she climbed up to the loft and collapsed onto the straw ticking. She slept where she fell, without memory or dreams: the sweet, healing sleep that had eluded her every night of her two short, endless years of marriage to Samuel.

• PART ONE •

Springfield, Illinois

1861

CHAPTER 1

The winter had been a hard one in Springfield, with deep snowdrifts and bitter cold. But the early spring was a healing balm. Emily tugged at the weeds in her garden, ignoring the patches of mud at her knees. Every morning for weeks she'd paced the boundary of her overgrown backyard plot, impatiently willing the days to lengthen, hardly able to contain herself until the weather turned. Finally the day arrived. Right after breakfast she'd grabbed her basket of garden tools and headed for the one piece of land she could call her own.

The breeze caressed her bare arms like fine silk as she tinkered with her plants – staking one, pruning another, and pulling up yet another, brown and crackling. She'd been at it for hours, tending the wintered-over plants and uncovering the rows obscured by layers of spent hay. Nettie called it a mess and an eyesore, but Emily knew that the hay protected and enriched the soil. Old Mrs. Hickson had taught her so.

She paused for a moment and looked up, delighting in the colorful riot of winter quilts thrown out over railings and onto rooftops for airing. She was not the only resident of Springfield to feel a joyous surge of energy today. She could hear her neighbors greeting each other as they took in the sun and sweet air, their conversations punctuated by the rhythmic beating of rugs on back clotheslines. All around her, roused by the exuberant sunlight, birds chattered in counterpoint to the giddy buzz of insects, bright industry after so many dreary months.

Each spring on the first day she worked in her garden, she could always count on a deep flutter of anticipation coming over her, but this year the feeling seemed stronger than usual. Perhaps it was the freedom she felt after being cooped up indoors for months on end. All winter she'd had a particularly severe case of cabin fever. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the humid days of summer descended, when it was too much effort to move and everyone was cross, but today she felt blessed to be alive. The air was pleasant and sweet, and a promising blue sky watched over everything in the world she cared about: her parents; Nettie; their comfortable family home; and her cherished garden. She sat back on her heels and wiped her moist brow with the back of her hand. Indeed, this day was a benediction for having survived the winter intact. She turned her gaze to the ragged patch of mullein at her knees. You look far from intact, my friend, she said. I'm afraid there's nothing left of you to save.

She dug at the withered plant and recalled her first childhood attempt at gardening. She'd planted oxalis, foxglove, and burdock just as Mrs. Hickson had instructed, but had been inconsolable at how sad and lifeless the plants had looked after their winter sleep. When she'd run to the old woman in tears after Nettie told her that's what she deserved for planting weeds, Mrs. Hickson had folded her into her strong, tanned arms and said, Give it time and attention, child. Then she'd added with a twinkle in her eye, And remember: there are no weeds in an herbalist's garden. Emily tugged at the recalcitrant plant and smiled at the memory.

Lovely day, Miss Emily.

She looked up with a start to see Samuel Todd standing over her, dazzling in his finest attire. She hadn't seen his carriage pull up. Even if she had, she wouldn't have paid any mind. She typically ignored the traffic at the Wainwright home, since any visitors invariably came to see her father, Judge Wainwright, not her. Now her inattentiveness had cost her. She'd been ambushed by Samuel Todd, the most disreputable man in Springfield. Her cheeks burned at how long he must have been standing there watching, having the advantage of her.

I apologize if I've come at a bad time, he said. I'll return, if you like.

No – no, please, she said, not wishing to return his rudeness in kind. She stood and did what she could to brush the mud from her faded calico dress, disgraced that anyone outside the family – let alone a man like Samuel Todd – was seeing her in her worn-out gardening clothes, and with her arms shamelessly exposed. Samuel had taken care to be seen at his best: his boots were spotless and freshly polished, and the rich brocade of his vest glistened in the sun. His glossy black hair was pomaded and perfectly combed into place. Emily felt mortified at how disheveled and immodest she must seem in comparison. With as much dignity as she could muster, she pulled off her dirt-encrusted gardening gloves and tucked an escaped tendril of hair into her sun bonnet. The attempt was fruitless and left a muddy smear across her brow, but Samuel appeared not to notice.

Are you here to see Daddy? she asked.

That depends on you, Miss Emily.

She took a step back. She hadn't counted on his interest. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down her back. Well, then, she said, doing her best to sound composed, what can I do for you, Mr. Todd?

Samuel smiled, exposing even, white teeth beneath an impeccably trimmed black moustache. He knew his smile never failed with the ladies. I wonder, Miss Emily, if you would do me the favor of joining me for a carriage ride this evening.

Emily wasn't sure she'd heard him right. At twenty-six she was an old maid. Samuel must know she'd given up on beaux long ago, and they had, much to her relief, given up on her. Of course, she knew Samuel Todd, knew his family. His aunt Mary had married that Congressman, Abraham Lincoln, who was now President. The President. But beyond that – and the gossip that circulated about him – Samuel was as blank to her as the freshly cleared ground beneath her feet.

Only one boy had ever captured Emily’s heart. Everyone, including the handsome and elegant Samuel Todd, paled in comparison to Joshua.

__________

Who are you? the sandy-haired boy demanded.

Emily sat alone on the weathered bench, clutching her dinner pail to her chest. She'd been sick with the measles and had missed the beginning of first grade. Today was her first day of school. She felt awkward and out of place. Now this impudent boy was tormenting her. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she answered, I'm Emily Wainwright.

What did you say? Speak up, I can't hear you.

She looked up at the boy. Emily Wainwright, she repeated.

Why as I live and breathe! the boy said, turning to the other children. My friends, may I present to you, Miss Emily Wainwright! He then strutted in a parody of manners for the circle of giggling children.

A hot pounding filled Emily's ears. And just who are you? she demanded.

The boy wheeled around. I'm Joshua Carter. Everyone knows that. How come I've never seen you before?

I've never been here before.

Why not?

I was sick.

That's a lie. They don't let sick people into this school.

Emily pressed her mouth into a hard line. I said, I was sick. Now I'm well.

You don't look well to me, he said. In fact, I don't like the looks of you at all. And with that he turned on his heel and marched off to join the other children.

Emily felt a hot surge of anger. She leapt off the bench and grabbed the retreating Joshua around his knees, tackling him to the ground. They tumbled over each other, rolling and scuffling and kicking up clouds of dust. The children pressed around them in a tight circle, cheering them on. Emily quickly subdued Joshua, straddling him and holding his wrists to the ground. Take it back, Joshua! she said to his reddened face.

He struggled to free himself. I won't! Let me go!

You take it back! Or my daddy the Judge will put you in jail!

The circle of children went wild with shouting. Now the older boys joined in, too, cheering for Emily. Joshua had annoyed them at their games for far too long.

Just then their teacher, Miss Robertson, swooped down and yanked them to their feet. Children, please! she said, straightening Emily's pinafore and pounding the dust from Joshua's back. I expected better from you, Joshua, she said, frowning. Miss Robertson then turned to the circle of children. Now everyone, let's all welcome Miss Emily Wainwright to our school. Emily has been sick and missed the first few weeks, but I know you'll all be good citizens and help her catch up.

This last instruction was directed pointedly at Joshua, who suddenly found his feet a great source of fascination. Emily was surprised and a little pleased that he hadn't argued with the teacher or blamed her for getting him into trouble.

Sensing an opportunity to escape, Joshua turned and marched toward the schoolhouse, eager to preserve what dignity he had left.

Joshua! Miss Robertson called after him.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

I know you'll want to show Emily to her desk.

Joshua's shoulders fell. Yes, Miss Robertson, he said dejectedly.

That's my little gentleman. Come now children, we're late for our lessons.

My little gentleman. The words echoed in Emily's mind. As the children filed past them, Joshua shuffled towards her with his head down. He took her dusty hand and led her up the schoolhouse steps – but not without sneaking an appreciative glance at her, she noticed.

After the morning lessons, Emily went looking for Joshua. She found him sitting under a tree, staring into his dinner pail, too despondent to eat.

I'm sorry about what happened this morning, she said. But you don't even know me, so how could you say those awful things? It wasn't fair.

Joshua squinted up at her. I know you now, and I swear I'll never say anything like that again, not to you or anyone else. That's a promise.

She sat down next to him and made a show of looking into her dinner pail so he wouldn't see how pleased she was. She knew she was guilty of the sin of pride, because she was secretly thrilled at what she had done.

That was some pretty good fighting, Emily. Where did you learn to do that?

I don't know, she said. I just got angry, I guess. But my daddy says people shouldn't fight, she added quickly.

My daddy says the same thing, but I do sometimes anyway. Sometimes you have to. But I sure didn't know girls could fight like that.

May I tell you a secret, Joshua?

Sure.

I didn't know girls could fight like that, either.

Joshua wasn't sure he believed her, then he decided he'd be better off if he did. Do you think we could be friends? he asked.

Of course. Emily took a sandwich from her dinner pail. What's in your pail, Joshua? Do you like salt pork? Nettie gave me salt pork and she knows I hate it. Would you like mine?

__________

Samuel waited, his head scalding in the hot sun. He wished propriety didn't demand he remove his hat. Social dictates were an annoyance, when you got right down to it. Even impressing a woman, a skill at which he excelled, could be a damned nuisance under the right circumstances.

Oh! Mr. Todd! Emily said, snapping out of her reverie. Where are my manners? She couldn't keep him waiting any longer, but should she accept? She had to admit it was an intriguing invitation.

Samuel waited, broiling in the heat, his face a mask of patient indulgence. What he wouldn't give to be able to put his hat back on.

The flutter of anticipation Emily had been feeling all morning intensified. She took that as a sign. I think a carriage ride would be lovely, she said at last. Thank you for an unexpected treat.

Samuel's dark eyes shone. Her response had been worth the torturous wait. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. She smelled of honest sweat, earth, and fresh air, not fragrances he was used to associating with a woman. He was surprised at how enticing a combination it was. It is I who thank you, Miss Emily. I'll call for you after supper. It should be a fine night.

Yes, Mr. Todd. A fine night, indeed.

Until tonight, then, he said, releasing her hand.

Until tonight. His seductive heat lingered on her skin. She immediately regretted her decision. What had possessed her? This was Samuel Todd – and she had just agreed to be alone with him!

Samuel strode to the garden gate, where he turned and tipped his hat to her with one last brilliant smile. Then he closed the gate behind him, whistling and donning his hat with unconcealed glee.

CHAPTER 2

That afternoon, Emily sat at her mahogany dressing table, wrestling a tortoise shell comb through her tangled hair. She'd looked a fright when Samuel Todd came by, with her muddy clothing and her hair in knots; an affront given how she should have received a visitor. Well, if he'd felt insulted it was his own fault for showing up unannounced. It was almost as if he'd planned it that way, as if he'd meant to rattle her so she'd go against her better judgment and accept his invitation. She wouldn't have put it past him.

But why should he be the least bit interested in her? There seemed to be no good reason. He'd been three years behind her in school, so they barely knew each other. Their families didn't run in the same social circles. What little she knew about him she'd heard secondhand: he'd failed to graduate from the Eastern college his father had sent him to – worse, he returned home in disgrace with a pile of gambling debts; he hadn't succeeded at the Todd family printing business; he attracted – and was attracted to – beautiful but disreputable women; he favored expensive clothing, exotic food, and fine wine. His reputation in Springfield was dubious at best.

She put down her comb and studied her reflection. She wasn't beautiful, but she wasn't homely, either. Her hair was more blonde than brown. She was taller than average, but not statuesque. Her figure was neither slender enough to make the young girls jealous, nor so ample as to scandalize the matrons. She was, in a word, unremarkable.

Except for her eyes. The ice-blue intensity of her eyes had attracted, then unnerved, even the most ardent admirers. She'd never learned the dainty trick of casting her eyes down – not when she burned with curiosity. Instead, she focused her penetrating gaze on her suitor until he squirmed like a singed ant under a child's magnifying glass, hastily excusing himself for a suddenly remembered appointment. It was not a promising start for a courtship. She rarely heard from them again.

She picked up an orangewood stick and cleaned the dirt from under her fingernails, evidence of her passion for herbs and healing plants, akin to witchcraft in her mother's eyes. As far as her mother was concerned, gardening was for farmer's wives and kitchen staff, not for ladies, whose smooth, white hands should reflect their social status. But Emily loved being in her garden, getting her hands into the earth. What was a little dirt under her nails but a badge of love for her plants and a sign of her dedication to herbalism? Little wonder, then, that she was an old maid. She was considered an outsider in her own home, by her own mother. She would have loved being married and raising children, but her unorthodox interests insured it would never happen. She sometimes thought that if she'd lived in another time or place, her unconventional life – not unlike old Mrs. Hickson's – might have been accepted, admired even. But not in Springfield, and not with a mother like Calliope.

Emily had always known that having an invalid mother complicated her situation. Shortly after Emily's birth, Calliope had developed a nervous condition that kept her confined to her room, a retreat from which she seldom ventured forth. Yet, her frailty notwithstanding, she exerted absolute rule over the household. Despite her limitations, or perhaps because of them, her ambitions burned brightly. Having been denied the dreams of her youth, her greatest hope had been to launch her daughter into elite Springfield society. From the fortress of her four-poster bed, she'd plotted and planned for years, developing a campaign to rival Napoleon's world conquest. But when the time came, Emily demurred. Calliope never forgave what she perceived as Emily's coldness. The rift could never be mended. Only the Judge understood the reservoir of feeling his daughter's reticence concealed and the intellectual heat it shielded.

Having early on recognized Emily's brilliance, the Judge saw to it that no scholarly craving of hers went unsatisfied. In the evenings, they read by the fire in his study, his copies of Shakespeare and Homer disintegrating from years of loving use. He shared with her the details of his court cases and came to rely upon her astute reasoning. She possessed a mind that never ceased in its quiet quest for knowledge, and under his tutelage, she was educated beyond the expectations of most young men her age. Furthermore, Judge Wainwright had encouraged Emily's herbalism lessons with the aging Mrs. Hickson, sensing the old woman's fondness for his daughter, and seeing in her remedy-making an act of creation akin to motherhood. When Calliope complained that not only had Emily's studies ruined her chances for a good marriage, but now her friendship with the old conjurer would prevent any entry into good society, the Judge had stood firm. What Calliope never understood, and what the Judge had known from the beginning, was that the only society his daughter sought was the society of plants and of books.

Emily sprinkled eau de toilette on her hands and smoothed her hair into place. Well then, she decided, if Samuel Todd wanted to treat her to a carriage ride on a beautiful evening, when heaven knows she'd enjoyed few enough of those in her life, the least she could do was give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he wasn't as bad as everyone claimed. She knew from firsthand experience how easily a person could be misunderstood. But no matter how she turned the question over in her mind, she couldn't fathom why Samuel Todd – of the well-connected Springfield clan that had provided Abraham Lincoln with a wife – had asked her out.

Unless he had changed. Or wanted to.

The fluttering in her stomach returned.

CHAPTER 3

When he was out of sight of the Wainwright home, Samuel eased up on the reins. Tonight might decide his future, and he needed time to consider his chances. As the youngest of five sons, he knew that none of the Todd family fortune would come to him after his father's death. His two eldest brothers were his father's right and left hands at the family printing business. Between them, they would inherit both their father's property and the business. His middle brother had entered the clergy, not a direction he saw for himself – he was a trifle too attached to the ways of the flesh. Brother number four had married a wealthy girl and was set for life, with a houseful of rambunctious boys and a comfortable position at her daddy's textile mill.

Of all the Todd sons, only he had yet to find his way in the world. After watching him fail at several misguided enterprises, his father had paid for his college education, hoping it would give him some much-needed focus in life. But he was no scholar. He had squandered his school stipend on women, whisky, and gambling, and returned to Springfield under a cloud of scandal. His father had felt the sting of this failure much more than he. He was sorry his father took it so hard, but it was his own fault for not grasping the situation. The idea of molding him into a learned man was laughable. He sought an education of an altogether different sort.

To appease his father after his return from college, he had worked for a time at the family print shop. He had detested everything about the business: the noise, the heat, the stench of ink and machine oil. No matter how carefully he masked his cuffs, they were invariably ruined by stray ink and carbon. He couldn't bear the black stains that persisted on his hands, even after scrubbing with pumice and lye soap. Most of all, he hated the deadening repetition of each day. At the end of two weeks he'd thrown down his apron in disgust and walked out.

He knew his destiny lay to the west, in the nascent state of Oregon. Every day the paper printed news of wagon trains making the dangerous trek across Indian Territory. His only bearable moments at the print shop had been reading those stories as they peeled fresh off the rollers. He couldn't get enough of the drama and romance of it. What finally decided him was The Donation Land Act: 320 acres of open land just waiting for any man willing to make the 2,000 mile journey to claim it – with twice that amount granted to married men. 640 acres! There wasn't that much available land left in all of Illinois.

He couldn't figure out why no one in his acquaintance was interested in this great adventure. These days, whenever men gathered over cigars and whisky, their talk invariably turned to the civil war brewing between the abolitionist Northerners and their slave-holding brethren in the South. More than once their heated discussions had erupted into fisticuffs. Their fervor mystified him. He, for one, didn't relish the thought of ending his life in some anonymous field – or of getting his behind shot off and returning home a crippled war hero, unable to enjoy the remainder of his life. Nor did he care a whit if one man had slaves and another didn't. A man should be allowed to live as he pleased, and let that be the end of it. No, his preoccupation lay elsewhere: in the promise contained in those vast acres of untamed Western land.

His thoughts then turned to Emily Wainwright. She was twenty-six and unmarried, the only child of well-off parents. To get to Oregon he would need her money, her hands, and her name on a marriage certificate to claim the larger acreage. Her parents should be more than happy to unload their odd, spinster daughter, and she would no doubt welcome the opportunity to escape the prying eyes and closed minds of Springfield.

He reflected on their encounter. Peculiar as she was, he'd been strangely affected by her. Such intriguing eyes, the way they looked into his without a shred of shame. He was unaccustomed to such boldness in a lady. Outwardly, she seemed awkward and shy, but her eyes told a different story. His plan had been to charm her, but her unconventionality had turned the tables: she had charmed him. After a lifetime enduring the scorn of virtuous women – wan, insipid creatures whose sole asset was their needlessly-protected virginity – this was refreshing indeed.

He leaned back and recalled how eager he'd been to leave for college – not for the study, but for the freedom of being out from under his father's thumb. He'd gladly fled to the East, only to find himself standing before the fireplace in some dean's stuffy parlor, his

Reviews for The Blue Hour

[mum26 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An interesting story. It covers over 50 years of love and life events, from young love to a marriage that is not a good one. And finally after all this, a happy marriage. But even then, no, the author couldn't give her more than 20 years till she then looses him too. So overall, a sad story of loss, endurance and struggles.

[grgenius_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of Emily Wainwright's climb from small town spinster of reputable name to married pioneer woman forging a life with her own two hands by her husband's side. Emily was a sweetheart through and through, though a might stubborn which is what lands her in the situation as it is....but it is certainly not her fault. While yes, she should have listened to her elders, and perhaps taken more heed of the town gossip about her instant suitor, she was blinded by love and the chance to start a life of her own. The jerk du jour goes by the name of Samuel Todd, and that moniker I bestowed on him is the NICEST thing I could say. Samuel was born with a silver spoon in his mouth but wanted nothing to do with anything that was a sure bet, or on the up and up. It is he who misguides our fair lead, he who tries to break her spirit, he who brings all the horrors life can offer to her feet. He deserved no much worse than he got, and certainly was not worthy of Miss Emily, but at least fate sees fit to find him in the end.

In the end, it was quite a remarkable journey. Her life and times were not ideal, nay many would call them even less than that, but she made them her own, and did more than simply survive. Whether you're a fan of Historical Fiction or not, take a chance on this ode to the unbreakable nature of the human spirit that reminds us that even through the worst of times, love can conquer all.


***copy was received for review, full post on my site