Chapter 1

The wedding came up quickly. My dress was sewn by Katherine and a few of the neighbor women, who liked to sit around the table gossiping and working their needles with deft fingers. The work was finished in a matter of days. It was plain — cream‑colored cotton with a bit of crochet at the neckline. My head cap was crocheted, too. My toes were pinched in too‑tight leather ankle boots that buttoned along the side. Katherine insisted I wear her old ones, though they were a size too small.

That morning, early, Katherine sat me down. Her face was expressionless. I knew better than to expect an apology, and truth be told, I wouldn’t have known what to do with one. We had never pretended to have anything resembling what I’d once had with my own mother. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going to lead.

“When you’re a wife, Sarah, you’ll tend to your husband as you tend to his table,” she began. “You’ll keep yourself clean, your hair neat, and your mouth shut unless spoken to. A man works hard to provide — the least you can do is see he’s fed, his clothes are mended, and his bed is warm.

“And don’t you go turning up your nose at his advances. A husband has his rights. The Good Book says a wife is not to withhold herself from her husband. You’ll learn to be agreeable, even if you’re tired. That’s part of being a God‑fearing woman.

“Do your duty, and you’ll have peace in your home. Cross your husband, and you’ll have nothing but trouble — and it’ll be your own fault. Do not bring shame upon this family.”

I nodded. I didn’t understand all of it, but I understood enough — I was to obey my husband in all matters. That much was clear from watching Katherine and August.

The church smelled faintly of wood polish and each pew was adorned with leather-bound hymnals. The morning light slanted through the tall windows, dust motes drifting in lazy circles. My boots pinched with every step, but I kept my chin level, my hands folded just so in front of me.

Zachariah was already there, standing near the front, speaking easily with Pastor Voelker. His hat was in his hand, his hair neatly combed. He turned when I came in, and the smile that lit his face was warm enough to soften the edges of my nerves. He stepped forward to take my hand — gently, as though I were something delicate.

“You look lovely, Miss Baumer,” he said. His voice was smooth, pleasant, with a lilt that made me glance shyly at him through my eyelashes.

It wasn’t the sort of love‑story beginning I might have dreamed of as a girl, but it was polite. Kind, even. And there was something in his eyes — an attentiveness — that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in years.

Pastor Voelker cleared his throat and called the small gathering to attention. It wasn’t a grand affair — a few neighbors, the Reinhardts in their Sunday coats, and Zachariah’s kin from Limeville who nodded politely in my direction but did not smile.

We stood before the altar, my hand resting lightly in Zachariah’s. His palm was warm and dry, his grip firm but not unkind. When Pastor Voelker spoke the words, Zachariah answered without hesitation, his voice deep and steady, the sound filling the little church as though he owned the place.

When my turn came, the words caught a moment in my throa