Vengeance Road (34 page)

Summer fades into fall, and on an unseasonably cool October morning, I look out the window to see a lone rider winding up the trail. He stops 'long the creek to let his horse drink, then turns onto my claim.

I snatch up my rifle and step onto the front stoop.

The figure draws nearer, but not in a hurry. He's riding relaxed in the saddle, hips rocking back and forth as he leans easy in the stirrups. The shade of his horse's dark coat comes into focus for me first. Then a swash of burgundy red at the rider's neck.

I set my rifle aside and race forward.

He draws rein no more than a few yards from me and swings offa Rebel.

“Kate,” he says, tipping his hat. His squinty eyes take in all there is to see. First me, from boot tip to brow; then the barn, the crops, the house and its yet-to-be-weathered wood. “I thought it burned,” he says, gaze fixed over my shoulder.

“I rebuilt it—had all this gold from a reckless chase through the Superstitions.”

“I shoulda been here to help.”

“Yeah. You shoulda.” I can't keep the edge of anger off my tongue.

“I got caught running cattle to Los Angeles. Benny was furious and said I owed him. It were rough land and a long trip and we didn't get much time in towns. I'd've written, but I didn't know if you'd returned to Prescott. Had to ask after you in town just to find my way here.” He rubs his stubbled jaw, and I don't point out that he coulda tried sending a letter either way. “I guess I'm saying it ain't an excuse for the silence, but it's the reason,” he adds.

He digs round in his saddlebags and pulls out something wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied with twine. “I got you this,” he says, extending it my way.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Just take it, Kate. Please? I came all this way to say I'm sorry 'bout the last couple months and—”

“Oh, is that what you came for? 'Cus it's the first time you's said it.”

Jesse Colton just keeps his arm out, the package held before me while his eyes plead.

I pluck it from his hand and tear off the paper.

I see the shape of a spine first, then the cover.
Little Women.
I run my hand over the gold-leaf lettering.

“They had an awful nice bookshop in Los Angeles,” he says. “And I had all this gold from a reckless chase through the Superstitions.”

He smirks, and I can barely fight it no more—the smile threatening to break free on my face. I force my lips thin, look up at him serious.

“What if I'd moved on, Jesse? I'm getting good at that, you know. I ain't just been sitting round waiting.”

“I never thought you would. I prayed every day since we parted that I'd find you again and you might still want me. Hell, I said you had me to go home to and then I weren't even there when the time came. It was so hard, though,” he adds, frowning. “Every time I thought on you, it brought up Will. Took me a long time to separate the two, to not feel sadness or anger at yer memory.”

I stroke the cover of the leather-bound novel, run a forefinger down the spine.

“Did you read it?” I says.

“Got 'bout ten pages in and fell asleep.”

“Jesse Colton!”

“Maybe you can read it to me. Aloud. Maybe that'd be better.”

“We could try.”

He lets go of Rebel's reins and steps nearer. “Tonight?”

“You asking to stay?”

“If you'll let me.”

“Jesse, I never wanted you to leave.”

“I didn't. I just went away a little while.” He puts a knuckle to my chin and nudges up till I'm looking right at him. His eyes are hazel. I ain't noticed that before. “Can I?” he says, so close that the heat of his words graze my lips. “Stay?”

“Yeah,” I says. “I reckon you can.”

He kisses me slow and deep. My whole being starts going hazy, and for once I don't care. I draw him in and kiss him back, letting every worry fly straight outta my limbs.

He swings me into a silent dance, but I don't carp 'bout the lack of music this time. There's wind and ruffling mesquite leaves and the sway of dry grass out 'cross my claim. There's a bird warbling on the fence and Jesse's heart thumping strong and my pulse burning right on back. A blazing sun rises up over the Territory, and I feel a spark of promise I ain't sensed since before Pa died. It hums at my core.

It's the most beautiful song I's ever heard.

It rings and it echoes and it glistens like gold.

I've loved the West
for as long as I can remember. From childhood literature (
Little House on the Prairie
!) to the Western film genre (Clint!), stories featuring wide open plains and spitfire characters and the trials of homesteading in the late-nineteenth century have always captivated me. I've wanted to write my own “Western” novel for years, but without the right story kernel, there was no tale to tell.

That all changed one evening in 2013 when my husband recounted one of his favorite places in Arizona: the Superstition Mountains. He has family in the area and grew up hearing stories about the Lost Dutchman, a rich gold mine supposedly hidden within the rugged mountains east of Phoenix. As he discussed the legend and the various details surrounding it, my muse exploded. I suddenly had that Western novel idea I'd been chasing for ages: a girl out for revenge, but entangled in a bloody quest for lost gold.

Kate Thompson is entirely fictional, as are the Colton brothers, Liluye, and the Rose Riders, though I'm sure there were individuals like them in 1877 Arizona. However, many of the people Kate interacts with during her travels once called Arizona home. Morris, for instance, was indeed a clerk at Goldwaters, and Garfias was Phoenix's deputy sheriff during the time
Vengeance Road
is set. Then there's Don Miguel Peralta, who only graces the novel through Liluye's words but plays an active role in the infamous Lost Dutchman legend; he was a wealthy Mexican known to have operated a family mine in the Superstitions. While trying to remove a large amount of gold prior to the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, his party was allegedly ambushed by Apaches at what is now known as the Massacre Grounds.

And last but hardly least, there's Jacob Waltz­—perhaps the most central figure in Lost Dutchman lore.

Waltz's exact role in the legend of the mine is muddled, but there is no doubt that he existed. Declaration of Intent and citizenship papers prove that Waltz came to the United States from Germany and eventually gained citizenship in 1861. Why a German's legend would eventually become known as a Dutchman's is still a bit of a mystery. Some say it's because Americans constantly confused the Dutch and the Germans, and so the two terms became synonymous. Regardless, it is surmised that Waltz went west with gold seekers during the California gold rush of '49, and later prospected his way back east, finally settling in Phoenix, where he took up a homestead claim of 160 acres in the Salt River Valley (about a mile west of what is now Sky Harbor International Airport). Like any good myth, various versions of the Lost Dutchman mine exist, but it's virtually impossible to happen upon one in which Jacob Waltz is not the finder of the elusive gold.

Some versions of the tale claim Waltz had a partner, Jacob Weiser. The two Germans either discovered the mine together by chance or were supplied with a map to the gold by Don Miguel Peralta's surviving son, who wished to repay the Germans for saving his life during a card game turned bloody. Some say that after locating the gold, Weiser was killed by Apaches. Others say Waltz killed him out of greed. Another alternative is that Waltz and Weiser were actually the same person, and that time and retellings have fractured the legend, creating two Jacobs when there was only ever one.

Until the late 1880s, Waltz supposedly spent his winters pulling gold from his Superstitions mine, and his summers on his homestead in Phoenix. A flood of the Salt River in the spring of 1891 destroyed his home and left him sick with pneumonia. His neighbor Julia Thomas nursed him during his final days. Perhaps one of the most agreed upon threads of the legend is that Waltz confessed the location of his hidden mine to Julia while on his deathbed, going so far as to provide her with a map. Armed even with all this information, Julia failed to locate the gold after Waltz's passing.

The Lost Dutchman—if it truly does exist—has never been found. The story continues to be shared and retold, and numerous people have entered the Superstitions in search of the mine and continue to do so to this day. Many of them have been found dead years later, often in conditions that can only be concluded as the result of murder. The blood that seems irrevocably tied to the mine has led to whispers that the gold is haunted or cursed, or perhaps that the very mountains are.

Taking creative liberties is one of the best perks of being a writer, and I have, admittedly, been selective about which threads of the Lost Dutchman legend to weave into my novel. To me, it seemed quite possible that there was only one Jacob, so I eliminated Weiser. The theory that Waltz's gold mine was actually Peralta's, recovered years later, also seemed reasonable, so I incorporated that plot line. Rumors that the mountains are haunted manifested in Kate's mother, the ghost shooter. And though Waltz likely had just the one home (in Phoenix) and entered the mountains only while prospecting, making camp as he traveled, I chose to give him a secondary home along the Salt. There's no indication that such a residence existed, and even if it did, Waltz likely would have returned to Phoenix by June, when Kate and her companions encounter him in
Vengeance Road
. But as you can see, I tweaked things for my story.

As for how Waltz found the gold to begin with? This is where I've taken the most liberties, combining Kate's story with the Lost Dutchman legend. Since the origins of the myth are already so highly debated, who's to say Waltz couldn't have found the gold because a young girl handed him the fitting maps? It was this idea that fueled Kate's story, along with the possibility that all the answers could be contained in a mysterious personal journal, found by her parents when they stumbled upon the remains of the Peralta massacre years earlier. The clues Kate uses to find the mine are the product of my research: a combination of multiple theories and speculations that have surrounded the Lost Dutchman legend since Waltz's passing. They are genuine in that they are pulled from published sources on the topic—but then again, how reliable is any myth?

Simply put, this novel was a joy to write. It is the culmination of years of daydreaming, my opportunity to tell my own “Wild West” tale set against a very real backdrop in American history. While I strived to be accurate, honest, and respectful in my portrayal of the people who populate
Vengeance Road
and the locations through which they travel, it is only fair to acknowledge that any errors or historical inaccuracies are mine and mine alone. Unless we're talking about a detail related to the Lost Dutchman, because, come on—who really knows what happened? That's the best part about legends: tons of holes and discrepancies just waiting to be theorized. It's a writer's dream come true.

I find writing acknowledgments
to be an incredibly challenging task. How can I possibly express the true extent of my gratitude to everyone who made this book possible? There aren't enough words, and yet, I'll try . . .

My posse over at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt knocked this out of the park. Kate O'Sullivan, editor extraordinaire: I'm so glad you fell in love with Kate's story and gave me the opportunity to share it with the world. Thank you for your gentle queries and steadfast dedication, for Pinterest boards and constant transparency. You kept me involved from book sale to book publication, and I am so very grateful. To one mighty fine design team, Scott Magoon and Cara Llewellyn: Thank you for dressing up this story so that it shouted
“Western!”
but didn't scare off readers hesitant toward the genre. Teagan White: Don't ever stop doing what you do. The illustration on
Vengeance Road'
s cover is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. You captured the essence of Kate's story so perfectly and I still can't believe that this gorgeous artwork graces the front of my book. Additional love to Betsy Groban, Mary Wilcox, Linda Magram, Lisa DiSarro, Karen Walsh, Hayley Gonnason, Ruth Homberg, and every last HMH employee who touched this project: thank you for saddling up and working tirelessly to get this book onto shelves, in the hands of readers, and on educators' radars.

My wrangler? Partner in crime? Whatever the fitting Western lingo, I'd be lost without my agent, Sara Crowe. Thank you for supporting me as I jumped from dystopian sci-fi into a genre that couldn't be more different, for encouraging me to write in a rich dialect, and for then finding the perfect home for this unique little book. I am so lucky to be navigating the unpredictable plains of publishing with you at my side.