He shakes his head as if to deflect my sympathy, because to accept it would open a wound still struggling to heal, I’m guessing.

“I . . . I hope happiness returns to you someday,” I say as respectfully as I can.

I want him to know that I understand too well how hard it is to walk the path of loss. And even as I say such words to him, I see my life being given back to me by this man who has also known injustice. I see my little house at the Loralei as a hope-filled place where quiet Kat can fully find her voice again within the great circle of affection for her there. I see Belinda and Elliot marrying and adding to their family little brothers and sisters for Sarah. I see myself learning to trust in humanity again, and maybe even in the love of a good man. I have been reminded today that truly good men do exist.

I see myself atoning for the mistakes I have made by doing good whenever I can, for whomever I can. I see my mam emigrating to America with the promise of a job at the Loralei and Kat being wrapped in her grandmotherly embrace. I see myself keeping the handkerchief that sealed my pardon close to my bosom, to remind me that I am still the girl my da loved, still the sister Sophie clung to at night when she was afraid, still the mother of the blossom baby I would have named Juliet. I am that person and more. I am Mam to Kat. Auntie to Sarah. Friend to Belinda and Elliot. Confidante of a benevolent U.S. marshal, a good man I know I shall never see again.

“Good-bye.” Ambrose Logan starts to leave, but I touch his arm to stop him.

He turns.

“It’s pronounced ‘Seer-sha,’” I tell him.

He tips his head slightly. “What is?”

“My name.”

A glimmer of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hocking.”

He opens the door to the police department, and I turn from him to face the wide horizon of so many lives rising from ashes.

Epilogue

Carson City, Nevada

1926

The courtroom brims with family members of the victim, journalists, and—like the woman in the third row—the curious. A verdict has been reached, and those in the gallery are eager for the jury to return to their seats.

The man accused of murder is sitting with his back to the spectators. The woman can see that his hair is graying now and that it has lost some of its wave. She wouldn’t have recognized him from this angle. She has not yet seen his face.

It was the photograph in a Nevada newspaper of a man charged with poisoning his wife that caught her eye. She is in Carson City only to attend a wedding. She wouldn’t have known of the Clayton Sharpe trial concluding today if she had not glanced at the newspaper at the hotel’s breakfast table. She had known it was him the instant she saw the photograph. She would know those eyes anywhere.