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R EBECCA

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams...

Annabel Lee

ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE SPRING, 1874

THEY KNEW WHERE TO FIND HER, and with the opportunity provided by the distraction of the stamp mill in flames, Edgar was one man against ten. This time Hilliard had sent more than Mercer to the lighthouse, and he was no longer acting covertly.

A rifle butt slammed into Edgar’s midsection, and the old man went down to his knees on the lawn, his rifle falling to the ground. The group of mercenaries encircled him—bearded faces, grungy clothes, the physique of miners, the sooty remains of the stamp mill fire marring their skin.

Mercer bent over Edgar. “Hand her over!”

Rebecca burst from her hiding place in the lighthouse, where Edgar had demanded she stay put after spotting the incoming small army of miners. Where Abel was, they didn’t know, but it was just Edgar now against much younger, much brawnier men. Men with few scruples.

“Stop!” Rebecca screamed at Mercer. Anger filled her at the sight of Edgar. He was still doubled over on the ground, yet he was waving her back into the lighthouse as if it could somehow save her. It wouldn’t, Rebecca knew. Mercer and his men would bust into the place and take her anyway, but only after beating Edgar.

She could not let that happen.

“Leave him alone!” Rebecca staggered toward them, her hand on her abdomen as though she could protect the child Abel claimed was his.

Mercer straightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Ah, so you’re finally going to come on your own free will.”

Rebecca fought the urge to look at Edgar. She couldn’t lose her resolve, and she knew he was beseeching her with his every movement and expression. Go! Hide! She could practically hear his unspoken demands.

But she was done with hiding. Finished with running from memories that were like ghosts lurking in the back of her traumatized mind. Finished with denying that her father was a greed-driven man with no conscience when it came to her.

Mercer tipped his head toward one of the men, and they stalked toward her, grabbing her arm and jerking her forward.

“Leave her alone!” Edgar grunted, attempting to push himself off the ground.

Mercer brought a boot down on Edgar’s shoulder and sent him floundering onto his back. He bent over Edgar. “You knew this was coming, old man.”

The next moments were chaotic. Rebecca was taken to a wagon, where the men hoisted her into the back with little care. Her leg hit the wagon frame, and she bit her lip to avoid crying out.

Mercer’s laugh followed her as the wagon jerked forward. Rebecca curled up on the wagon bed, trying to drown out Edgar’s shouts. Shouts from a man who decades earlier would have had the fortitude to fight a good fight but now was prohibited by the limitations of an old man’s body.

The wagon jolted over the rutted road, each pothole slamming Rebecca against the rough wooden planks. It felt as if hours had passed before she saw glimpses of Silvertown, its rugged shanties and flat-fronted buildings boasting a mercantile, a blacksmith shop, and a saloon. A thick, suffocating blanket of smoke filled the air. It settled over the small but burgeoning town like a fog.

Moments later, the wagon pulled to a stop in front of a square, plain-looking building. Rebecca noted the plaque on its door: hilliard mining. A sickening anxiety assaulted her. It was one thing to face a father whose selfishness and greed seemed to have no bounds. It was an entirely different thing to face him knowing they had a lifetime of history together—history she could recall only snippets of, and those snippets were not pleasant ones.

It was startling how quickly she remembered him. The memories she’d buried deep in her mind suddenly rose to the surface with a terrible force.

Walter Hilliard.

Her father.

He sat behind a desk, his blue eyes unyielding and cold. There was no hint of familial concern or care for Rebecca’s well-being. Instead, he watched as Mercer pushed Rebecca into a chair opposite Hilliard. He watched as Mercer ducked from the room and shut the door. Then he leveled his attention on Rebecca.

“You’re a lot of trouble for me, Rebecca.”

Her father. He was a fierce man, driven, savvy, and demanding in his expectations. Rebecca met his gaze briefly, then averted her eyes out of habit.

Don’t look him in the eyes.

Don’t show signs of defiance.

Comply.

Obey.

Respect.

That had been her motto since Rebecca was a child. She remembered it now. She remembered the way the back of his hand would bruise her as a little girl when she dared to question what he’d ordered. She recalled the glimpses of him at night when he was dressed in casual attire, reclining by the fireplace, reading a book and looking like the ideal father figure. It was a poignant memory, especially the one time when she had attempted to include herself by merely starting a conversation and he had sworn at her for disrupting his peace. Then he’d struck her, for no other reason than that she had been born.

“Did you think that burning down my mill would ruin me?” Hilliard wasn’t going to dance around the purpose of his hauling her back into his possession.

“I didn’t—”

“Stop.” Hilliard held up a hand and leaned over his desk, his broad chest a wall of power. “I will not allow you to avenge any wrongs you believe I have done against you. You will return those papers to me at once, and then I’ll wash my hands of you and your pathetic excuse of a husband.”

Rebecca longed for a moment of peace to summon the broken pieces of her memory, including the depth of who Abel was to her. She could feel it in her soul now, and a part of her quaked for Abel to barge in and salvage what was left of her. But he couldn’t—she wouldn’t let him. Her father would ruin Abel. Ruin the lighthouse.

Let him ruin only her ... and Abel’s child.

Rebecca was careful not to touch her abdomen and bring attention to the existence of the babe.

“Where is my brother?” she attempted. “Where is Aaron?”

Her father chuckled. “Home, where he should be. He’s fine. If you think I’d harm my son—I would never. He is my son. His mother gave me an heir, and I will treasure that.”

His mother . Rebecca didn’t miss the inference. Another piece slipped back into place. Aaron was her half brother. Her father had remarried when she was five. Aaron’s mother was with them until shortly after Aaron’s birth, and then she had died.

“It doesn’t have to be this difficult, and yet you have bucked me every step of the way.” Hilliard moved around his desk and leaned against it, glaring down at her with judgment in his eyes. “Where are the papers? The map?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a nervous tremble in her voice.

Hilliard’s face darkened. “Stop lying.”

“I’m not!” A desperate sob caught in her throat.

“You are, though,” he insisted. “You’re trying to ruin me, Rebecca, and I won’t allow it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Rebecca honestly didn’t know what had inspired her to supposedly steal the elusive papers to begin with. And she didn’t understand why her father had no qualms about abusing her to retrieve them.

Hilliard let out a burst of derisive laughter. “Why? Why!” He threw his hands in the air in exasperation, and Rebecca flinched back in her chair, afraid he would swing them at her next. “Because you despise me, that’s why. You’re like your mother. Wicked and subversive, and you feign meekness while you practice your wiles and trickery behind my back.”

A flash of recollection fluttered across Rebecca’s mind. That night. The night she had run through the woods before Edgar had found her at Annabel’s grave. She had stolen something. She remembered now. She recalled sneaking into this very room, taking a roll of papers from her father’s desk and slipping away into the night. A shout. Mercer chasing after her. Her escape to the woods, which became a nightlong attempt to evade him. Then Mercer caught up with her, and his assault was bruising. She had broken free using her teeth and her knees, had grabbed the papers and hidden in the underbrush until finally Mercer moved on. Still hunting for her. Rebecca remembered falling to the ground that was Annabel’s grave. She remembered nothing more until Edgar’s face came into view.

“Give them to me, Rebecca. The papers and the map.” Hilliard held out his hand as though she would pull the sheaf of papers from under her dress.

“I don’t know where they are.” Though she spoke the truth, her father didn’t believe her. A cry escaped her as the back of his hand connected with her cheek. A few choice names erupted from his mouth.

Rebecca doubled over, shielding her face from another backhanded slap.

Hilliard grabbed her by the collar of her dress, yanking her to her feet. “You are pathetic—just like your mother!” Spittle dotted Rebecca’s face as he held his mere inches away. “You have inherited her spirit. Pretend humility while cloaking a rebellious nature, one that’s determined to bleed me dry.” Hilliard shook her, and Rebecca whimpered. “You’ll be the death of me if I’m not the death of you first.”

“Please!” Rebecca begged, hating the weakness in her voice.

Hilliard released her with a shove, and she fell back onto the chair.

In that moment, as she shrank within herself under the weight of Hilliard’s threats, the room seemed as if it had faded away. Rebecca now floated somewhere in the past, the long-ago wish she had whispered as a child on her lips. “Who is my mother?” she’d asked him.

Hilliard had refused to give her a name. He refused to give Rebecca’s mother the honor of a remembered legacy. Instead, he had spoken only of his second wife. Aaron’s mother. A good woman, but not one Rebecca remembered well.

The room swirled and came back into focus. Rebecca gripped the arms of the chair, and suddenly she knew that her mother was more central, more key, to all of this. The survey and papers, the burned-down stamp mill, the silver ore, the lighthouse...

“Who is my mother?” Rebecca’s question had an edge to it that matched the steel in her father’s demeanor.

He stared at her for a long, horrible moment.

“Who is my mother?” Rebecca repeated, anger rising within her.

“Your mother?” Hilliard’s laugh was both rude and hateful. He entrapped Rebecca in his cold, hard gaze. “Your mother drowned in the lake.”

Rebecca didn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. She knew. Before Hilliard ever said her name, Rebecca knew. And it terrified her.

“Your mother is Annabel.” Hilliard spat the words as though the name itself were filthy. “Annabel who haunts the lighthouse. Annabel who haunts the shores. Annabel who haunts the miners. Annabel who will not remove this curse from me!”

“What curse?” Rebecca asked. “Please, I don’t understand.”

“ You! ” Hillard’s admission stole the last shred of hope from Rebecca’s soul. “You! She saddled me with a daughter who isn’t even mine. You pathetic bastard of a girl!”