Chased Across the Wagon Road (Preview)

Chapter One

The fire cracked and popped in the Minnesota woods, sending sparks up into the darkening sky as eight-year-old Matt Hartley sat cross-legged on a fallen log, his boots nearly touching the flames. 

His father crouched near the fire with a tin cup in one hand and a grin on his face, telling some half-true story Matt had already heard twice but still laughed at anyway. His mother, sat close beside Matt, her arm warm around his shoulders, her coat pulled tight against the growing chill. 

It was cold enough that Matt could see his breath when he laughed. This was the kind of cold that made the fire feel good, that made the stew smell better, that made the world feel small and safe.

Pa stirred the pot with a spoon that had seen better days, humming under his breath as he did. Every now and then he glanced down at the canvas sack near his feet, the one he had checked no fewer than a dozen times since they’d made camp. Matt had noticed, even if he didn’t understand it. 

The sack wasn’t heavy-looking, but Pa treated it like something fragile, something important. Each time he looked at it, his smile changed just a little, growing sharper, more nervous. Ma glanced up, seeming to notice too. She always noticed things first. 

When Pa finally untied the sack and began counting the coins inside, letting them clink softly against one another, Ma’s hand tightened on Matt’s shoulder.

“Pa,” Matt said, leaning forward to watch, his curiosity burning. “What’s that for?”

Pa chuckled and didn’t look up right away. “Just something to help us along, is all,” he said. “You keep your eyes on that stew. Don’t want it burning.”

Matt obeyed, though his gaze flicked back to the coins again and again. He liked the way they sounded, bright and solid, like proof of something good. Proof that his parents were pleased, that whatever they had done had worked. 

He didn’t know why they were out here instead of in town, why they were camping instead of staying somewhere warm, but he trusted them. He always had. If they were smiling, then everything was all right.

Ma shifted beside him, then stood, brushing leaves from her skirt. She moved closer to Pa, spoke to him in a voice too low for Matt to hear, and Pa nodded once, his face going serious for just a moment before the smile returned. Ma came back and knelt in front of Matt, studying him in a way that made his laughter fade.

“What?” he asked, suddenly unsure.

She smiled at him, soft and sad all at once, and reached into the collar of her dress. Slowly, she pulled free a thin silver chain, the crucifix at its end catching the firelight. Matt had seen her wear it every day of his life. He’d never known her without it.

She slipped it over his head and settled it against his chest. The metal was cold, making him suck in a breath.

“Ma?” he said, touching it with his fingers. “Why?”

She cupped his face in her hands. Her palms were rough, warm, familiar. “I want you to keep this close,” she said. “All the time. Especially if… especially if something ever happens to me. Or your father.”

Matt frowned. “What’s gonna happen?”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “Hopefully nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

He looked down at the cross again, then flipped it over the way she had taught him, curiosity winning out over unease. There was a word scratched into the back, letters uneven but clear enough to read.

“Bowen,” Matt said aloud.

Pa straightened, the coins forgotten for the moment. “That’s important,” he said. “If anything ever does happen to us, you remember that name. You go to the bank in Bowen. There’s money there. Enough to make sure you’re taken care of until you’re grown.”

Matt didn’t understand most of that. What he understood was the way Ma pulled him into her chest and held him there longer than usual, the way Pa watched the trees instead of the fire.

“I don’t like this,” Matt muttered.

Ma kissed the top of his head. “You don’t need to worry about any of it,” she said gently. “That’s our job.” She pulled back and nodded toward the pot. “Now. Help your father, he’s hopeless with dinner.”

Matt did as he was told, pushing aside the strange heaviness in his chest as he took up the ladle. He leaned forward, careful not to spill, and scooped the thick stew into a waiting bowl. The fire crackled. The woods were quiet. And for one last moment, everything still felt whole.

Matt handed the bowl to his father and watched steam curl into the air, the smell of meat and onions filling the small clearing. Pa accepted it with a grin and a murmured thanks, then sat back on his heels, blowing across the surface before taking a careful sip. 

Ma settled beside Matt again, close enough that their shoulders touched, her hand resting lightly over the crucifix now hidden beneath his shirt. 

The metal no longer felt quite so cold, though Matt was keenly aware of its weight, as if it had grown heavier simply by being his. He kept touching it without realizing he was doing it, thumb rubbing over the chain while he ate.

They spoke about ordinary things. How far they might travel tomorrow. Whether the weather would turn on them before winter truly set in. 

Pa joked about Matt growing strong enough to carry his own pack someday, and Matt puffed up at that, promising he already could if given the chance. Ma laughed, but there was a tired edge to it, and she kept glancing into the trees, her eyes scanning the shadows between the trunks. 

Each time she did, Matt felt a small flicker of unease, though the woods looked the same as they always had.

When Matt finished his stew, he rose to take the bowl back to the pot, eager to be useful. He crouched, ladle dipping into the stew again, careful the way his mother had taught him to be. He was thinking about nothing more dangerous than not spilling when something struck him hard from behind. 

For a heartbeat, he didn’t understand what had happened. There was a dull thud, a sharp, blinding pain in his shoulder, and suddenly he was on his knees, the bowl shattering against a rock as stew splashed across the dirt.

He screamed as he looked down and saw the arrow shaft jutting through his arm, red already spreading across his sleeve. Before he could even draw breath to cry again, the night exploded. 

Gunshots tore through the clearing, loud and close, flashes lighting up the trees like lightning. Ma was moving before Matt could think, shoving him backward, her body between his and the woods as she fired into the darkness with a pistol Matt had never seen her hold before.

“Harry!” she shouted.

His father stumbled, a cry tearing from his throat as he fell near the fire, the bowl rolling from his hand. Matt tried to crawl toward him, panic and pain tangling together, but Ma grabbed him with one hand and dragged him back, firing a pistol with the other. Her face was fierce now, unrecognizable, all softness burned away by something hard and terrible.

Another shot rang out, closer this time. Ma jerked, a sharp sound escaping her as she staggered. And then she was falling, collapsing against him as blood soaked into his shirt. He screamed her name, clutching at her, but she didn’t answer. Her weight pinned him to the ground, warm and unbearably still.

Men emerged from the trees then, their shapes dark against the firelight, guns raised, boots crunching on leaves. One of them stepped closer, his hair pale even in the dim light, his face calm in a way that terrified Matt more than the shouting had. Pa, bleeding and desperate, found his voice again.

“Run!” he shouted. “Matt—run!”

Matt didn’t think. He shoved Ma’s body away and stumbled to his feet, the pain in his shoulder screaming as he turned and ran into the woods. 

Branches whipped at his face, roots caught at his boots, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Behind him, the firelight flickered wildly, gunshots echoing through the trees. And then, as he ran harder than he ever had in his life, one last gunshot cracked through the night, final and awful.

He ran until his lungs burned and the woods blurred into streaks of dark and silver around him. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew he had to keep moving. 

Each breath tore at his chest, coming out in ragged gasps, and his injured shoulder throbbed with every jolt of his stride, the arrow shaft catching on branches until at last it snapped with a dry crack, leaving the broken end buried inside him. 

The pain was white and blinding, but fear was louder. Fear drove him forward when his legs began to shake and the ground pitched beneath his feet.

He tripped and fell hard, rolling down a small embankment and landing in a heap of leaves and damp earth. For a moment, he lay there stunned, the world spinning, the smell of dirt filling his nose. He pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out, every sound suddenly dangerous. His heart hammered so loudly he was sure it could be heard clear back at the fire.

Slowly, he lifted his head and listened.

The woods had gone eerily quiet. No more gunshots. No shouting. Just the whisper of wind through branches and the distant crackle of a fire that felt impossibly far away now. 

Matt hugged himself, shaking, his fingers brushing the crucifix beneath his shirt. He clutched it tightly, just like his mother had told him to, pressing the cold metal into his palm until it hurt.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough for the pain to settle into a deep, aching throb, long enough for the reality to begin creeping in around the edges of his fear. He was alone. His parents weren’t coming after him. They weren’t calling his name. 

The thought made his chest seize, a sob forcing its way up before he could stop it. He buried his face in his sleeve and cried as quietly as he could, tears streaking down his cheeks and mixing with dirt and blood.

Eventually, the cold began to sink in. His teeth chattered, his small body trembling harder than before. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and pushed himself upright, swaying as he stood. Staying still felt worse than moving. Staying still felt like giving up.

He picked a direction at random and began to walk, careful now, limping through the trees. Every snapping twig made him flinch. Every shadow looked like a man with a gun. He kept expecting to hear footsteps behind him, a voice calling out, but nothing came. The woods seemed endless, the darkness pressing in on all sides. His shoulder grew stiff and numb, his arm hanging uselessly at his side.

At some point, exhaustion won. Matt collapsed at the base of a large pine, curling in on himself the way he had when he was very small and frightened. He pulled his coat tight around him, one hand still wrapped around the crucifix, the word “Bowen” echoing faintly in his mind without meaning. He didn’t know where Bowen was. He didn’t know how to get there. All he knew was that he had to live. His parents had told him to. 

~

Morning came seeping through the trees like something reluctant to arrive. Matt woke shivering, his body stiff and aching, his throat raw from crying himself hoarse in the night. For a few confused seconds, he didn’t remember why he was on the ground or why everything hurt. Then he shifted, and pain flared through his shoulder, sharp enough to steal his breath, and the memory crashed back into him all at once. 

The fire. The shouting. His mother falling. His father’s voice telling him to run.

He pushed himself upright with his good arm and looked around. The woods were quieter in daylight, less monstrous but no kinder. Dew clung to the leaves and soaked into his clothes as he stood, dizzy and unsteady. 

His shoulder had gone numb overnight, the sleeve stiff with dried blood. When he touched the wound, his fingers came away sticky and red, and panic fluttered in his chest again. He didn’t know how bad it was. He only knew it hurt, and that no one was coming to help him.

Matt swallowed hard and forced himself to think the way his father had taught him to. One step at a time. 

He found a small stream nearby and knelt beside it, wincing as he dipped his sleeve into the cold water and pressed it clumsily against his shoulder. The shock of it made him hiss, but he kept at it, teeth clenched, until the worst of the blood washed away. It wasn’t clean. He knew that. But it was better than nothing.

When he was done, he sat back on his heels, staring at his reflection in the water. His face looked smaller somehow, drawn tight and pale beneath dirt-smudged cheeks. He looked like a stranger. He touched the crucifix again, the chain cool against his skin, and whispered his mother’s name under his breath. Saying it out loud made it hurt more, but it also made her death real, and somehow that felt important.

He didn’t know where to go. The trees all looked the same. But staying where he was felt wrong. So he picked a direction and started walking, limping through the undergrowth, following the sun as best he could. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder, but he kept going, driven by something stubborn and fierce that he didn’t have words for yet.

By the time the sun climbed higher, his legs were trembling with exhaustion. Hunger gnawed at his belly, sharp and insistent. He didn’t have any food, no pack, nothing but the clothes on his back and the necklace at his throat. Still, he walked. He walked because stopping felt like dying, and he had already lost too much to let that happen too.

When he finally reached the edge of the woods and saw a rough dirt road stretching out before him, relief washed over him so suddenly his knees nearly gave out. He didn’t know where the road led. He didn’t know who might come along it. But it was something solid, something human, and that was enough.

Matt stepped out of the trees and onto the road, squaring his shoulders as best he could despite the pain. Behind him, the woods swallowed the last traces of the boy he had been. 

Chapter Two

Rain fell in soft, relentless sheets through the tall Minnesota pines, drumming on leaves and slick bark, soaking Matt to the bone. The road, once more, cut through the trees. His small boots squelched in the mud as he stumbled blindly through the woods, chest tight and throat raw from crying. 

The adrenaline from the night before had drained fully, leaving him trembling, hungry, and aching in ways he didn’t know how to name. Every snapped twig beneath his feet made him flinch. 

Eventually, he sank down onto a fallen log, soaked through and shivering, letting his head drop into his hands. The rain ran over his hair and he finally let himself sob fully, raw and uncontrolled. His small body shook with the force of it, and for the first time since the gunfire, he allowed himself to feel the horror of what had happened. He didn’t know where to go, didn’t know if anyone would help him, and didn’t even know how to survive alone.

In the confusion and wet, Matt didn’t notice when something slipped from his neck: the silver crucifix necklace that had been his mother’s gift and his father’s last instructions. It tumbled silently into the mud and was gone before he realized it, lost among the leaves and the water. 

For a moment he felt lighter without it, though he didn’t understand why it should matter; then a hollow panic gnawed at him as if something vital had been taken away.

Rain pelted his face, washing tears into it, and Matt curled tighter around himself. The world was gray and wet and endless. He tried to think, tried to plan a way forward, but his mind was too tired, too small, too young for the questions that pressed at him. So he let himself sit there, shivering and soaked, and cried.

The rain never let up, drumming against the leaves above like a constant reminder that the world had not paused for him. Matt didn’t move for a long while, huddled on the wet log, shivering so hard it hurt his bones. The forest seemed endless, unwelcoming, a maze without purpose or hope.

He crawled a little, slipping in mud and leaves, until he sank against another fallen tree, exhausted and soaked through to the skin. His eyelids grew heavy. Each blink dragged him closer to the world of dreams, where pain and fear did not reach. He tried to fight it at first, shaking his head violently, whispering his parents’ names like a mantra, but his body wouldn’t listen. 

His muscles locked in protest, and finally, surrendering, he curled up in the wet leaves and closed his eyes. Sleep came immediately, harsh and unsympathetic, dragging him into darkness.

~

When Matt woke, the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the gray light of morning diffusing through the trees. He tried to move his arms and winced as pain shot through his shoulder, a reminder that the night’s violence had left its mark. As he sat up, leaning against the mossy trunk, he became aware that he was not alone.

Three women were sitting a few feet from him, gathered around a small, carefully tended fire. They spoke softly, their voices carrying over the damp earth, punctuated by the occasional tearing of jerky. 

Matt froze, unsure if he should run, hide, or call out. Their habits were dark and plain, the stiff collars and flowing skirts marking them unmistakably as nuns. Matt had seen pictures of women dressed like this in a small book he had read once, but never in person.

He wanted to speak but the words stuck in his throat. His body trembled, cold and sore, and for a long moment he could only watch, too exhausted and too scared to do anything else. 

The oldest of the three women, her hair streaked with gray beneath her coif, looked directly at him with a calm that was almost tangible. Her eyes were steady and unflinching, the kind of gaze that felt like it could reach right past the fear and exhaustion and see the child inside him. 

Finally, she approached, each step careful but purposeful, and crouched a few feet from him. “What are you doing out here by yourself, little one?” she asked gently. 

Matt’s lips quivered, but no sound came. She didn’t seem angry, didn’t seem impatient. She only waited, as if knowing that he would answer in his own time, or perhaps that words weren’t necessary.

Her calmness and patience, so alien after the terror of the night before, were strangely comforting. He had nowhere else to go, no one else to trust. He watched her for a long moment, unsure if he should move, unsure if it was safe, unsure even if he deserved help. But the ache in his stomach and the burning soreness of his shoulder reminded him that he had no choice but to stay with her.

Her voice, comforting as it could be, finally broke the silence. “It’s all right, child. You don’t have to speak yet. Come with us. We were just returning from town. Perhaps it is God’s will that we found you here. I am Sister Bell. You may tell me your name in time.”

Matt blinked, swallowing hard. He didn’t know what “God’s will” meant. He didn’t know if anyone would believe him, if anyone could protect him, if anyone would keep him safe. But he understood one thing clearly: the woods were empty, his parents were gone, and the strangers before him were warm and alive. They were human. They were real. And for now, that was enough to keep him from running.

The nuns hadn’t approached further, but the oldest one, Sister Bell, had taken off her gloves and rested her hands gently on her knees, tilting her head in a way that made Matt feel like she could see everything he was thinking. He wanted to ask questions, but his voice had deserted him. 

He was eight years old, soaked, bruised, aching, and terrified beyond anything he had ever known. All he could do was watch the strange women, trying to understand what they wanted and whether they would hurt him.

Sister Bell spoke again, softly but clearly, “You must be very tired. And very frightened. That is understandable. It’s not safe for a child to be alone in the woods. Not now, not ever. Come with us. You will be warm, dry, and fed. There is no shame in leaving the woods behind.”

Matt shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I… I can’t,” he whispered, his voice small, cracked, unsure. “I need to… I can’t leave…”

Sister Bell didn’t respond with scolding or impatience. Instead, she reached out one hand, palm open, a small, quiet gesture of trust. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “You don’t need to answer. But it is better with us than alone. You have nothing to fear here.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to insist he could survive, that he could run, that he could find some way to live without anyone else. But the memory of the fire, of the gunshots, of his parents falling, was too vivid, too raw. His legs ached, his shoulder throbbed, and even thinking about moving made his stomach twist. 

The forest, which had seemed familiar and protective just hours before, now felt endless, cold, and full of men who could still be hunting him. And he realized, with a clarity that made his chest tighten, that he had no one to help him outrun those men except for the ladies in front of him.

Sister Bell extended her arm. “Come,” she said simply, her voice patient and unhurried. “There is nothing for you here alone.”

With a small nod, he let Sister Bell take his hand. Her grip was firm but gentle, steadying him as if he were a child who had never walked on his own. She guided him to her side, and the other two nuns flanked them, their presence quiet but resolute. Matt walked with them, shoulders hunched against the chill, eyes downcast, heart hammering in a mix of fear and relief.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. He simply let them lead him out of the rain, away from the woods, away from the terror, and into whatever awaited him beyond the trees. And as they moved forward, Sister Bell’s hand still rested lightly on his shoulder.

Matt walked beside Sister Bell, who guided him through the muck of the road. The rain had slowed to a mist and the forest seemed quieter now, though still full of shadows and half-seen shapes that made him flinch at every step. Each squelch of his boots in the wet ground sounded like thunder in his ears. 

He pressed the memory of his parents’ faces deep inside him, and for a moment he wanted to turn and run back into the trees, desperate to feel even the smallest illusion of control.

But the nuns were patient and Matt felt the tension in his body begin to loosen, bit by bit. He tried to think of something to say, something to make the silence less, but his throat was tight and his mind still too full of grief and confusion. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, every tree the same, every shadow a potential threat. 

He thought about the necklace, lost somewhere in the mud and leaves, and a pang of guilt and panic struck him. It had been his mother’s last gift, his father’s instructions hidden in plain sight. How could he be trusted to survive without it? The thought made him clutch at his shirt instinctively, as if holding the invisible heaviness of their guidance and protection might keep him from being completely lost.

At one point, he stumbled, slipping on a wet root, and the oldest nun caught him with a firm hand on his arm. “Careful, child,” she said softly, helping him steady himself. Her touch was warm, her voice gentle, but it carried a firmness that told him she wouldn’t allow him to fall completely: not into the mud, not into despair. 

Matt wanted to argue, wanted to claim he could walk on his own, that he didn’t need anyone, but the truth hit him hard. He did need someone. He had no one else. And for now, he would have to trust that the world could be navigated by letting someone else guide him.

As they moved forward, the forest began to thin, the trees giving way to a faint light, the smell of earth and leaves mixing with something softer, cleaner. The smoke from a distant settlement, perhaps, or the faint scent of water from a nearby stream. 

Matt’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the stew the night before. Hunger mixed with exhaustion made him feel lightheaded, and he leaned a little closer to Sister Bell. He wondered if she knew how lost he felt, how small he was in such a big, frightening world.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the edge of the woods came into view. Matt hesitated, glancing back once, afraid of what might still be lurking in the shadows. He saw nothing but trees and mud, nothing but empty space and the distant echo of rain dripping off leaves. Slowly, he stepped into the clearing, each step heavier than the last, until the forest behind him seemed like another life, another world he had survived but would never return to.

Sister Bell guided him gently across the damp grass, speaking softly about warmth, food, and rest, but Matt barely heard her words. His thoughts were tangled with grief, fear, and the faintest glimmer of something he hadn’t felt in hours: relief. 

For the first time since the fire, he was moving toward safety, not away from danger. The fear of the men who had killed his parents had not left him, but it no longer pressed on him with every step. For now, the nuns would carry a part of that weight, and he would follow.

Matt walked under Sister Bell’s arm, leaning slightly into her for support, the other two nuns flanking them like sentinels. Behind him, the forest whispered with the memory of fire and blood, but ahead lay warmth, care, and human voices that promised a pause from the nightmare. He didn’t understand what would come next, didn’t know how long he would be safe, but for now he had no better choice. 

Chapter Three

Two years had passed since the night Matt Hartley ran through the Minnesota woods, alone. He had grown a little taller, stronger, lean from chasing through the trees, but in the forest he still felt small, fragile, and raw, as if the woods remembered him and still whispered of that terrible night. 

The canopy above let in shafts of pale sunlight, dusting the ground in patterns of light and shadow. Matt moved through it with careful steps, his eyes scanning the underbrush, his fingers brushing over moss-covered roots and fallen branches. Every stick he lifted, every leaf he pushed aside, was a small act of devotion; an attempt to reclaim something lost, a connection to parents he could never forget.

He knelt and sifted through a patch of mud and leaves near a familiar bend in the trail, the remnants of what had once been their campsite. The memories came unbidden, vivid and sharp: the fire crackling, his mother’s hands on his shoulder, the arrow through his arm, the sound of gunshots tearing through the night. 

He shivered, not from the cold but from remembering, but he pressed on. He had to. He had to find it. Every time he went out searching, every time he bent low to comb through the forest floor, it felt like a ritual, a prayer, a hope that something could still connect him to the parents he had lost.

Branches caught on his jacket and snagged his hair. His boots squelched in the damp earth. He poked at leaf litter with a stick, careful to not disturb more than necessary. Two years of searching had taught him to look for the glint of metal, the unnatural shapes that might hide in nature’s patterns. His heart beat faster with each false glimmer, each little shiny thing that turned out to be nothing more than a wet rock or a piece of bark.

At last, near the center of the old clearing, something caught the light—a flash of silver beneath a layer of leaves and mud. His breath caught in his throat. Hands trembling, he reached down and picked it up. 

The necklace. The crucifix. 

It was scratched and dulled by time and dirt, but it was unmistakably his mother’s gift, the one thing she had pressed against his chest two years ago and told him to keep close. Relief washed through him first, hot and sudden, then grief, sharp and raw. He pressed it to his chest, feeling its weight and the memories it carried. Tears pricked his eyes, blurring the forest around him, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to sit quietly, alone with the pain of everything he had lost and everything he had survived.