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spare her parents a fiery doom.
    She didn’t feel the pain of the burn till much later, after the physician had applied a butter salve, wrapped her hand in a linen bandage, and she was tucked into her bed. Even then, it was nothing compared to the agony of her heart.
    It was gone—her finest work. Just like her parents—as if they’d never been.
    And she might as well have been tossed onto the fire alongside her painting, because she wasn’t wanted either.
    Her uncle had minced no words when it came to telling her what an affront she was to the Ambrose Hardwicke household. And now she’d exhausted all the Hardwicke households.
    She had no one to turn to. She didn’t belong anywhere.
    In the darkness, her eyes filled with hot tears, and she clenched her jaw against the trembling urge to sob.
    Though she’d tell no one—not even God—in these deep, hopeless hours of the night, when her heart ached and she felt as unloved as a runt pup, she sometimes wished death would come for her. If she died, she might follow her parents, wherever they’d gone. Then she might finally belong.
    A ragged sob escaped her then, and she stifled it with her bandaged fist. Why did no one approve of her? Her parents had never criticized her or made her feel unwanted. They’d loved her the way she was.
    She closed her eyes, and a tear trickled out to wander down her cheek, lost.
    What would become of her now? She couldn’t stay here, not knowing how her uncle felt. But who would take in a streaky-haired, tawny-skinned waif who painted monstrosities?
    She sniffled and turned her head on the pillow to watch the gold moon sink slowly beyond the lace curtain. Was there nowhere out there in the vast world where she could be true to herself? Somewhere she could start over? Somewhere she’d be accepted despite her differences?
    With blurring eyes, she watched the moon lower in the west, past the stone wall, between the distant treetops, and beyond, toward plains and mountains and forests and rugged land.
    And then it came to her.
    California.
    The Golden West.
    Land of opportunity.
    Her breath stilled.
    No. She couldn’t. She was only a girl—too young, too unworldly for the wilderness. The notion was absurd. Only fallen women and fools went to California.
    She flounced onto her side, away from the west, away from the empty promise that called to her beyond the window, and shut her eyes tightly against the ridiculous notion.
    But she was her father’s daughter. The curious possibility wouldn’t leave her alone. While she tossed and turned and tried to sleep, it tugged inexorably at her conscience. The adventure beckoned to her as irresistibly as the song of the Siren in her painting. And by the chiming of the next hour, she’d plotted her course.
    Wide awake now, her heart pumping, she reached hopefully beneath her feather pillow. The servants had missed the pencil and sketchbook she kept hidden there. She brought them toward the window, where the moonlight gleamed on the sill. Opening the book to a blank page, she tapped the pencil thoughtfully on her bottom lip. Then she smiled.
    Despite the impediment of her bandages, the self-portrait was finished before the hall clock chimed the hour. Mattie penciled a quick title across the top and composed a brief message to go with it. In the morning, before the light of day could show her the folly of her actions, she’d send a servant to post it. Then it would be too late for regrets.
    With a sigh that was half trepidation and half relief, she scribbled her new signature for the first time at the bottom of the page.
    Mrs. James Harrison.

Chapter 1
     

     
    SPRING 1851
    NEAR PARADISE BAR, CALIFORNIA
     
    Dr. James Harrison, Doc Jim to those who knew him, ran shaky fingers through his dull, thinning hair and squinted down at the drawing again.
    “PROSPECTIVE” BRIDE, it said.
    The woman’s face wasn’t unattractive, if the penciled drawing could be believed. She had the right number of eyes,