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Chapter One

New Orleans: New Years Eve, 1858

"Hey, come back here you little thief. Thief! Stop that urchin!" The bakery owner’s shrill voice split the chilly evening air.

Abigail elbowed her way through the crowded New Orleans street. She ducked behind a woman wearing a full skirt then dove around a fat man’s trouser legs to escape. The bread she’d snatched warmed her hands, but the sweet smell caused her insides to gnaw. 

No one’s going to take this loaf away!

She tucked it under her arm, then pulled a thin shawl tighter over her shabby cotton dress, and wished for some of the warmth that radiated from the gas street lamps. It was New Year’s Eve and as cold a night as it had been this winter. Hopefully, 1859 would bring her better luck. She’d find a quiet spot to enjoy every crumb, even though it was smashed flat as the noodles her mama used to make back in Georgia. She aimed on celebrating the new year with a full belly.

She found an alleyway and crawled through a maze of rubbish as she held her nose to block out the rank odor. Finally, she crouched behind a pile of boxes and bit into a chunk of the ill-gotten bread. The taste had barely reached her tongue when a hand gripped her shoulder. Fear formed a tight ball in her throat. She stuffed in another bite, determined to die on a full stomach. She glanced about. There wasn’t anyone to help, only drunks staggering about. Slowly, she turned and looked up at her assailant. 

To her surprise it wasn’t a back alley drunk but a nice looking gentleman. Maybe he was some kind of lawman one the bakery owner had sent to look for her. No, if he were a policeman he’d be wearing one of those crescent badges. And for sure, he wasn’t a merchant. He was too refined. He wouldn’t be taking her food. She took a deep breath and let it seep out. At least she wouldn’t be going to jail. 

The stranger eased his grasp. "What’s your name?"

The girl swallowed so fast she nearly choked, then stood, drew herself up to her full four feet, ten inches, and pushed back dark, matted curls. "Abigail Sloan, sir."

"Why are you out here alone this time of evening? Don’t you have a home?"

"I’ve been takin’ care of myself fer quite awhile now. I’m doing alright at it." She shifted from one foot to the other. 

"It’s freezing. Don’t you know you’ll catch your death of cold?"

Abigail’s pulse quickened. Why didn’t he yell for the law and be done with it? "I only took a loaf of bread, Mister."

"Bread, what’re you talking about?" He dragged her over to a street light, lifted a lock of curls, and peered at her face. "How old are you?"

"Was sixteen my last bir . . . but that ain’t none of your business." Abigail jerked from his strong grip. If he was like the men at the brothel, he was up to no good. 

With that thought, the shadows moved in and danced about; pulling everything she didn’t want to remember into the present. She blinked and pushed at them, but they swallowed her.

***

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