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CHAPTER ONE 

1915 

Near Cañon City, Colorado 

Jennie Ward 

Arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, Jennie placed one foot in front of the other and kept a slow yet steady pace on top of the wooden pipeline running along the edge of the Arkansas River. The wind, moist from swooshing into the ravine and over the surging water, flattened Daddy’s cast-off cotton shirt against her front and tore at her braid. Little strands of hair worked loose and danced on her cheeks, tickling, but she paid them no heed. She kept moving, moving, her unwavering gaze fixed on the large round pipe beneath her battered boots. 

She’d told Mama during her short lunch break that she was so familiar with this route she could probably walk it with her eyes closed and never fall into the water below. Mama advised her not to test her theory. If she closed her eyes, she might miss a leak between the redwood staves. A leak could lead to a break. And a break would be disastrous for Cañon City residents, who relied on the pipeline to deliver water to their homes and businesses. Jennie’d only been teasing Mama, but after five hours of inspecting, she was tempted to give it a try. A few seconds of walking with her eyes closed would relieve the monotony of the task. But then, of course, she’d have to backtrack and walk it again in case she missed something. She better keep her eyes open. 

Pausing for a moment, she rotated her shoulders and squinted at the cloud-dotted sky. The sun beat directly down, making exposed rocks on the hillsides glow and the ever-flowing river sparkle like diamonds. For only a short time each day could she enjoy full sunshine. The mountain ranges rising on both sides of the river cast shade the majority of the time. During the late fall and winter months, due to soupy cloud cover, the sun didn’t reach their valley for even a minute. Even though many more miles of pipe awaited examination, she squandered a few seconds, enjoying the sunlight. Daddy’d done the same thing midday. If he’d done it, Jennie could, too. 

As always happened when thoughts of Daddy intruded, a tumble of emotions rolled through her chest. How could resentment and worry and sorrow and sympathy all reside in her at once? Mama said seventeen was a tumultuous age, so all those different feelings shouldn’t make her fret. Jennie remembered her mother’s assuring smile when she’d said, “You’ll get them sorted out in time if you ask the Lord to help you.” Mama brought the Lord into nearly every conversation. Sometimes Jennie found the practice comforting. Other times, annoying. But those opposite reactions were probably also part of her tumultuous age. 

With a sigh, she returned her focus to the pipeline. The toe of her boot pointed to a rusting bolt connecting two reinforcing rods. Something about the bolt didn’t look quite right. Was it loosening? The bands of steel held the thin staves tightly together. Daddy’d told her that if a bolt worked loose, the pipe would weaken. Jennie leaned over and poked the bolt with her finger. It wiggled like a baby tooth starting to be pushed out of the way. She was supposed to make note of any changes in the pipeline’s appearance. 

She straddled the pipe, hooking her heels the way she’d held her seat during a pony ride at the circus when she was six. She pinched out the little pad of paper and pencil stub she carried in her shirt pocket and opened it to a clean page. Poking her tongue from the corner of her mouth in concentration, she made a sketch of the bars and the slightly askew bolt. 

She couldn’t resist smiling as the picture emerged. Mama’s sister, Delia, had told her she should sign up for art class at the high school in Cañon City. But that was back when everybody thought she’d be moving in with Aunt Delia and Uncle Prime and going to high school. Before Daddy fell and broke his leg. Before Jennie took over walking this line. Before she entered the tumultuous age. She was probably too old to start high school now even if Daddy suddenly got out of his chair and said he’d be the linewalker again, so no sense in thinking about it. At least walking this line gave her opportunities to draw. 

She sent a lingering look over her shoulder, then gave her forward view the same attention, getting her bearings. With a nod of satisfaction, she pressed the pencil tip to the page and wrote, “Section 6, roughly 1/3 in from the west, June 4, 1915.” She reviewed the note, then snorted in aggravation. Why couldn’t she ever remember the way the waterway men wanted the date recorded? In her mind, it didn’t seem natural writing, “4 June 1915.” Nobody else she knew put the day before the month. Neither Mama nor Daddy could explain it, but that’s the way the waterway men wanted it, so that’s the way Jennie was supposed to write it.

“Well, I can’t fix it now,” she muttered, jamming the pad into her pocket. When she returned to the house this evening, she’d rub out the date with the eraser from the tin case of artist supplies her aunt and uncle had given her for her fourteenth birthday and rewrite it. If she remembered.