Wednesday, January 14, 1931
Crow’s Nest, Wisconsin

Marian Ward battled the wind and her disgust as she pushed out of the door to the Lightning Bug, where the less reputable fishermen drank the winter away regardless of Prohibition. Never would she have considered asking for a job—and still not get one—at such a place, but she was desperate. If she couldn’t find a job, couldn’t heat their home, her little girls … she shuddered, and not because of the icy wind that ripped across a sluggish Lake Michigan only to slam into her threadbare coat.

Where else could she look for work? The Lightning Bug was the last place in Crow’s Nest for her to try, and without money to buy gas for the old truck, how could she drive to Hawk’s River to look for a job? Were there any open positions left? Just one, at a place willing to hire a woman instead of a man. A woman with children, even if she was a widow. As times became leaner, those types of jobs became even more scarce. And how she needed one.

Tears pricked her eyes as she turned her back to the deserted lake and ducked into the alley beside the Lightning Bug. Walking home along Main Street would provide a better buffer to the wind. It hadn’t snowed since the new year, making January bleak and gray. What little sunlight peeked through the overcast sky vanished in the narrow space between the buildings. However, she refused to give in to despair. Her girls, and her ill mother-in-law, depended on her. She would do anything for them.

“If you breathe a word of this …” A hushed voice came from around the back of The Lightning Bug. Marian froze before she reached the corner and pressed against the wooden side of the building.

“I know, I know,” came a second voice. Marian couldn’t place either, though both were male. “You’ll gut me like a fish.”

“It’s not a joke,” the first voice growled. “If Wilson finds out, we’ll both be dead.”

Marian clasped a hand over her mouth to contain a gasp. Did he mean Buck Wilson, the head of the Crow’s Nest Conglomerate, would … kill … them?

“Do you follow?” the first voice said. The click of a gun’s hammer was unmistakable. She knew because her father had taught her to shoot. Growing up in the logging camps, he insisted she know how to defend herself.

“Get that out of my face. Of course, I understand what’s at stake.”

Marian’s hands shook. The best way to defend herself now—and keep her girls safe—was to slip away and pretend she hadn’t heard a word of this exchange. If the men knew, would they come after her? Threaten her children? Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to take one quiet step at a time, carefully backing out of the alley the way she’d entered it. Halfway to the opening on the wharf, she turned and quickened her pace.

“Hey, you!” The shout came from behind. “Stop!”

Marian ran. Steps pounded behind her as she dashed onto the boardwalk. Think, think. How could she blend in when there were so few people?

“Stop, you!”

She ran past The Lightning Bug, then ducked into the alley between the next two buildings, shedding her coat and hat and pitching them into a trash can at the back of the building. She turned the corner onto Main Street, scanning which building would give her the best chance at hiding. There. The milliner. It was only two doors down.

In an instant, she’d dashed inside, and held the bell above the door still to keep it from clanging.

“What’s the matter?” Samantha Martins came out from behind the desk. The young single woman had secured an apprenticeship position here this past summer. “Where’s your coat?”

Marian grabbed the young woman’s shoulders. “I’ve been in here an hour trying on hats.”

Bewildered brown eyes stared back at her.

Marian shook her gently. “Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Samantha nodded, the ends of her bobbed black hair swinging. She spun from Marian’s grasp and snagged two hats. She handed one off to Marian before grabbing three more. “Put that on and look in the mirror.”

Marian obeyed. The baby blue hat washed out her pale face, highlighting the two pink dots on cheeks more hollow than they’d been a year ago. Her lips stood out redder than usual, too. At least the wide brim hid her windblown brown hair.

“That is not your color.” Samantha rested her elbows on the wooden counter between them, in her hands a tan beret. “Want to tell me what’s—”

The shop door flung open, the bell jangling like Marian’s nerves. She spun, her hand pressed to her throat, not having to act an ounce.