There was a West before the fences came-a raw, red-dust country of stamp mills and shallow graves, where a boy named Silas Blackwood learned early on that the world did not consider itself to owe a poor man's son anything at all. Born to the sound of ore carts and his father's dust-creased hands, Silas watched a mine swallow the only steady thing his family had, just as he watched poverty close one honest door after another in his face, until eventually, the only trade left that seemed to be hiring was the one his mother had prayed he'd never learn. Now an old man seated at a lamplit table, Silas guides a trembling hand to pay a debt of truth to the family who knows him only as a good and settled farmer. Page by page, he records the story of three brothers who chose three different roads out of the same grief; of a sister whose patient candlelight never quite went out in him, no matter how far he rode from it; and of the one, bright, garden-grown season of tenderness he believed, for a while, he had no right to keep-capturing the particular ache carried by a man who spent twenty years teaching himself not to want anything he couldn't keep, only to find, at last, someone worth the wanting. Whether the years since have made of Silas Blackwood a man worth forgiving is a question left, quite deliberately, for his family gathered at his bedside-and for whoever else might one day open that journal-to decide for themselves.
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