Texas had always been a place for emigrants to go when things got tough. Davy Crockett’s famous line, “You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas,” was plastered everywhere. Three-quarters of her own ancestors had arrived in the area before it became a Republic and the last quarter not long after, all seeking a chance for a better life.

The Texas of that time, however, was not a place that welcomed newcomers. The government was (to put it politely) constantly in flux. The neighbors were hostile, and the land was wild and dangerous. It had taken a special breed to settle here and build the nation that was to become a legend.

Times had changed, of course. In the Texas of today, over a hundred years’ worth of laws were in place to safeguard both natives and newcomers. To judge by what she had just seen, however, the pressure of change still had the power to stir emotions.

Ginny found it interesting that many of the same complaints she had heard today mirrored the complaints found in the records of those early years. She stood for a moment on the edge of the rise and looked across the cemetery to the city beyond. The place had history. Especially here. In this quiet corner devoted to the honored dead, the echoes of war could be heard. Texas had seen a lot in the way of conflict, and had forgotten none of it.

The rosy tints of evening had gone and the last pale blues were fading from the sky as Ginny turned and made her way down Heroes’ Hill toward the gates and the parking lot. She was startled (and almost twisted her ankle in consequence) by the sound of an explosion. Several, in fact, in rapid succession. She looked around, but at first could see nothing. Then a column of smoke caught her eye, followed by tongues of flame which seemed to be growing, reaching into the darkening sky.

In the gloom, it took her a minute to figure out which direction she was facing. Once she had identified I-35, however, she knew what she was seeing. The Texas State Capital complex was on fire.