Prologue

Anderson Ranch, Winter Pines, West Virginia, November 1870

The sun hung just above the horizon, casting a dull, wintry light over the ranch. Christina Anderson tugged the collar of her worn coat tighter around her neck, the wind biting through the fabric and chilling her to the bone. Several strands of her wavy brown hair escaped their long plait, and danced across her thin face.

Winter was settling in quickly, coating the fields in a thin layer of frost, promising snow before long. Christina looked at the barren land with a growing sense of dread. It was late afternoon, but it felt like dusk, the days growing shorter and colder, mirroring the uncertainty that weighed heavily on her heart.

She had been out since before dawn, tending to the chores that never seemed to end. Fences needed mending, the cattle were growing lean, and the barn’s roof had sprung a leak during the last rainstorm. She worked alone, the solitude of the ranch broken only by the lowing of cattle and the distant rustle of bare branches in the wind. Each task was a small battle in the war she waged against the land, against time, and against the cruel twist of fate that had left her in charge of this place.

It had been four months since her parents had died—four months of unrelenting hardship. Their deaths had been swift and senseless—a runaway wagon on a slippery road, ending the lives of the two people who had built the Anderson ranch from the ground up. Christina still remembered the shock of it, the way the world seemed to tilt off its axis when she got the news. She hadn’t even had time to grieve properly; there was always too much to do, too many responsibilities heaped upon her shoulders. The ranch wouldn’t run itself, and Christina had no intention of letting it fail.

With the bank breathing down her neck, demanding payments she couldn’t make, the hired hands had grown scarce, unable to live on promises alone. There had been a time when the ranch had been prosperous, when cattle grazed as far as the eye could see and the Anderson name was respected. But those days felt like a distant memory now, eclipsed by grief, emptier accounts, and the heavy silence of an hollow house.

Christina leaned against the fence, wiping the sweat from her brow, her fingers numb even through her gloves. She had spent the day hauling feed and patching holes in the fence, her muscles aching from the strain. The work was endless, and every task reminded her of what she had lost—and how much was at stake. The ranch house stood in the distance, the windows dark and cold against the dawn sky, and felt a pang of loneliness sharper than any winter wind.

She had grown up in that house, learning to ride before she could read, and watching her parents build this ranch with nothing but determination and grit. They had taught her everything she knew about hard work, but not how to do it all alone. Christmas was coming, but it brought no joy, no anticipation, only the grim knowledge that winter would test her resolve in ways she wasn’t sure she could endure.

As she turned back to her work, she heard the sound of hooves on the frozen ground. Christina straightened, her heart quickening as she squinted into the light. A lone rider was approaching, his horse kicking up clumps of snow as he drew nearer. She didn’t recognize the figure at first—just another shadow against the landscape, another stranger passing through. But as the rider came closer, Christina’s breath caught in her throat. There was something familiar about the way he sat in the saddle, the tilt of his hat casting a long shadow over his face.

The rider pulled up in front of her, dismounting with a smooth, practiced motion. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a long black coat that flapped in the wind like a dark flag. For a moment, he stood there, looking around the ranch as if appraising it, before his eyes finally settled on Christina. She knew those eyes—dark and calculating, devoid of warmth. It was a face she hadn’t seen since she was a girl, and one she had hoped never to see again.

“Uncle Edward,” Christina said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Her uncle smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Christina. It’s been a long time.”

She stood frozen, the memories of her childhood flooding back with a rush of cold dread. Edward Anderson, her father’s estranged brother, hadn’t set foot on the ranch in years. He hadn’t even come to the funeral. The last she’d heard of him, he was halfway across the country, chasing bad investments and rumors of gold. She hadn’t thought of him since. Now, here he was, standing in the middle of her ranch, his presence as unwelcome as the winter chill.

Christina forced herself to straighten, crossing her arms to hide the tremble in her hands.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Edward glanced around, taking in the ranch with a casual, almost disdainful air.

“I heard about your parents,” he said, his voice smooth but lacking any real sympathy. “Terrible incident. Thought I’d come to pay my respects.”

She crossed her arms, trying to mask her unease. “That was months ago. You didn’t seem interested then.”

Edward shrugged. “Busy times, you understand. But now that I’m here, there’s some business we need to discuss.” He gestured toward the house. “Why don’t we talk it over a drink?”

Christina hesitated. “I don’t drink,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

The last thing she wanted was to invite him into her home, but Edward’s persistence was like the cold—unrelenting. When he remained unmoved, she gave a reluctant nod.

“Fine. But let’s make it quick.”

She led him to the house, each step heavy with dread. Inside, the once grand home was a shadow of its former self. The parlor was cluttered with piles of unpaid bills and her father’s old ledgers, the mantel devoid of the decorations her mother used to put up this time of year. The floors were in need of sweeping, and the air was thick with the chill of a cold hearth.

Christina could feel Edward’s gaze moving over the disheveled state of the house, and she flushed with embarrassment. She hadn’t had the time or the energy to keep up appearances, and now it was on display for the one person she least wanted to see it. Why should he witness her downfall when he had done nothing to support her, emotionally or otherwise, after her parents’ death? She tried to ignore the heat creeping up her neck and guided him toward the small kitchen that was as bare as the rest of the house.

“Sit,” she said curtly, gesturing to the table.

However, Edward did not move. Sweeping the room with his gaze, he settled on the cupboards, and, with a knowing smile, he strode over and opened one of the lower doors. Christina’s breath caught as he pulled out an old, dusty bottle of whiskey from behind the clutter under the sink.

“Ah.” Edward held the bottle up to the light. “I always knew where my brother kept the good stuff.” He uncorked the bottle, and the rich, smoky scent filled the air as he poured himself a glass without asking. He swirled the whiskey, savoring the moment as if it were some kind of victory.

He then carried the glass over to the table and sprawled into a chair, making himself at home. He loosened his coat. He glanced around with the air of someone who was already measuring the place for his own use.

Christina clenched her fists at her sides, anger flaring. The whiskey had been her father’s, hidden away for special occasions, and Edward’s casual familiarity with it felt like an intrusion. It was as if he was laying claim to everything, even the memories she had kept locked away.

Edward raised his glass in a mock toast. “To old times,” he said with a smirk, before taking a long, slow sip.

Christina’s patience snapped. “What business do you have here, Uncle? I know you didn’t come all this way just for a drink.”

Edward set the glass down, the smile slipping from his face. “I’m here because there’s something we need to settle. Your father’s will.” His detached smile was aimed at her, as though he did not care that he talked about his own deceased brother. “It wasn’t as straightforward as you might think.”

Christina stiffened. She’d been dreading this moment, but the reality of it was worse than she had imagined.

“What are you talking about?”

Edward leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting as he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to her. Christina hesitated before snatching it from his hand, unfolding it with a sense of dread.

“It seems your father left a little stipulation,” Edward said, his tone heavy with false concern. “You’re not entitled to the ranch unless you’re married, Christina. And from what I hear, there’s no husband in sight.”

Christina’s mind raced, the words blurring on the page. She had known about the will, about the clause that required her to be married, but she had never imagined it would come to this. Edward’s claim was ironclad—unless she could produce a husband, the ranch would fall into his greedy hands.

“You’re lying,” Christina snapped, though she knew he wasn’t. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

Edward shrugged, taking another sip of whiskey. “I’ve already spoken to the lawyer. It’s all there in black and white. Unless you can produce a husband, the ranch is mine.”

Panic clawed at her, but she forced herself to stand tall. She wouldn’t let him see her fear, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I am engaged,” she blurted out, the lie burning her tongue. “My fiancé is away, but he’ll be back soon.”

Edward’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a bemused smile. “Is that so? How convenient.”

Christina’s mind raced. “How would you know?” She stalled. “It has been many years since I have seen you. You did not attend my father’s funeral, so how could you have found out?” She hadn’t thought this far ahead, hadn’t planned on being put in such an awkward position. His gaze flickered, as if he realized she could be right.

“What’s his name?”

“Benjamin,” she answered, grasping at the first name that came to mind. “Benjamin… uh, Green. He’s gone to another town to look at some horses for sale.”

Edward studied her, his gaze sharp and probing. For a moment, she feared he’d call her bluff, see right through the hastily constructed lie. But instead, he leaned back, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

“Well then, I suppose I’ll just have to meet this Benjamin when he returns. In the meantime, I’ll stay for a few days, make sure everything’s in order.”

Christina’s stomach twisted. The last thing she wanted was Edward lurking around, watching everything she did. But she had no choice. If she protested too much, it would only raise his suspicions.

“Suit yourself,” she said, forcing indifference into her voice. “But don’t get too comfortable. Benjamin will be back any day now.”

Edward raised his glass one more time, the whiskey sloshing as he saluted her with a mocking grin. “I’m sure he will. And I’ll be waiting.”

Christina watched him drink, her pulse thrumming with anger and fear. She needed a plan, and she needed it fast. Because Edward was right about one thing: the ranch was slipping through her grasp, and without a husband—or at least the illusion of one—everything she had fought for would be gone. She glanced at the bottle in Edward’s hand, the last remnant of her father’s secret stash, and vowed that she would find a way to outsmart him.

She had no other choice. For the sake of her parents’ memory, and for the ranch she loved, she would lie, scheme, and do whatever it took to hold on to what was hers.

***

Christina tossed in her sleep, her mind drifting back to a familiar place.

She was young again, maybe seven or eight, running through the sun-dappled fields of the ranch. Her laughter mingled with her parents’ voices as they called to her from somewhere up ahead, their shapes outlined against the bright morning sky.

The air was warm, filled with the comforting scents of hay and wildflowers, and her father’s laughter was deep, steady, grounding. Her mother’s gentle hand beckoned her forward, her face full of warmth and pride.

But as she took a step toward them, the sun dipped suddenly behind a cloud, casting long shadows over the fields. A cold wind swept in, chilling her to the bone, and she felt an uneasy shift, like the world was tipping on its axis.

“Papa?” she called, her voice small and uncertain. “Mama?”

She took another step, reaching for them, but when she looked up again, they were gone. The field was empty, their voices swallowed by the silence. Panic surged through her chest, her breath quickening as she spun in circles, searching the endless, empty field.

“Papa!” she cried, her voice rising to a scream. “Mama! Where are you?”

But there was no answer, only the cold, unforgiving silence of the empty ranch stretching around her. She felt tears prick her eyes, and her chest tightened as she continued to call for them, her voice fading into the emptiness until it was barely a whisper. She ran through the tall grass, tripping, calling, but there was nothing. Only the chill, only the stillness, only the vast, unbearable emptiness.

With a sharp gasp, Christina jolted awake, her heart pounding, her body drenched in a cold sweat.

She pushed herself upright, pressing a trembling hand to her chest as she took in her darkened room, her breaths coming in shallow, unsteady bursts. She had dreamed of them before—often, in fact, since they’d passed—but tonight had felt different. The loss felt raw, like an open wound, as if she were losing them all over again.

Swallowing hard, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool wood floor. She rose slowly, her knees trembling as she crossed the room and moved to the window, drawing the curtain back. Outside, the ranch lay blanketed in moonlight, the fields stretching out like a silver sea.

They’re gone, she reminded herself, the familiar ache settling in her chest. No matter how many times she dreamed of them, they wouldn’t come back. The ranch was hers now, and every responsibility that came with it, every choice she made, was on her shoulders alone.

A faint noise drifted up from downstairs—a soft creak of a floorboard, the low murmur of footsteps. Her stomach tightened as the realization struck: Edward. Her uncle, her unwelcome reminder of everything her parents had left behind, pacing the house like a specter.

She released a slow, shaky breath, her fingers curling against the cold window frame. She felt as if she were standing on a knife’s edge, her life as fragile as a piece of glass.

Edward’s arrival had already shattered the fragile calm she’d managed to build in the months since her parents’ deaths. And with his demands, his quiet threats, his looming presence, the life she’d envisioned for herself felt like it was slipping further and further out of reach.

Christina let the curtain fall, her gaze hardening. She couldn’t let him take this place from her. She had to hold on, somehow, to fight for what was left. But as she stood alone in the dark, the remnants of her dream still clinging to her, a part of her wondered just how much she was willing to sacrifice to keep it.

Chapter One

Anderson Ranch, Winter Pines, West Virginia, November 1870

Christina took a deep breath as she stepped onto the dusty main street of Winter Pines’s town. Garlands hung from shop windows, children ran through the snow-dusted streets with laughter in their voices, and a pine wreath adorned every door. To Christina, the festive decorations only deepened the ache in her chest. Christmas was just another reminder of what she’d lost: her parents, the warmth of family, and the security she’d taken for granted all her life.

The lawyer’s office loomed ahead, a brick building that seemed as cold and unfeeling as the news she knew she was about to receive. She hesitated a moment before she reached for the door handle and stepped inside, the faint scent of ink and old paper filling her senses.

Mr. Horace Watkins, her father’s lawyer, sat behind a large oak desk, He was a man in his late sixties with a well-worn face that bore the lines of a long career spent behind a desk. His thinning silver hair was meticulously combed back. His small, round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose gave him an owlish appearance. His eyes, a faded blue, held the weariness of a man who had seen too many disputes, losses, and failed expectations in his legal career. As always, he wore a tailored but slightly frayed brown suit that should have been thrown out, years before. As Christina stepped inside, he looked up, his expression softening when he saw her, but his eyes held no comfort that she felt.

“Miss Anderson,” he greeted, rising to shake her hand. “I’ve been expecting you. Please, sit.”

She took the chair opposite his desk, her fingers nervously gripping the edges. Mr. Watkins adjusted his glasses and sifted through a pile of papers, finally retrieving the familiar document that had haunted her thoughts: her father’s will. He spread it on the desk between them, the neatly typed lines seeming to glare up at her, in a hostile manner.

“I was hoping you’d tell me that my uncle, Edward Anderson, is wrong,” Christina said, her voice edged with desperation. “That this whole thing is some kind of mistake.”

Mr. Watkins sighed, running a hand over his tired face.

“I wish I could. Your father was very traditional, Christina. He wanted to ensure that the ranch stayed within the family, and in his eyes, that meant passing it to his daughter and her husband.”

Christina’s heart sank. She had always known her father’s will was old-fashioned, but she hadn’t realized just how much until now.

“There must be something we can do,” she pleaded. “Some way to keep the ranch without… without a husband.”

Mr. Watkins shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. The will is clear: if you are not married or betrothed, the property automatically goes to the next male relative. In this case, Edward Anderson.”

Christina chewed the inside of her cheek, a habit she’d had since girlhood and hadn’t been able to break. Edward had already made himself at home, strutting around the ranch as if he owned the place, and Christina knew he would not leave while there was a chance to take what should never rightfully have been his. She could feel her grip on her parents’ legacy slipping, and the realization was suffocating.

“I’m truly sorry, Christina. I know this isn’t fair,” Mr. Watkin said.

Fair. The word was meaningless to her now. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.

“Thank you, Mr. Watkins. I appreciate your help.” Her voice was tight, barely holding back the flood of emotions threatening to free themselves in an angry burst of tears. She grabbed her gloves and hat, eager to escape the oppressive suffocation of the office.

Outside, the cold air hit her like a slap, and she pulled her hat low to shield her eyes from the bright decorations She remembered past Christmases with her parents, the house never quite decorated, her father always too busy with the ranch and her mother distracted by her own worries. They had celebrated, but it was always subdued—no gifts under the tree, no carols sung by the fire. Just another day, filled with work and the quiet understanding that their love was expressed through labor, not gestures.

But now, even that quiet comfort was gone, leaving Christina floundering in a bog of uncertainty. She forced herself to keep walking, her boots crunching in the thin layer of snow that coated the ground, her breath visible in the frosty air. She needed someone to talk to, someone who could help her make sense of the impossible choices she was facing.

Her feet carried her instinctively to the neighboring ranch, where she found solace in the familiar faces of Jake and Jenny Thompson. The twins had been her closest friends since childhood, a constant in a world that seemed determined to change. The Thompson ranch was much like her own—a sprawling property with weather-beaten fences, a stable filled with sturdy horses, and the kind of warmth that came from years of hard work and shared struggles.

Jenny greeted her at the door with a bright smile that faded when she saw the tension on Christina’s face.

“Chrissy, what’s wrong?” she asked, ushering her inside. The kitchen was filled with the comforting smell of fresh bread and the crackling of a fire in the hearth. It was a welcome respite from the cold outside, but Christina could hardly appreciate its warmth.

Jake appeared from the back, wiping his hands on a rag, his usual easy going demeanor shifting to concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”

Christina said nothing for a moment as she looked at her friends. Jake, the older of the two by mere minutes, was tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome, with sandy blonde hair that was always a little tousled from the wind. His clear blue eyes were often crinkled in a carefree smile, reflecting his steady and laid-back nature. Jenny shared her brother’s ruddy complexion, but her striking hazel eyes were sharp and perceptive, always seeing more than she let on. Her curly auburn hair was as untamed as her personality, often pinned back with colorful ribbons that added a touch of brightness to her practical work clothes.

“Chrissy?” Jenny pressed.

Christina sat at the kitchen table, her hands clasped in front of her as she tried to find the right words.

“It’s my uncle,” she said finally, her voice cracking. “He’s trying to take the ranch. And according to my father’s will, he can. Unless… unless I’m married.”

Jenny’s eyes widened, and Jake let out a low whistle.

“Married?” Jenny repeated, disbelief mingling with concern. “But… how can that be? Your father wouldn’t do that to you.”

Christina’s eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. “I guess he thought he was protecting me, ensuring that the ranch would have a strong controlling hand. But now, it’s just an impossible burden to me. If I don’t get married, Uncle Edward takes everything.”

“Your uncle?” Jenny said, her eyes widening. “He’s back?”

Christina nodded. “He’s back,” she said.

Jake cursed under his breath. “That son of a—what are you going to do?”

Christina shook her head, feeling a sense of claustrophobia that made it hard to breathe. “I don’t know. I’ve never even had time to think about marriage, let alone find someone I’d want to spend my life with. And Edward’s got it all planned out. He’s already moved into the house, and he’s making himself comfortable.”

Jenny bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she considered Christina’s predicament. After a moment, her eyes brightened with an idea.

“Why not put an ad in the newspaper? You know, for a husband?”

Christina stared at her friend, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

Jenny shrugged. “Why not? There are plenty of men out West looking for a fresh start. They’re desperate, Chrissy, just like you. You wouldn’t have to love him, just… you know, marry him. Keep the ranch.”

Christina’s cheeks flushed. The idea was absurd, reckless even. To marry a stranger? Someone she didn’t know, didn’t trust, just to satisfy a clause in a will? It felt wrong in any number of ways.

“That’s a mad idea, Jenny. I can’t just… advertise for a groom as if I’m buying cattle.”

Jenny placed a hand on Christina’s . “I know it sounds crazy, but you’re out of options. You need someone by your side, even if it’s just for show. And once the ranch is secure, well… you can figure the rest out later.”

Jake nodded reluctantly. “As much as I hate to say it, Jenny’s right. You’ve got to think about the ranch. It’s what your parents would have wanted.”

Christina pushed back her chair, shaking her head.

“I can’t do it. I can’t marry a stranger.” She forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “But thank you. I’ll figure something out.”

She left the Thompsons’ feeling no closer to a solution, but the seed of Jenny’s suggestion had been planted, nagging at her as she made her way back to her ranch. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that crept across the fields, and the cold was biting deeper. As Christina approached the house, she saw Edward standing by the barn, barking orders at the ranch hands.

She was spotted by Darragh O’Malley, the ranch foreman. He approached her, irritation tightening his features. Darragh had worked for them for as long as Christina could remember. He was in his late forties now, with a weather-beaten face and a gruff demeanor. Despite that, he was loyal and trustworthy. His skin was deeply tanned and creased from years of working under the unforgiving sun.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she approached.