Prologue

Western Nebraska, 1870

You won’t get away this time.

Nate Holt shifted in the saddle, leather creaking beneath him. Henry, his buckskin gelding, tossed his head, picking up on the tension in Nate’s grip. The reins were tight, just like Nate’s jaw.

A glint off the saddle buckle caught his eye, just enough reflection to glimpse the face beneath his hat’s brim. Weathered skin, creased by too many days in the saddle. Nut-brown beard, trimmed neatly. Eyes, sharp and blue as a prairie lake.

Not too bad for an old, weather-beaten sheriff.

Nate often felt older than the hills, his dogged determination to seek justice aging him beyond his near forty years on this earth.

Now, after three years, twelve seasons, Owen Pike was trapped like a rattlesnake in a barrel.

I’ve got you this time.

Wind stirred, whispering through the grass as if anticipating the coming battle. Nate adjusted his hat, the brim cracked and sun-faded, and squinted west. The setting sun bled red across the horizon, ready to drop into night.

Barrett Rivers, his deputy, rode up beside him, rifle resting casually across his lap, eyes sharp above a day’s growth of beard. “You feel it?” he murmured. “Like we almost got him?”

“He’s close. I can almost smell him.”

Behind them, six men rode in silence, a posse of deputies, trackers, and one ex-scout, Royce Tate, who could read a trail like an Apache.

For three years, they’d been chasing Owen Pike, the Coyote Clan’s ruthless leader, through badlands and blizzards, across state lines, and into the belly of outlaw country. Each time they’d been close, Pike had slipped through their fingers like smoke. But not today.

Today, they had him cornered in a box canyon.

Today, he won’t escape.

Nate raised a hand, and his men guided their horses closer. “We’re near the ridge,” he said decisively. “He’s holed up in that canyon up ahead. We spotted smoke last night. No movement since dawn.”

Nate’s heart thudded against his ribs, raw fear sent his breath pulsing in his throat. “He’s still in there.”

“And he’s not alone,” Barrett added. “His gang’s getting ready to move. We’ll wait for your signal, Nate. I figure you’re aiming for Pike, so we’ll handle the rest—right, fellas?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the posse.

Nate’s fingers brushed the grip of his Colt. He hadn’t drawn it in months. Most of the time, he didn’t need to—his reputation as sheriff of Niobrara did the talking for him—but today, he had a feeling he would.

“Still carrying that old piece?” Royce Tate’s glance flicked to the weapon, a grin spreading over his chapped lips. “You’ve had that Colt since God booted Adam from Eden. Reckon you can fire it?”

A brief smile crossed Nate’s face. “Only when I mean business.”

They dismounted quietly, tying their horses behind a thicket of scrub oak. The canyon mouth yawned ahead, flanked by jagged rock and deep shadow. Moving furtively, the posse spread out, climbing the rugged stone cliffs.

Nate crouched beside Barrett, peering through a bushy tangle of sagebrush. Below, the Coyote Clan moved like ants, packing saddlebags, checking rifles, laughing like they hadn’t a care in the world.

“They think they’re safe,” Barrett muttered, a grim smile playing across his lips.

Nate’s jaw tightened. “Let’s show ’em otherwise.” He raised two fingers and thrust them forward. The posse began to circle the canyon from both sides.

Nate waited, steadying his breathing, eyes fixed on Owen Pike. He’d spent hours analyzing Pike, trying to understand the motives of a man who’d devoted his life to thievery, indifferent to how many bodies he left behind. In the end, though, nothing could justify such evil.

Shaking off his musings, Nate raised his hand.

Thunder erupted as his men opened fire, shattering the stillness. The canyon echoed with gunfire as bullets tore through the dry air, ricocheting off stone and splintering scrub. Pike’s gang, once confident in their isolation, scrambled like cornered rats.

Smoke curled from the muzzle of Nate’s Colt as he ducked behind a jagged outcrop, then twisted to peer into the bedlam. A gray haze formed as the scurrying outlaws kicked up dust in desperate retreat.

Barrett’s voice rang out above the din. “Push forward! Don’t let ’em escape!”

As the posse fanned out, rifles cracking rhythmically, Nate flanked left, weaving between boulders and mesquite. He spotted a bandit crouched behind a fallen log, frantically reloading.

Nate didn’t hesitate; he fired, and the man slumped forward with a choked cry.

From the ridge, another outlaw sent rounds whistling past Nate’s head. He dove, rolled, and came up firing. The man dropped his rifle and tumbled backward, disappearing into the brush.

Pike barked hoarse orders from the center of the camp. “Hold your ground, you dag! Keep shooting!”

A few men obeyed, dragging crates and barrels into a makeshift barricade. One lit a stick of dynamite, hurling it toward the advancing posse. It landed short, exploding in a shower of dirt and flame. Horses reared and men cursed as Nate waited for the explosion to settle.

Nate charged again, this time with Barrett at his side. They reached the outer ring of the camp, exchanging fire with two bandits behind a shack. Barrett took a hit to the shoulder, but kept moving, gritting his teeth as he returned fire. When one outlaw fell, his companion bolted.

Inside the outlaw camp, chaos reigned. Pike’s men were disorganized, panicked. Supplies burned, horses fled, and the canyon filled with smoke as Royce and two deputies breached the barricade, fighting in close quarters.

Fists flew, and knives flashed, but Nate had eyes only for Pike.

There you are!

Nate broke into a run, dodging rocks and gunfire. Pike turned, saw him coming, and raised his revolver. He fired, and Nate staggered as the bullet slammed into his right knee.

Nate barely slowed, adrenaline overwhelming the pain he knew he’d feel later.

“It’s over, Pike!” he roared.

Pike’s squinty black eyes met Nate’s, and a crooked grin spread across his face—the taunting smirk that had haunted Nate’s nightmares. The gang leader bolted toward the canyon wall and ducked behind a boulder.

Nate followed, bullets sparking off stone as he closed in on his prey. His heart pounded as he dodged behind a rock, then sprang out and fired with deadly aim.

Pike spun as the shot hit his shoulder, blood spurting, and his revolver fell to the ground in a puff of dirt.

Nate ran forward, closing the distance, his eyes boring into Pike.

“Ready to face justice?” he growled.

Pike clutched his bleeding shoulder and looked up with a strange grin. His eyes glistened with defiance. “We’ll see about that, Sheriff.”

Chapter One

Niobrara, Nebraska, Autumn 1887

Seventeen years later

The sun dipped behind the cottonwoods, casting long shadows across the pasture. Nate Holt sat tall in the saddle, boots loose in the stirrups, letting Henry meander along the fence line. The buckskin’s ears flicked lazily, tail swishing at flies.

Deck, a half-breed mutt, trotted beside them, nose twitching at every scent that drifted on the breeze. His fur was a patchwork of brown and white, and his short, curly tail wagged up a storm when he was happy.

Everything in its place. No broken gates. No stray cattle. No trouble.

This was the kind of evening Nate had come to treasure: quiet, predictable, with the livestock behaving and no one urging him to round up a posse or make an arrest. His leg twinged at the thought, phantom pain from the bullet Pike had put in him all those years ago.

Those days are long gone.

He patted Henry’s neck. “That’s it, fella. Let’s head in.”

Deck barked once, and Nate shushed him gently. “Easy, now. We’re done for today.”

The cabin stood ahead, tucked into a grove of ash trees, a lazy curl of smoke rising from the chimney. He was looking forward to a warm fire, a plate of beans, and the dog-eared adventure novel waiting beside his rocking chair. The kind with pirates and lost cities—nothing that reminded him of the real dangers he’d faced in his time as a lawman.

Then, he heard it.

Thunk.

Wood against wood.

Deck froze. He gave a low, rumbling growl—a warning of possible danger—and barked sharply.

Nate swore under his breath, more annoyed at the idea of trouble than afraid, and reached for the Colt at his hip. The weight was familiar, although he hadn’t drawn it in months.

Intruders were rare out here, but he’d encountered a few drifters. Once, he’d startled a claim jumper up in the hills; twice, he’d surprised hungry fools who didn’t know better, ransacking his barn.

He nudged Henry into a trot, Colt raised, and hollered, “This is private property! You’ve got ten seconds to clear out before I make you regret it!”

Deck barked again, louder this time, pacing ahead like he was ready to tear someone’s leg off. The dog raced around the cabin, coming to a stiff-legged stop in front of the cabin and snapping.

Nate rounded the cabin, then stopped Henry with a quick jerk of the reins.

A thin boy stood on the porch, probably no older than twelve. From the looks of his clothes—ragged overalls and dusty shirt—it appeared he’d traveled long and hard. He held a rifle in one bony hand, pointed straight at Nate’s chest.

“Sheriff Nate Holt?” he asked in a thin, trembling voice. “From Niobrara River?”

“That’s me—and I’d be obliged if you lowered that rifle.”

Nate studied the boy’s strong jawline and deep blue eyes, reminiscent of endless prairie skies, almost like—but no, it couldn’t be.

And yet…

It was more than his eyes or that unruly shock of curly coffee-brown hair—his posture was familiar, determined and stiff-necked.

The resemblance was too striking. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Etta’s boy?

Nate swallowed against the desert forming in his throat. “Why are you here?”

“I came to talk.”

“Talk fast,” Nate said, “and lower that rifle.”

The boy hesitated, then slowly let the barrel dip. “It ain’t loaded, anyway. My name’s Jed—Jed Holt.”

The name slammed into Nate like a punch to the gut.

“My ma was Etta Holt,” the boy continued. “She… passed last month, an’ before, she—she tol’ me to come here. Ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

Nate holstered his Colt, hand trembling slightly. “Etta was your ma?”

The boy nodded. “An’ she said you were my pa.”

Now silent, Deck jumped onto the porch and sat beside the boy, tail thumping once. Obviously, the mutt didn’t consider Jed a threat.

Nate stared. The resemblance was there—Etta’s cheekbones, her stubborn mouth, and those tell-tale eyes—no mistaking it.

He dismounted slowly, thumping to the ground. “She never told me.”

Jed shrugged. “She said you were too busy chasing criminals to be a pa.”

Unbidden, Nate’s thoughts returned to the night Etta left.

“I can’t live like this anymore—it’s too hard, never knowing if you’ll come back alive when you walk out the door!”

He’d wanted to argue, to beg her to stay, but truth was, she hadn’t been wrong. Still, in all the years since, he’d never forgotten her or the love they’d shared.

Silence fell, filling the distance between them with years and regrets.

Finally, Nate cleared his throat. “Go on inside. After I see to my horse, we’ll eat—you look half starved.”

Jed nodded, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and bending to retrieve a threadbare knapsack at his feet. “Reckon I am.”

As he led Henry to the barn, Nate’s old injury screamed in his right leg. One shootout too many. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the boy’s eyes widen as he limped away.

Nate hurried through his chores, thoughts battling in his head. He and Etta had always wanted children, but after several years of no luck, he hadn’t had the heart to upset her by bringing it up anymore. Now, his heart throbbed with conflicting emotions: joy that their prayers had finally been answered; regret at the thought of all the years he’d missed; anger at Etta for keeping this miracle from him.

Why didn’t she tell me?

As he removed Henry’s tack, Nate wondered if Etta had left because of the child. His anger drained away, shame taking its place as he realized he couldn’t blame her.

Maybe she thought having no pa at all would be better than losing him to murder at the hands of the Coyote Clan.

The thought sank in his gut while he finished up, then sat there like a lump of lead as he trudged across the yard.

Warmth washed over Nate as he stepped into the cabin, the fire in the big wood range crackling. Jed sat at the table, surveying the room—maybe searching for clues about the stranger who was now his father—while Nate lit the lantern on the table and set a pot of beans on the stove.

Deck had curled up beside the boy, settling his head on Jed’s boot.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“His name’s Deck. Seems to like you, don’t he?”

Jed’s brow furrowed. “That’s an awful strange name.”

Reaching for two tin plates, Nate chuckled. “Reckon it could seem that way. It’s short for ‘Decker.’ Got him as a pup from a homesteader who couldn’t take the harsh winters. The fella had named him, and I figured not to confuse the pup by changing it.”

Jeb nodded and reached down to rub Deck’s stubby ears.

“How far did you travel?” Nate put a plate and mug in front of the boy. “Last I heard, your ma had settled in South Dakota. Yankton.”

“Yep, been on the road a couple weeks. Hitched a ride once or twice with a wagon headed in the right direction, but mostly, I walked.”

That’s over forty miles!

A peculiar sensation filled Nate’s throat—indignation, maybe, flavored with guilt at the idea of his son being forced to make such a long journey.

Nate inhaled, swallowing the surge of foreign emotion, and forced himself to speak casually. “You come all that way alone?”

Jed shrugged again. “Didn’t have much choice.”

Nate ladled beans onto the plates and passed Jed a slice of bread. He watched the boy take slow bites, chewing each bite with mechanical purpose. He looked rough, like he hadn’t slept in days—clothes torn, boots worn through—but Nate also saw steel; the boy wouldn’t bend easy.

He’s got a lot of Etta in him. Wonder if I’m in there somewhere, too.

The absence of conversation seemed to magnify the clink of spoons to the point that Nate flinched when the fire emitted a pop.

“Reckon you’re pretty worn out,” Nate said, suddenly desperate to fill the silence. “I’ll fix you a pallet in front of the fireplace for tonight. We can talk tomorrow, figure things out.”

Jed shrugged, abandoning his attempt to lift another spoonful to his mouth.

Nate leaned back in his chair, staring at the boy across the table. Jed Holt—my son, by name and blood. Almost fifty-two years old, and I just found out I’m a pa.

It might’ve been funny if Nate hadn’t been so uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter Two

Holt Ranch

A week later

The boy hadn’t said another word about his mother’s death.

A week on the ranch, and not a single mention. Not a question, not a tear. Just quiet obedience. Jed didn’t speak to Nate unless asked—and even then, it was short answers. Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ll do it. He mucked stalls, hauled water, stacked firewood, and fed the chickens like he’d been born to it.

But grief clung to him like a shroud. He walked around silently, stubbornly wrapped inside himself, his grief locked tight.

Nate watched him from the porch, a tin mug of coffee cooling in his hand. Jed moved with purpose, frowning, while Deck trotted beside him like a shadow. Nate didn’t know how to pry the boy’s heartache loose—or if he should even try.

The September sun rose golden and bright, casting long rays across the dry earth. The air smelled of cracked leather, horse sweat, and the faint sweetness of hay. Cicadas buzzed in the cottonwoods, and wind carried the distant creak of the windmill turning slowly above the well.

It would be another fine day, the kind Nate had cherished since he’d hung up his guns for good. The only blot on his mood was Jed.

He sighed and walked toward the barn, then leaned against the corral fence, watching Jed groom the buggy horse, Molly. The mare leaned into each stroke, obviously enjoying the attention.

“You know,” Nate remarked conversationally, “when I was about your age, I ran off for a whole summer. Took odd jobs, slept in barns, got into a few scraps I shouldn’t’ve.”

Jed didn’t look up, but the brush slowed against Molly’s coat.

“Ended up working for a rancher outside Abilene,” Nate went on. “Mean ol’ son of a gun paid me in beans and bruises, but he taught me how to mend a fence, how to make my own way. I didn’t talk much back then either. Just kept my head down, trying to make it on my own.”

Jed finally glanced over. “Kinda know how that is.”

Nate smiled. “I figured. That’s why I’m telling you. I know what it’s like to carry your own weight in this world, afraid to depend on anybody else.”

Wordlessly, Jed turned back to Molly as she nudged his hand impatiently, and Nate swore the boy almost smiled as he resumed brushing the mare’s coat.

“I’m here if you want to talk,” Nate continued doggedly, despite his son’s reticence, “and I’d like to know more about you, if you ever feel like sharing.”

Jed didn’t answer, but he didn’t walk away either. That was enough for now, though Nate couldn’t help a stab of annoyance; for a moment, he thought he might’ve gotten through to the boy.

Well, I reckon he’s done all right without me so far. He’ll talk when he’s ready.

Sighing, Nate walked back to the porch, stifling his disappointment as he turned his thoughts to his plans for the day. Supplies were low, and the fence on the north pasture needed new wire, so he’d decided to go into town.

He stepped inside to grab his leather duster, but when he came back out, he noticed dust rising over two familiar silhouettes against the morning sun: Travis and June Rivers, Barrett’s young’uns.

They rode hard, their horses lathered and breathing heavy. Travis wore his father’s old hat, sweat-stained and sun-bleached, brim pulled low. June’s blond curls had been tied back with a limp bow of calico.

His gut twisted before they even reached the gate. He couldn’t remember the two ever visiting without Barrett.

Something’s wrong.

He thumped down the steps as they rode into the yard. “What’s happened?”

Travis dismounted, his face drawn tight. June stayed in the saddle, twisting to scan the horizon over her shoulder.

“Pa’s dead,” Travis said flatly.

Nate stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“Sheriff Crane found him yesterday morning, Sheriff Nate, out by the creek,” June added, tears slipping from her brown eyes, so like Barrett’s, to dampen her rosy cheeks. “We think…” She gave her brother a desperate glance as her voice faltered.

“He was shot in the head—murdered,” Travis blurted, his lips quivering as he gulped. Leather squeaked as he clenched his gloved hands into fists.

Nate’s breath caught. Barrett Rivers had been his loyal deputy for nearly a decade. He may have been stubborn as a mule, but he’d been sharp as a tack, and they’d cleaned up more than their share of messes together—cattle rustlers, land disputes, drunken shootouts in the saloon—Barrett had stood beside him through it all. And now, he was gone.

It can’t be true. Dead?

“Could it’ve been an accident?” Nate asked, though the words felt hollow. Barrett had been too cautious, never letting his guard down a second.

Travis shook his head. “It was murder—I know it. A couple weeks ago, he told us he saw outlaws in town, men he recognized from the old days. Thought they might be after him.”

June finally dismounted, hitting the ground with a thud. Her divided riding skirt billowed around her slim body as she brushed dust from a blue shirtwaist. “Sheriff Crane didn’t believe us, though. Said Pa must be getting old, seeing shadows, and that he was probably just shot by a rustler.”

“Pa mentioned something about the Coyote Clan—or what’s left of ’em.” Travis took up the tale. “Soon as he said it, he got a worried look on his face, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip. I remember him telling stories about ‘coyotes’ when we were younger, but I didn’t realize… We just thought he was talkin’ about animals.”

Dumbfounded, Nate rubbed his right leg as memories rushed through his mind. He’d never forgotten their last encounter with the Coyote Clan—not after he took a bullet to the knee in that canyon bringing Owen Pike to justice. “That gang’s been scattered for years. The ones that didn’t get the noose are rotting in prison.”

“Not all of ’em,” Travis countered. “Rumor is, their leader escaped. Pa suspected he’d been rebuilding the Coyote Clan on the sly. Or that’s what he hinted at.”

Nate remembered the last time he’d seen Pike, over seventeen years ago, bloodied and laughing after a failed ambush meant to free him before he was locked up for good. Barrett had cracked two of his ribs that day in a struggle to get him behind bars. Nate had broken his nose. They’d sent him off to the territorial prison with a warning: don’t come back.

Apparently, Pike hadn’t listened.

Nate felt old instincts stirring, an itch between his shoulders that whispered of trouble to come. It had made him an exceptional sheriff, but there were times—like now—when he cursed his fine-tuned sense of right and wrong.

“I haven’t heard anything about that, but even if Pike did escape, there’s nothing I can do. I’m retired. I had reasons for hanging up my guns.”

Including Pike and the injury to his knee.

June’s eyes widened. “But…”

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “Truly. Your pa and me traveled through a lot of tough times together. Losing him tears my heart out, but I can’t go looking for trouble.”

Travis narrowed his eyes. “You think we came for sympathy?” He scoffed. “We’re here for justice. Sheriff Crane won’t help, but we thought you would. You were his best friend… or so he thought.”

“I know you’re scared,” Nate said patiently, “and you should be—but I’m not opening that door. I’m too old and worn out to go chasing after outlaws. Barrett and I made plenty enemies. Yes, Pike could’ve killed him, but it could just as easily have been someone else.”

And Jed doesn’t deserve to be dragged into that mess. That’s why Etta left.

Just then, the barn door opened, and Jed walked out, a pitchfork propped on one shoulder. Deck followed at his heels, yipping happily as he spotted June. He ran toward her, waving his stubby tail like a flag, moans of pleasure deep in his throat.

Jed glanced up, curiosity flickering across his browned face.

“Hello,” June offered, reaching down to scratch Deck behind the ears. “I didn’t know you hired a hand, Nate.”

There was no easy way to say it. “This here is Jed, my son. Jed, meet Travis and June Rivers, my deputy’s young’uns.”

Travis and June started, their silence heavy at the unexpected news, and June’s eyes widened as she studied Jed. Maybe looking for a resemblance to Etta, whom they’d known well.

Travis stepped forward. “You need to take this seriously, Nate. If Pike’s back, he won’t stop with Pa. He’ll come after you, too… and your”—he nodded at Jed‍—“son.”

“I am taking it seriously.” Despite the fire raging inside, the sudden spasm of pain in his knee, Nate kept his answer calm. “That’s why I’m staying out of it.”

Travis’s jaw clenched. “If you’re too cowardly to do anything, I’ll avenge Pa myself.”