Chapter One

Vance Ranch, 1870

The morning broke mean and wind-cut, a hard gray stretching across the Vance ranch. Frost clung to the fence rails, and the last of the winter mud had hardened into ruts that caught boot heels and wagon wheels alike. Chickens picked at mud, horses blew white steam into the cold.

Nathan Vance stood on the porch with his collar turned up against the wind. His brother Billy paced back and forth in front of him. Billy’s boots hit the boards loudly.

“You think this is funny?” Billy snapped.

Nathan sighed. His brother had been at it all day. “Billy…”

“You think robbin’ the mercantile with a bunch of half-witted boys from town is somethin’ to brag about?”

Nathan crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the railing, playing bored. The wind bit at his cheeks, but he kept that mask of carelessness fixed in place.

“We didn’t rob it,” he said. “We just took a bottle of whiskey. Man shouldn’t sell it if he ain’t ready to share.”

Billy stopped pacing and stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time and not liking any of it. His dark hair was wind-tossed, his eyes faraway.

“You held a knife to the owner, Nate.”

Nathan rolled his eyes. “Barely. It wasn’t even pointed at him. Just—”

“—Just enough for him to think he was gonna die.” Billy’s voice rose, then broke into something more raw than rage. “You’re fixin’ to ruin this family.”

Nathan pushed off the railing, stepping forward. The porch groaned under their shifting weight.

“Family?” he scoffed. “Funny word comin’ from you. Luke weren’t family enough to stay. But I’m supposed to be loyal?”

Billy flinched at the name. Luke Graves, their cousin, the orphaned stray. Nathan knew it struck deep. Luke had left only months ago after their father had died—the only one who’d treated Luke like blood.

Billy looked away, jaw pulsing. “Luke left because he knew what was comin’. Ain’t the same and you know it.”

Nathan took another step, chin lifted.

“Seems to me you like pickin’ who counts and who don’t.”

That did it. Billy’s calm cracked. He lunged forward, grabbing Nathan by the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the siding hard enough that the boards shook. The sky seemed to hold still. Even the chickens stopped scratching.

Billy’s face was inches from his.

“You listen close,” he growled. “You ain’t Luke. Luke worked, but he was just too expensive to keep around. Luke didn’t go sneakin’ around with thieves and whores and fools tryin’ to act like some big-shot.”

Nathan smirked, though his heart thudded harshly in his chest.

“Bein’ an outlaw’s better than some ranch boy who never seen the world.”

Billy shoved him once more, then let go.

“You’re done here.”

Nathan blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Billy stepped back. “You got two hours to pack what’s yours and get off this land. Sheriff already knows what happened, just not who. If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll bring him myself.”

Nathan barked a humorless laugh.

“You’d throw your own brother out over a damn bottle?”

Billy shook his head slowly.

“It ain’t about the whiskey. It’s about you thinkin’ you’re owed somethin’. Thinkin’ the rules ain’t for you.”

Nathan’s fists clenched. “I don’t need this ranch. I don’t need you.”

Billy’s voice softened. “I know. That’s why you’re leavin’.”

He turned and stepped off the porch as he headed toward the barn. He didn’t look back.

Nathan stood there breathing hard, chest tight, face hot though the wind bit colder now. His whole body hummed with fury.

The ranch stretched before him. Acres of fields, fences, cattle, and the barn roof rusting at the edges. He’d worked this land since he could walk. Fed chickens. Cut wood. Branded calves. Took beatings. Took orders.

Luke, who’d left on his own terms.

Nathan spat into the dirt.

To hell with all of them.

He stomped off the porch and into the house. His boots echoed through the quiet hallway. His mother peeked from the kitchen doorway. Her face was pinched, apron dusted in flour. She looked relieved.

That stung more than Billy’s shove.

Billy’s words still echoed in him long after the shouting stopped. The wind had quieted some, though it still whispered through the naked trees. Nathan crossed the yard in a fit of rage.

He didn’t look back toward the porch, not at Billy, not at the house, not at the life that was no longer his. He walked past the barn, past the henhouse, past the tree where he and Luke once carved their initials before they knew the world would turn them against each other. His breath hit cold air in hard bursts, and the anger inside him mixed with something he didn’t want to name, something like fear wearing a wolf’s skin.

He rounded the far side of the barn and leaned his back against the weathered boards. The rain soaked through his shirt, grounding him.

Get out. Two hours.

Billy meant it.

Nathan clenched his jaw, staring across the pasture where the cattle moved slowly. This ranch wasn’t home.

He kicked at a stone, sending it skittering through brittle grass.

“The old man’s dead and suddenly everyone’s a lawman,” he muttered to himself.

He told himself he was angry because Billy was being dramatic, overreacting. But the truth was simpler; Billy wasn’t wrong.

The law would come. And when it did, it wouldn’t leave empty-handed.

Nathan rubbed a hand across his mouth and let his thoughts sharpen. He wasn’t going to rot in some cell while Billy worked the ranch and played righteous older brother. He wasn’t born to shovel manure and mend fences until his hands looked like old leather straps.

No. Nathan Vance deserved more. Gold. Power. A name whispered, not scolded. He straightened, feeling his pulse settle into something colder and clearer.

Colorado.

He’d heard the talk in town, miners getting rich overnight, men striking veins that glittered like heaven’s teeth. The West was a place where no one asked where you came from. Only whether you could take what you wanted and hold it.

And folks heading that way? Many were riding with wagon trains, big ones. More safety. More coin. More opportunity to blend in.

To disappear.

He kicked another stone and smirked to himself.

“Hell, maybe I’ll end up leadin’ one,” he said under his breath, amused at the idea.

He hauled in a breath and lifted his chin to the wind, tasting winter, distance, and promise all at once.

“Fine then,” he whispered. “I’ll go. And I’ll make my own damn way.”

Nathan grabbed his satchel from beside the bed, already half-packed from nights he’d threatened himself with leaving. A spare shirt, a knife, a card deck, a worn journal he never wrote in but liked carrying for the look of it, and an old pistol. He paused at the window. Out there, the land rolled wide and open and full of things that were his if he wanted them.

Opportunity wasn’t here.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and headed back out.

Billy had disappeared around the barn. The house felt hollow around him.

Nathan walked to the hitch post where his horse Fury waited, a rangy paint gelding with more attitude than sense. He tightened the cinch and slipped a hand along his neck.

“Looks like it’s just us now.”

Fury flicked an ear.

Nathan swung into the saddle.

***

As the ranch grew smaller behind him, swallowed by frost and quiet. Nathan didn’t slow or hesitate, or second-guess.

If the west were wide, then everything in it was his for the taking.

And he meant to take plenty.

Chapter Two

Night on the plains had a way of stretching out forever, wide and quiet and full of its own kind of thinking. The stars hung low and bright over the dark sweep of grassland, cold silver sparks against the black. The horses shifted in their sleep, tails flicking at the lingering cold.

Luke Graves sat with his back against the wagon wheel, legs stretched out, blanket draped over his shoulders. The fire in front of him burned low, more ember than flame. His left shoulder still ached where Gunner’s bullet had gone in, a deep, dull throb that woke when the night went cold. Two weeks wasn’t nearly enough time for a wound like that to fade. He supposed the ache would follow him for a while. Maybe forever.

He was alive. That was more than Gunner could say.

A soft rustle sounded beside him, and he felt Eve settle down against his side. She tucked her bare feet beneath the hem of his blanket and leaned her head against his arm as if she’d never leave.

“You’re cold,” he murmured.

She huffed a small laugh. “That a problem?”

“I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Eve tipped her head up just enough to look at him. Her tawny hair fell loose around her shoulders. She’d taken to leaving it down more since they married. Said no one on God’s earth ought to tell her what a woman’s hair should be but herself. Luke liked it that way. The wind caught pieces of it now and blew strands softly against his jaw.

“I’m warmer now,” she said.

Luke dipped his chin toward her forehead and pressed a small kiss there. The fire crackled, and the wind carried the faint smell of smoke, leather, and the river not yet seen but coming soon. Most of the wagon train was asleep, stretched out in tents or under canvas tarps, protected from the wind as best they could manage. Tucker, usually the last man awake, had turned in early.

Luke let his eyes wander toward the horizon, where darkness swallowed everything.

Two weeks out from Fort Kearny. Two weeks since he’d stood in a surgeon’s tent with blood drying on his shirt and pain tearing through him like something alive. Two weeks since the gunshot.

He ran a thumb along the edge of her hand now, feeling the delicate bones there, the warmth of her skin.

“You’re thinkin’ hard,” Eve said quietly.

“Maybe.”

“What about?”

Luke exhaled slowly. “Crossin’ the South Platte. Weather’s gettin’ meaner. Water’s been high since last week. Dan says upriver is overrun. Boss man knows best, says we got no choice.”

Eve was quiet for a moment before she spoke.

“That’s not all.”

Luke gave a small, wry smile. She always saw the things beneath his words.

“No,” he said softly. “It ain’t.”

He waited for the ache in his shoulder to dull.

“I keep thinkin’ on how easy it would’ve been to die back there.”

Eve’s fingers tightened against his.

Luke didn’t flinch from it. He wasn’t afraid of the memory. Just watchful of it.

“I was lyin’ in that dirt with my gun dropped God knows where,” he said, his eyes fixed faraway. “And Gunner was looking at me with murder in his eyes. I remember thinkin’, this is it, till I pulled the trigger. This is where everything ends.”

Eve swallowed. He heard it.

“But it didn’t,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “It didn’t. Thank the Lord he couldn’t aim.”

A beat passed.

“Though sometimes I think the world was near wishin’ it.”

Eve sat up a little, turning toward him fully, firelight catching the soft worry in her blue eyes.

“What makes you say a thing like that?”

Luke shrugged, careful of the injury. “Feels like every step forward brings somethin’ sharp tryin’ to knock us back. Weather, river, terrain, people…” He paused. “…myself sometimes.”

“That’s just life,” Eve whispered. “Hard things don’t mean wrong things. They mean things worth keepin’.”

Luke’s gaze drifted to her face.

“You sound awful wise for someone who used to think I was nothin’ but trouble,” he teased.

“I didn’t think that.”

“You did.”

“Well…” Eve cracked a smile. “You acted the part.”

Luke chuckled, enjoying the feel of her hair brushing against his skin. Eve paused. “You’re goin’ back to scouting soon.”

Luke nodded. “Tomorrow.”

She looked down at their joined hands. “You’re not healed.”

“I’m healed enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

Luke let out a slow breath. “I know.”

She lifted her gaze to him.

“I don’t want to lose you to pride.”

There it was, the fear she hadn’t spoken of since Fort Kearny. The fear hiding beneath every one of her gentle touches and restless nights. The fear was seeded not from weakness but from almost losing him; they had pulled the bullet out clean, but she knew now he wasn’t bulletproof.

Luke shifted, turning so he faced her more fully.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, thumb brushing the softness beneath her eye.

“Eve,” he murmured. “I ain’t tryin’ to prove nothin’. Not to Dan. Not to the wagon train. Not to God.”

“Then why?” she whispered.

His answer was simple.

“Because I know this trail. And I know what comes if a man ain’t lookin’ far enough ahead.”

Eve stared at him, eyes searching.

Luke continued. “There’s river crossings comin’. And harsh weather. And folk growin’ nervous with every mile. Someone’s gotta be out there watchin’. Someone who knows the land and don’t spook easy.”

He held her gaze.

“That’s my job. Not because I want the title. But because I can do it and because if I don’t, someone else might die.”

Eve blinked hard, her jaw working.

Then she leaned forward until her forehead rested against his shoulder, carefully avoiding the wound.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Luke breathed in the scent of her hair, clean soap, and trail dust. A funny mix.

Eventually, Eve whispered, “I hate that you’re right.”

Luke smiled faintly. “Most people do.”

She elbowed him gently for that, then sighed.

“I just wish… the world wasn’t always askin’ you to bleed for it.”

Luke thought about that.

“I reckon the world asks the same of everyone,” he said. “Just in different ways.”

“Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When you go out there tomorrow… you’ll come back to me. Not just alive. Not half-dead. Whole.”

Luke looked at her, not at her face, but at the depth behind her eyes. The fear, the love, the vow she was giving him alongside the request.

Slowly, he nodded.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “Every time. I swear it.”

And though the night wind carried the words away almost instantly, Eve seemed to gather them close, tucking them somewhere behind her ribs.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled. Luke didn’t know if it was a warning or a promise. But he knew morning was coming.

And with it, the trail.

***

Dawn arrived, dragging a pale light across the prairie like someone waking before they were ready. The sky held heavy clouds the color of tarnished pewter, swollen with the threat of more rain. The camp stirred to life in uneven rhythms, pots clanging, horses stamping mud from their hooves, tired voices exchanging morning greetings without much warmth.

Luke stepped out from under the wagon canvas, rolling his left shoulder experimentally. The wound ached, but movement was easier than it had been days before. Eve followed him out, still wrapped in her shawl, hair braided loose over one shoulder. His dog, Bush, a rangy cattle mutt with a mottled coat, trotted ahead of them, already nosing around for scraps.

Tucker Hart spotted Luke first.

“Well, look there,” Tucker grinned as he strode over. “Thought you’d still be sleepin’, seein’ as you’re half broken.”

“I wake before the sun, same as any other day,” Luke answered, though his smile tugged softly at the corner.

Tucker clapped a hand on his bad shoulder and then winced, remembering.

“Right. That one’s off-limits.”

“And you remember slow as a mule,” Luke muttered.

From behind Tucker, Eleanor approached, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes brighter than usual. She looked between the two men with a strange mix of bashfulness and pride.

“Well?” she said.

Tucker cleared his throat like a man about to say something profound.

“We, uh… got news.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Good news or trouble?”

“That depends on whether you like babies,” Tucker said.

Eleanor swatted Tucker’s arm. “Just tell him proper.”

Tucker chuckled and tried again. “We’re expectin’.”

Luke blinked once. Then he grinned slowly and solidly, the kind a man doesn’t fake.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Congratulations.”

Eleanor beamed and stepped closer.

“It happened quick. I suppose the trail life don’t wait for anything.”

“No,” Luke said softly, glancing to Eve, who’d come to stand beside him. “It don’t.”

Eve touched Eleanor’s arm, offering quiet joy with her smile. Luke saw the brief flicker in her eyes before she composed herself. He squeezed her hand.

Before anyone could say more, Dan Steele walked toward them, boots muddy, hat low, expression carved in stone.

“Morning,” Dan said.

Everyone returned the greeting, though the tone was cautious. Dan’s face was enough to tell them the day held trouble.

“We’ve got a situation,” Dan continued. “River rose again overnight. The Platte’s swollen into somethin’ wild.”

Luke exchanged a look with Tucker.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Bad enough,” Dan said. “Ain’t crossin’ it. Not today, maybe not for days. Water’s fast as a stampede and twice as mean.”

Behind Dan, a few settlers had gathered, men with crossed arms and wide eyes, listening in.

“So what’s the plan?” Tucker asked.

Dan sighed. “What I been tellin’ them; we wait. Move slow north along the bank till we reach Julesburg. Word is there’s a ferry runnin’. We get there before the season kills the route, we might make it across with everyone alive.”

A murmur of unease rippled among the eavesdroppers.

Grady Holt stepped forward.

“We can’t just sit and wait,” Grady snapped. “Every day wasted is food gone, time lost. We got livestock that’ll drown thinkin’ too long about it.”

“And if you take that stock into that water now,” Dan answered evenly, “you’ll drown with ‘em.”

Grady opened his mouth again, but Dan cut him off with a sharp look.

“This trail ain’t givin’ opinions, it’s demandin’ respect.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Luke stepped forward.

“Dan’s right. Water’s high now. Too high. Give it time, and some of the melt will settle. Maybe not enough to ford clean, but enough to make it survivable.”

Grady muttered something, but he didn’t argue again.

Dan exhaled, nodding once.

“Luke. Tucker. When you’re ready, ride ahead and check the bank. I want eyes on how far the flooded stretch runs.”

Tucker gave a short salute. “We’ll take Bush with us. He’s got better sense ‘bout water than most folks.”

Bush, hearing his name, perked his ears and wagged once.

Luke turned to Eve. “I’ll be back before supper.”

Her expression wavered, her eyes not finding a resting place.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He touched his forehead to hers, just for a second, and then took his horse’s reins.

***

The ride north was quiet save for hoofbeats and the occasional bark from Bush rushing ahead to scout puddles and low brush. The land near the Platte had become slick with mud, thick and clinging, slowing progress.

After nearly an hour, the river finally came into view, wide, violent, and churning with the force of thaw. The normal shoreline was swallowed beneath rushing brown water. Branches spun in the current, and further out, the water jumped and folded in on itself like something alive and angry.

Tucker whistled.

“Well, that don’t look friendly.”

“No,” Luke murmured. “It don’t.”

They dismounted and stepped closer to the bank. The wind sprayed rain upon him.

Luke crouched, examining how the mud sloped into the floodwaters. Bush sniffed at the edge, then backed away with a low warning whine.

“Even the dog don’t wanna try it,” Tucker muttered. “That’s sayin’ something.”

Luke rested his hands on his thighs, watching the water move.

“You see that?” he said after a moment.

Tucker squinted. “See what?”

“The way the river’s bendin’ past those cottonwoods. Means the flood’s wider upstream. This ain’t the worst of it.”

“So what you reckon?”

Luke rose slowly.

“I reckon we tell Dan we’re moving. Not into the river, alongside it. Keep headin’ north like he said. Julesburg’s our best chance.”

Tucker nodded. “Folk ain’t gonna like it.”

Luke shrugged. “Trail don’t care what folk like.”

For a moment, they just stood there, wind stirring dust and damp against their coats.

“You know,” Tucker said, “I’ve been thinkin’ on somethin’.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “That so? That’s dangerous for a man like you.”

Tucker elbowed him lightly. “Smartass.”

Luke smirked.

Tucker continued, eyes on the river.

“I ain’t afraid of weather. Or hard days. Or rivers bigger than they oughta be.” He paused. “But the trail’s changin’ us. All of us. Faster than I thought.”

Luke looked at the water too.

“Change comes whether we want it or not.”

“And what about Eve?” Tucker asked quietly. “She scared?”

Luke swallowed.

“Sometimes. But she’s stronger than her fear. Always has been.”

Tucker nodded.

“Just make sure you give her somethin’ to hold onto while the world tilts.”

Luke didn’t look away from the river.

“I aim to.”

The wind picked up, pushing against them like the river’s rough cousin.

Bush barked once, sharp and urgent.

Luke took a final look at the churning waters.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve seen enough.”

They mounted up and rode back toward camp. The wagon train was small in the distance, vulnerable and stubborn against the vastness of the frontier.

The river roared behind them, biding its time. Waiting.