Prologue

Riverton, Wyoming

Winter of 1880

Emily watched in horror as a thick streak of cobalt blue dragged across the canvas, cutting through the careful lines of the orphanage she had spent the last three hours painting. The chapel roof, the stone walls, and the garden where Sister Margaret grew her herbs; all of it ruined by one careless flick of her wrist.

“No, no, no,” she muttered, grabbing a rag from the table beside her. She dabbed at the paint, but it only smeared, turning the chapel into a blur of blue and gray.

“Well,” a warm voice said from behind her, “that is certainly something.”

Emily turned to find her Aunt Hannah standing in the doorway, her hands folded over the front of her dark habit. The older woman’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she stepped forward and studied the canvas.

“It’s destroyed,” Emily said flatly.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Aunt Hannah tilted her head. “I rather like it. It looks like a road running through the grounds.”

Emily let out a short laugh. “A road to nowhere.”

“Or a road to somewhere.” Her aunt took the rag and wiped the paint from Emily’s fingers. “You know, some of the most beautiful things I have seen in this life came from mistakes. God has a way of teaching us through our missteps. What looks like ruin to us might just be the beginning of something we never expected.”

Emily had heard her aunt speak this way before; always calm and certain that there was a plan behind every stumble.

“Come.” Aunt Hannah set the rag aside. “Sit with me.”

They moved to the narrow bench beneath the window. Outside, snow fell in thick flakes over the courtyard, and the younger children chased each other between the dormitory and the chapel, their laughter muffled by the glass.

Aunt Hannah reached into the pocket of her habit and pulled out a small wooden box, its surface worn smooth from years of handling.

“Happy birthday, my dear.”

Emily opened it carefully. Inside, resting on a square of white cloth, was Aunt Hannah’s Bible. She recognized it at once: the cracked leather spine, the faded gold lettering, the ribbon marker tucked somewhere deep in the Psalms. Her aunt carried it everywhere.

“I can’t take this,” Emily pushed the box back toward her. “This is yours.”

“Which is exactly why I want you to have it.” Aunt Hannah pushed the box gently into Emily’s hands. “Something to remember me by.”

“Remember you by?” A chill crept through Emily’s chest. “What do you mean?”

Her aunt’s expression softened, but there was a sadness in her eyes that Emily had never seen before.

“You are twenty-two years old, Emily. You can no longer stay at the orphanage. The diocese has rules, and I have stretched them as far as they will go.”

The words hit her like a slap. She stood, the box clutched against her chest.

“But I’ll become a nun. Like you. I’ll take my vows and stay right here. The children need me—”

“Emily.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere.” Emily stepped back from her. “Everything I need is right here.” Her voice caught on the next words before she pushed them out. “You’re here. The children are here.”

Aunt Hannah rose and placed her hands on Emily’s shoulders. Her grip was firm, but her fingers were trembling.

“You have your whole life ahead of you, child. God did not give you your talent so you could spend it inside these walls where only I can see it.”

Emily’s throat tightened. She could feel the floor shifting beneath her, the room she’d known her entire life suddenly feeling smaller than it ever had. “What are you asking me to do?”

“There is a school out West. A small one, dedicated to teaching women the art of painting. I have written to them, and they have agreed to take you on.” Her aunt smiled, though her chin trembled. “You will study under real teachers, Emily. You will learn things I could never show you, and you will see the world that God created for you, not just the piece of it you can see from that window.”

“But I’ve never been anywhere,” Emily whispered. “I don’t know anyone outside of these walls.”

“Which is exactly why you must go.” Aunt Hannah squeezed her shoulders. “You have never seen a mountain or a river that wasn’t in one of your paintings. That is my fault, and I won’t let it continue.”

Emily opened her mouth to argue, but the look in her aunt’s eyes stopped her. There was a sadness in them, deep and old, but beneath it was something harder. This had already been decided.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,” Aunt Hannah whispered, pressing a kiss to Emily’s forehead, “and lean not on your own understanding.”

Her aunt slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Emily stood alone in the silence. She looked down at the Bible in her hands, then up at the canvas on the easel. The orphanage she had painted was unrecognizable now, buried beneath that long, careless streak of blue.

A road to somewhere.

She pressed the Bible to her heart and stared at the ruined painting until the light faded from the window.

Chapter One

Frost Creek, Wyoming

Winter of 1880

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.

Ecclesiastes 4:9–10

Aaron had been punched in the jaw twice today, and he was in no mood for a birthday dinner.

He trudged through the snow on Main Street with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. The sun had already dropped behind the mountains, and the temperature was falling fast. His breath came out in white clouds that disappeared into the dark sky above him.

The fistfight at Mullen’s Pub had broken out just after noon; two ranch hands from the Danbury spread arguing over a card game. Aaron had stepped between them, caught an elbow to the chin from one and a wild hook from the other, and then dragged them both into his single jail cell to cool off. By the time he’d let them go with a warning, the left side of his face had started to swell, and his patience had worn down to nothing.

He should have gone home. He wanted to go home. A cold house with no one in it sounded just fine to him tonight.

But Charity wouldn’t hear of it.

“You are coming to dinner, Aaron,” she had told him that morning when she’d stopped by his office, pointing a finger at his chest. “It is your birthday, and I have been cooking since dawn. If you do not show up, I will come find you and will drag you there myself.”

Aaron didn’t doubt it. His older sister was five feet tall and could make a grown man cower with nothing but a look. He had seen her do it more than once.

So here he was, his jaw aching and his mood foul, climbing the three porch steps of Charity’s small white house at the end of Maple Lane. The smell hit him before he even reached the door: roasted chicken, fresh bread, and what he was fairly sure was apple pie. His stomach growled despite himself.

He knocked once and let himself in.

“There he is!” Richard called from the kitchen table, a cup of coffee already in his hand. He’d left his wife, Perry, at home with the baby, which meant he was here to cause trouble without a witness. Aaron’s brother’s blond hair was sticking up on one side like he’d just woken from a nap, and his blue eyes were bright with the kind of energy that always made Aaron suspicious. They had the same coloring, he and Richard; same jaw and eyes, but where Richard wore it loosely, like a coat he’d thrown on without looking, Aaron had always felt his sat differently on him; heavier, somehow. “The birthday boy himself, and only twenty minutes late. That might be a record!”

“I had work,” Aaron replied, hanging his coat on the hook by the door.

“You always have work,” Charity said, appearing from the kitchen with a platter of chicken. She was small, a full head shorter than either of her brothers, with the same blond hair pinned back from a face that looked like it had made a permanent decision to be in charge of something. Her husband, Bruce, was away on a supply run to Lander, which probably explained why she’d had all day to cook and scheme undisturbed. She set the platter down on the table, then turned to him and gasped. “What happened to your face?”

“Danbury hands.”

“Both of them?”

“At the same time.”

Charity clicked her tongue and disappeared back into the kitchen. She returned with a damp cloth and pressed it to his jaw before he could protest.

“I’m fine,” he said, pulling away.

“Hold still.” She pressed harder, and he winced. “You need to stop throwing yourself into every fight in this town.”

“That is my job, Charity.”

“Your job is to keep the peace, not to use your face as a shield.”

Richard snorted into his drink. Aaron shot him a look, but his brother only grinned wider.

“Sit down,” Charity ordered, finally releasing him. “Dinner is getting cold.”

Aaron sat. The table was set for three, with the good plates Charity only brought out for special occasions. A small vase of dried wildflowers sat in the center next to a basket of bread. It was more effort than he deserved for turning twenty-seven, but arguing with Charity about it would only make the evening longer.

Richard piled his plate high and started eating before anyone else had touched their food. Charity swatted his arm.

“Grace first,” she scolded.

Richard set his fork down with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Aaron, would you like to—”

“You go ahead.” Aaron set his fork down and looked at the table.

Charity folded her hands and bowed her head. Richard followed, and after a moment, Aaron did the same.

“Lord, we thank You for this food and for bringing us together tonight,” Charity began. “We thank You for another year with our brother, and we ask that You watch over him as he watches over this town.” She paused, and her voice dropped lower. “And we ask that You hold our mother close to You, Lord. Reunite her with our father, so they may know the peace they earned in this life.”

Aaron’s chest tightened. He kept his eyes shut and his jaw clenched until the feeling passed.

“Amen,” Charity finished softly.

“Amen,” Richard echoed.

Aaron said nothing. He picked up his fork and started eating.

The chicken was good. It always was. Charity had been cooking for the family since she was twelve years old, back when their mother’s hands had started to ache too much to hold a pot. Aaron remembered sitting at the kitchen table as a boy, watching his sister move between the stove and the counter with a confidence that seemed beyond her years. She had taken care of all of them, even when she had every reason not to.

He owed her more than he could ever repay. He owed both of them.

“So,” Richard said, leaning back in his chair, “are you going to ask about your gift, or are we just going to sit here and watch you eat in silence?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Aaron reached for another piece of bread.

Richard looked at Charity. She looked at Richard. Something passed between them, a look Aaron recognized. It was the same look they’d shared when they were children and had gotten into something they shouldn’t have.

“What did you two do?” Aaron asked, setting his fork down.

“Nothing bad,” Charity said quickly.

“We got you something,” Richard added.

“I assumed.”

“Something special,” Richard continued, his grin spreading. “Life-changing, even.”

Aaron looked between them. Richard was practically bouncing in his seat. Charity had her hands clasped in front of her, her lips pressed together like she was trying to hold something in.

Aaron pushed his plate aside. “Just give it to me,”

Charity reached behind her chair and produced a small wooden box. She placed it on the table in front of him and stepped back, her fingers laced tightly together. Richard leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

Aaron picked up the box. It was light, barely weighed anything at all. He lifted the lid.

Inside was a portrait, no bigger than his palm, of a young woman with brown hair and brown eyes. She wasn’t looking directly at whoever had painted her, but slightly to the side, as if something just out of frame had caught her attention. There was a softness to her face that made her look kind.

Aaron stared at it for a long moment.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“Her name is Emily Worth,” Charity said, her voice careful and measured, the way it always got when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn’t like. “She is twenty-two years old. She grew up in a convent orphanage in Riverton, and she is on her way here.”

Aaron looked up from the painting. “On her way here for what?”

Richard cleared his throat. “To marry you.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press the air out of the room. Aaron looked from Richard to Charity, waiting for one of them to laugh. Neither did.

“You arranged a marriage?” Aaron said slowly. “For me?”

“We arranged an introduction,” Charity corrected.

“That is not what he just said.”

“Aaron—”

He stood up so fast his chair scraped back against the wooden floor. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Will you just listen—” Charity started.

“I don’t need a wife, Charity. I don’t want a wife! I am doing just fine on my own!”

“No, you are not fine,” she shot back, stepping toward him. “You live alone. You eat alone and you come home to an empty house every night and you sit in the dark until you fall asleep. That is not fine, Aaron.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Everything!” Charity’s voice cracked, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. Richard reached for her arm, but she pulled away and steadied herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “Mama asked us to look after you. Before she died, she made us promise. I have watched you close yourself off for a year now, and I cannot do it anymore.”

Aaron’s throat burned. He looked down at the table, at the painting still sitting in its box. The woman’s brown eyes stared back at him, calm and unaware of the chaos she had just caused.

“You had no right,” he said, his voice low.

“We had every right,” Richard said, standing. “We’re your family, and that’s what family does.” Richard spread his hands. “Charity has Bruce. Perry has me. You have nobody, Aaron. That’s not stubbornness anymore, that’s just sad.”

Aaron grabbed his coat from the hook, shoved his arms into the sleeves, and pulled the door open.

“Aaron, please,” Charity called after him.

He stepped into the cold and shut the door behind him.

The wind had picked up, pushing snow sideways through the air, and Aaron had to duck his head to keep it out of his eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, his boots punching through the fresh powder on the road.

A wife.

They had found him a wife. As if he were some broken thing that needed fixing, that could be solved by putting a stranger in his house.

He gritted his teeth and walked faster. He would tell Charity first thing in the morning that this was not happening. He would write to this Emily Worth woman himself if he had to, and tell her not to bother coming. He would—

He stopped.

The portrait, he could still see it. The brown hair and the brown eyes, all the way she had been looking at something just beyond the frame. The softness in her face.

Aaron stood in the middle of the empty road with the snow coming down around him, furious with his sister and brother, and himself for the single thought he could not shake, no matter how hard he tried.

She was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Chapter Two

Frost Creek, Wyoming

Emily pressed her back against the hard wooden seat of the stagecoach and tried to keep her hands from shaking.

She had been traveling since just after dawn, four hours of rutted roads and freezing wind pushing through the gaps in the coach walls. The woman sitting across from her had fallen asleep somewhere around hour two, her head bobbing with each bump, and the older gentleman beside that woman had his hat pulled low over his eyes and hadn’t moved since they’d left Riverton.

Emily envied them. She couldn’t imagine sleeping right now. Her heart was beating too fast, and her stomach was wound so tight she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she’d be sick.

She had never been this far from the orphanage. At least, not once in twenty-two years. The furthest she had ever gone was the creek behind the convent property, where she would sometimes sit on the rocks and paint the wildflowers that grew along the bank in spring. That had felt like an adventure. This felt like falling.

The Bible her aunt had given her sat in her lap. She ran her thumb along the cracked leather spine and thought about opening it, but every time the coach hit a rut, the pages would have flipped on their own. Instead, she held it against her stomach and watched the landscape pass through the small, frost-edged window.

Wyoming in winter was flat, white, and endless, and made a person feel very small. The mountains rose in the distance like a wall, their peaks buried in clouds so thick and gray that Emily couldn’t tell where the rock ended and the sky began.

Somewhere out there was Frost Creek, where there was a school where she would learn to paint properly, surrounded by other women who understood the pull of a blank canvas.

Emily shifted the Bible in her lap and felt something press against her fingers. She opened the front cover and found a letter tucked between the first page and the leather binding. A folded piece of paper, sealed with a small dot of candle wax. On the front, in Aunt Hannah’s careful handwriting, were the words: Do not open this until you are settled in your room tonight.

Emily stared at it. Her aunt had never left her secret letters before. They lived in the same building and saw each other every day. If Aunt Hannah had something to say, she said it over breakfast or during evening prayers or while they walked the halls checking on the younger children before bed.

She turned the letter over in her fingers. The wax was still firm, unbroken, and it would be easy to open. Her aunt would never know.

But Aunt Hannah had asked her to wait, and Emily had spent her entire life trying not to disappoint the only person who had ever truly cared for her. She slipped the letter back between the pages and closed the Bible.

The coach lurched hard to the left, and Emily grabbed the edge of the window to steady herself. The sleeping woman across from her jolted awake with a gasp.

“Are we there?” the woman asked, blinking.

“Not yet,” Emily replied.

The woman squinted out the window, then pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and closed her eyes again. Emily wished she could do the same; just shut her eyes and wake up when it was over. When she was somewhere warm and safe and knew what was going to happen next.

But all she had was a town name and the promise of a school. She had pressed Aunt Hannah for more the morning she left; where would she live, who would she meet, would they be kind, but her aunt had answered each question with the same steady smile and the same steady words, “God will provide.”

Emily believed that, because there was no other option. It was the only thing keeping her on this coach instead of begging the driver to turn around.

The road smoothed out after another half hour, and the coach picked up speed. Emily watched the landscape shift from empty flatland to something with shape; fences lining the road, scattered buildings in the distance, smoke rising from chimneys. A wooden sign appeared on the side of the road, half-buried in snow, but she caught the words before they passed.

Frost Creek – 1 Mile.

Her stomach flipped.