Chapter One

Amelia Stone had never been one for daydreaming, not even as a child. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t see a point in it; there was no use in wishing one was elsewhere, no matter how bad things were. It seemed cruel in a way to construct a different life solely in her head that had no more substance than a spiderweb. It wouldn’t change the facts of her real life.

Even so, she found herself staring down into the water of the washtub, the blue sky and white cotton-batting clouds reflecting imperfectly in ripples. Her eyes were unfocused, and she could feel herself slipping away for just a moment, going somewhere that was anywhere else but here. Though only twenty years old, she felt world-weary already, her hands red from the lye soap.

“Amelia!” an angry voice barked from the front of the small, clapboard house that Amelia shared with her sister. There was no one else for miles, just them and an endless stretch of flat land that their father had won in a land claim. He’d entertained thoughts of being a farmer, but like so many of his schemes, his plans of being a landed gentleman had fallen through his fingers like water.

There were no neighbors, no one who would pay calls on them, just dust, dirt, and scant grass. Amelia knew precisely who it was, and the thought made her jaw tense. She straightened up, wiping her hands slowly on her threadbare apron, her eyes locked on the house. The house, small by any measure, seemed smaller, as it was the only thing that stood between Amelia and the interloper.

“Amelia Stone!” the voice called out again, an extra dose of vinegar in it.

Though she would have liked to say it was purely stubborn bravery on her part that kept her steps slow, the truth was that Amelia was weighed down just as much, if not more, by dread. Her legs were heavy, her feet turned to lead.

There was a commotion from the house—slamming doors, scuffling feet. Amelia halted, her jaw set. She knew it wouldn’t be long now.

At least Kate isn’t here to witness this, Amelia consoled herself. Her younger sister had trekked the few miles to a neighboring farm to enquire after work in the dairy, anything to keep them afloat through the looming winter. Poor little lamb, Amelia thought absently, Kate’s pale face swimming up in her imagination.

She had no more time to think about that, however, for suddenly a man was bursting through the back door of the house. He hesitated for a moment, scanning the scene in front of him, his arms held out from his sides, and his fists clenched. Though his wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, Amelia knew in an instant who it was.

He spotted Amelia and stalked toward her. She resisted the urge to fidget, refusing to cower or shrink back from him. She was suddenly extremely aware of her bare feet, her calico blouse so faded as to be nearly uniformly grey. The approaching man, by contrast, wore a shirt with a crisply starched stock and collar, a fine brocade weskit beneath his charcoal-brushed wool coat. His boots were polished to a high shine.

“Explain yourself,” he demanded without preamble the moment he reached her. His face was stony, carved into hard lines.

“It’s as I said Sunday last week,” Amelia replied, forcing her voice to be steady. “We’re ill-suited, and I’m certain it would only lead to misery for us to be married.”

“Do you believe for a moment that will suffice?” he answered, stepping even closer. His voice was tight, and she could see the muscles in his jaw clench just above his collar. “It’s bad enough that you reject me out of hand, but to return my letters, unopened?” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the stack of them, tossing them at Amelia’s feet. She winced in response.

“I didn’t see a point in drawing it out,” Amelia explained. Careful, now, she thought to herself, watching his nostrils flare.

If anyone else in their small frontier town had seen the way he was behaving, they wouldn’t have believed it. Dean Chase was a man of means, and he prided himself on his reputation for coolness. He never raised his voice in public, and he never allowed himself to become flustered. As he was wont to explain, as one of the foremost citizens of the county, it was his job to curtail untoward behavior wherever he saw it, criminal or otherwise.

“It was ill-mannered of you,” Dean said. He lowered his voice further, which was somehow worse than shouting. “You returned my ring!” he hissed.

“I… I thought it was the proper thing to do,” Amelia offered. “I thought it would be wrong to keep it, in light of our separation. At least, that’s what I read in—”

“There is no separation,” Dean replied, his face and his tone closed off with finality. “It’s been decided and announced already.”

“Dean, surely you cannot want to marry a girl like me,” Amelia sighed, trying to appeal to his vanity.

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” Amelia hedged, glancing around at their surroundings significantly. “I’m the poor daughter of a poor farmer. Surely someone of your standing would be better suited by someone more… genteel.”

“No,” Dean said. “I decided on you. I have no desire for ugly or stupid children, and I am reasonably confident that they will be handsome with you as their mother.”

Amelia blinked up at him, unsure of what to say to that statement.

“Now, if you are done with all this foolishness, then you’ll be coming along with me,” Dean continued. Faster than she would have credited him for, he reached out and snatched her up by her left wrist.

She balked instinctually, digging her heels into the ground. “Now, wait just a minute here!” she protested. Her bare feet scrabbled along the sparse grass as she tried to find purchase.

“This is what is going to happen,” Dean continued, dragging her along as if she hadn’t said anything at all. “You are going to come live with me until we are wed. Clearly, you need educating on the way of things. We are going to be married, and you will know your place.”

“My place?” Amelia repeated, bristling. She grabbed at Dean’s fingers with her free hand, trying to pry them off her wrist. “I don’t need anyone to tell me my place, least of all—”

“Amelia?”

Amelia’s head whipped around. Standing just outside the back door of the unpainted house stood a woman with the same dark hair that shaded to auburn in the summer as Amelia’s. Amelia stilled and felt her skin come over cold as she caught sight of her younger sister. They shared the same hazel eyes, too, though her sister’s looked larger on her face because her face was thinner.

“Kate, go back inside,” Amelia said, wishing her voice didn’t tremble. Whatever trouble she had gotten herself into, she didn’t want to involve her sister. Though only two years younger, Amelia sported a protective streak that ran deep.

Kate, her eyes shifting warily from Dean to Amelia and back again, bit her lip and stepped closer. Her sleeves were rolled up, and like Amelia, her feet were bare. “I… I didn’t know we were expecting you, Mr. Chase,” she said in a thin voice.

“You heard your sister,” Dean replied, his voice low but with a razor’s edge. “You get back in that house and mind yourself.”

Amelia saw Kate’s eyes glance back and forth again. Her face, perennially pale, looked even paler and thinner than usual. “No,” she said softly, stepping forward so that she was next to Amelia. She laced cold fingers into Amelia’s free hand, which had dropped back to her side, and Amelia was glad of the comfort.

“So,” Dean said, straightening. “It seems this whole family is in need of a hard lesson. That’s fine—I’ve broken plenty of willful horses; a pair of silly girls will be no trouble at all.” He locked eyes with Amelia and drew back his free hand, clad in a black leather riding glove.

Amelia braced herself, her eyes blazing, fairly daring him to strike her. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to do if he followed through on this threat, but at that instant, she felt as if she could eat him alive, spurs and all. She bared her teeth at him, a defiant grimace.

They stared at one another for a moment, and then his hand was flying through the air. It struck with a sound like a whipcrack, the back of his hand colliding against her cheek. Amelia stared for a split second longer, not understanding what had happened. Beside her, Kate crumpled suddenly, a small sound of distress escaping her as she clutched at her face.

“Kate!” Amelia cried. She bent to check on her, but Dean’s grip on her arm prevented her.

He hauled her closer, so close that she could feel him breathing, his chest rising and falling. “Now, see what you made me do?” he asked calmly as if discussing the weather. “Do you really think I haven’t taken the time to consider what exact methods would bring you to heel? Oh yes,” he continued, lifting his chin proudly, “I knew that you were willful, and that would need to be curtailed and corrected. I doubt that I could ever force you into behaving, though I would mightily like to try. No, your weakness is something else—or should I say, someone else?”

Amelia stared back at Dean. How could you ever have fancied this man? she wondered, in disbelief. The worst part is that he was right: She could have, would have, endured anything he could possibly do to her. Her sister, however, was another matter entirely.

“I believe we have an understanding now, yes?” Dean asked. When Amelia didn’t answer immediately, he shook her hard once by the arm he still gripped. “Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Amelia answered, trying to moderate her voice.

“Good. Now, I don’t expect any further hysterics. Let’s go,” he said, and turned to make for the house again.

“Wait,” Amelia said, pulling back again, but more gently this time. Her mind raced as she tried to think of ways to delay or waylay him entirely. She was keenly aware that if she went into his house, there was a distinct possibility that she would never leave it again. “Wait,” she repeated, more gently this time. “Give me a moment to pack things, yes? And to tend to Kate. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be seen with her in this state,” Amelia said, nodding down toward Kate.

Kate, for her part, blinked up at Amelia. She was still clutching her face, her large hazel eyes wet with tears, and her lip red with blood.

“I’d hate for someone to see and—and to misunderstand,” Amelia continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know how people talk.” Hating herself and yet oddly proud, Amelia angled her body so that she was nearly leaning into Dean now instead of resisting him. “Give us a little time to prepare so that we might arrive at your house in a more presentable manner. I wouldn’t want us to embarrass you.” Amelia looked down at herself, running her hand over her old apron and wiggling her bare feet for good measure.

She could see Dean considering, his cool eyes narrowing. Amelia stayed silent, willing her face to betray nothing. Dean hummed his assent, releasing her. “Very well,” he allowed graciously. “I’ll give you a couple of hours to prepare yourselves.” He reached into the watch pocket of his weskit and consulted a silver timepiece. “You’ve got until four o’clock,” he said. “Be ready—if I have to wait on you, you shan’t like the consequences.”

“We’ll be packed and ready,” Amelia answered. Dean peered at her again as if trying to discern a lie, but could find none, for she had responded with a pure heart. They would be packed by the aforementioned time.

Dean nodded, glanced down at Kate, and departed. Amelia didn’t move until she heard him leave in his high-flyer. She could see him whip up his horses, leaving a cloud of dust behind them on the dry dirt road. The very second that she was confident that he was gone, she bent down and gently lifted Kate by her elbow.

“Are you alright?” she inquired, peering into Kate’s face. Kate nodded, her eyes closing briefly as Amelia gently dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her apron. “What were you thinking?” she admonished lightly. Now that the immediate danger was passed, fear gripped her, twisting her up inside.

“You’re my sister,” Kate answered simply. “You’re the only one I’ve got.”

Amelia absorbed that for a moment. She wasn’t sure whether Kate meant she was her only sister or the only person in her life. Both are true, Amelia lamented inwardly. She looked Kate over again, guilt and shame coloring her heart as much as fear. Her younger sister was always just a little too thin, a little too pale, a little too tired. For as long as Amelia could remember, she’d always been afraid that Kate would get hurt somehow and had treated her as gently as a butterfly.

Maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment, Amelia allowed. Though it must have stung terribly, Kate didn’t flinch or wince as Amelia tended to her. She merely watched Amelia with her round eyes.

“What are we going to do now?” Kate asked, finally. “And don’t tell me that you are thinking of going to that awful man’s house, because I know better.”

Amelia gently held Kate’s chin in her fingers, turning her face to catch the light better. “We should get some vinegar on that when we can,” Amelia said, hoping that Kate wouldn’t notice how she avoided the question.

“Amelia,” Kate said gravely, catching her hand. “You cannot be serious.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Amelia answered softly. She folded Kate’s hand between her own.

“I’m not made of glass,” Kate said, her dark brows furrowing together slightly. “I’m not going to break.”

Silence passed between them in which they stared at one another. The only sounds were the cawing of a distant bird and the rising hum of insects in the heat of the day, slowly descending.

“Alright,” Amelia said, nodding. “This is what I think: We sell Grandma’s silver spoons, the ones Pa hid under the floorboard,” she said, her plan formulating from half-hoped dreams she hadn’t ever dared to speak aloud before. “We get train tickets to somewhere else.”

“Where?” Kate asked, her hand tightening on Amelia’s.

“Anywhere,” Amelia answered. “Whichever train leaves first, that’s the one we take.”

“And then what?” Kate’s face was dubious, or maybe it was just her swollen lip pulling the corner of her mouth down. “Dean will just come after us—he has the means.”

“We’ll keep moving,” Amelia said. She released Kate and began to pace. “We’ll pack light. You know how Pa always told us those stories about the Indians on the plains?” Kate nodded slowly, her brow still beetled. “We’ll be like them: never in one place for too long, always a step ahead. Who knows, with enough distance, we might be able to lose Dean entirely. We could be brand-new people.”

“We could?”

“Yes,” Amelia said, forcing a bright tone. “We could be post girls, or singers on the stage.”

“You can’t carry a tune,” Kate said flatly, which prompted a dour look from Amelia.

“We’ll make our way,” Amelia said. “We’ll have each other, that’s what matters.” She took Kate’s hands again, pressing them emphatically.

Kate didn’t answer immediately. She turned to look at the old house, the boards faded to grey from rain and sun in equal measure. There were no glass windows, merely oiled canvas, as they hadn’t had the money for real glass. Their father had put the house together, hoping for gold on the sad little stream that meandered through the back of the property. Like the wooden boards, those dreams had also faded to grey nothingness.

“What about Mama?” Kate asked at last. Her gaze lingered on a little cross far behind the house, out past the creek, barely visible from where they stood. It was beneath a dead tree, the twisted branches providing the only shade.

“We’ll take her memory with us. She’d understand,” Amelia said with authority. Kate would have to take her word for it.

“Alright,” Kate relented. “You go pack, and I’ll go see if Old Jackson will give us a ride into town.”

Impulsively, Amelia hugged Kate to her. Even through her corset and layers of clothing, she could feel how thin Kate was. Guilt galvanized her, spurring her into action. She released Kate and turned to the house, not even bothering to finish the laundry. Impulsively, she stopped, turned around, and gave the rusted metal washtub a shove. It topped over, dingy, sudsy water cascading over the ground.

There, Amelia thought, tossing her head. Let us vanish like water under the sun, too.

Chapter Two

“Lace,” Arthur Ridge, the foreman, announced with authority.

Cody Walker, father, rancher, and widower, blinked at the abrupt statement. He’d been busy inspecting the bottom of his riding horse’s hoof, trying to ascertain if there was a stone bruise. He’d been completely absorbed, murmuring to the horse to keep him still as he cradled the hoof in his hand.

Gently, he set the hoof back on the ground and straightened up, groaning slightly at the pull in his back. “What?” he asked, not comprehending.

Arthur leaned against the wide stable doorway, one foot crossed over the other, and nodded sagely. “We need a bit of lace around here,” he said, nodding slowly.

Cody pulled his grey hat from his head, swiping at his damp forehead. “Either you’ve spent too long in the sun, or I have, because you’re not making a lick of sense.”

Arthur jerked his chin in the direction of the ranch, following it up with a general wave to encompass everything. “All of that out there, too masculine. We need a bit of feminine gentility,” he said.

Cody rolled his eyes and picked up his horse’s hoof again. He reached for a hoof pick and began gently probing the soft underside of the hoof. “You could be on an island of Amazons and complain that there’s not enough women.”

“Like as not,” Arthur agreed, and Cody could hear the smile in his voice. He rolled his eyes again, knowing full well that Arthur couldn’t see him. “Are you honestly telling me that the scenery around here wouldn’t be improved with a few lacy petticoats swanning around?” Arthur demanded.

Cody sighed and set the hoof down again. The horse hadn’t shown any tenderness, which meant that the lameness that had seemingly sprung up from nowhere was in the leg. He could feel Arthur staring at him expectantly, waiting for a reply. Cody declined to give him the satisfaction, instead patting the stud horse on the flank and running his hands down the leg.

“Okay, how about just the one?” Arthur asked.

“You’re a good boy,” Cody murmured, slowly crouching. His horse flinched when he got to the hock, pinning his ears back and lashing his tail. Cody frowned and probed at the joint again; it was just a bit warm to the touch. “Easy, Bucky,” he said soothingly, standing slowly.

“Really? Not even one?” Arthur said, straightening. Cody glanced at him from the corner of his eye and saw something in his expression change. Instead of bemusement, he looked thoughtful, maybe even concerned.

Cody heaved another sigh and turned to face Arthur fully. “I wish you’d put the same scrutiny into helping me figure out what’s wrong with Bucky as you do in my private life,” he snapped.

Immediately, Arthur dropped his act and stepped forward, squinting seriously at the horse, which regarded him with large brown eyes. Arthur bent to touch the suspect joint, then lifted the lower leg and rotated it a few times before gently settling it again.

“Well?” Cody demanded. He hated to admit it, but Arthur knew horseflesh better than himself. It was one of the reasons that Cody kept him on as foreman, his propensity for flirtations and terrible jokes notwithstanding.

“I don’t see any sign of injury,” Arthur said, stepping back and jamming his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. “I think he’s just getting to that age.”

Cody grunted in agreement. “He’s been a hard worker.”

“Still, you could put him out to pasture with some of the mares. I think he’s still young enough for that,” Arthur continued. He slid a sidelong glance at Cody. “If you leave him too long, he’ll be too old and creaky.”

Cody ignored the jibe. Arthur, for all of his faults, had taken on the role of gently prodding Cody to engage more with life. Cody had no interest in this and resolutely ignored Arthur, which had the added benefit of driving Arthur to distraction.

He stood back and studied Bucky. He was a grullo with clear Spanish heritage somewhere in his bloodline, with a proudly arched neck and sharp little ears. He’d do well as a stud, and the ranch would benefit from some well-boned riding horses to sell. It was a sound plan, and a fine retirement for a horse that had served so well.

Even so, Cody had a strange, prickling feeling in his throat when he considered it. It came with the realization that time was passing far faster than he’d accounted for. Bucky had been with him since he was a restless boy.

“Well,” he said at last, untying one of the ropes that held Bucky in place by his halter, “I suppose it’s time we start looking for a replacement.” He put his hand on Bucky’s neck for a moment, absently smoothing the fur. He shook himself, cleared his throat, released the other tie, and took Bucky by the halter, slipping a lead rope onto him.

There wasn’t room for sentimentality on a ranch, not even for faithful companions. Cody’s father had drilled that into him from the moment he was old enough to understand. Cody set his jaw and led Bucky resolutely out to a small corral. He’d take him up to the high pasture and turn him loose… but not just yet. He slid the halter from Bucky’s head and closed the gate behind him, latching it with a piece of rope.

Arthur followed along behind them, stopping a few paces away and squinting out at the herd of red-brown cattle that milled about in a nearby pen. The ranch hands were busy sorting them out, branding the calves that they’d keep. They’d be taken out to graze on the range for the summer, getting fat on tall prairie grass.

“Good herd this year,” Arthur commented as Cody came to stand by him.

“Seems so,” Cody agreed. Secretly, he was immensely proud of the work they’d managed over the past year. The ranch was on secure footing, and workers lined up to be on the payroll.

“Heard some troubling things from back east, though,” Arthur continued.

“That business with that fella buying up the ranches? I don’t countenance it much,” Cody said, slinging the halter and lead rope over his shoulder. “Just some high-hat dude playing at cowboy.”

Arthur shrugged and bent to snap off a piece of grass and stuck it between his teeth. “Maybe so,” he said, “but can’t argue with the fences going up on the range.”

Cody hummed an agreement. It seemed every year that the range was shrinking, cut into slices by barbed wire.

“Well,” Arthur said, twisting the piece of grass and biting down on it again, “I suppose we’ll find out one way or another.”

“Yup,” Cody agreed. He started to walk away and stopped. “I don’t… I don’t think I’ll be taking another wife.”

Evidently surprised by the sudden change in direction, Arthur turned to Cody, his blond brows arched. “You don’t? I mean, haven’t you even thought of it?”

Cody shook his head. “No. It’s just not for me. Too old for all… that,” he said with a vague gesture.

Arthur inclined his head. “I see. Well, all the more ladies for me, then,” he said, flashing Cody a mischievous grin.

Cody rolled his eyes and passed the halter and lead rope to Arthur. “I’d best be getting back on up to the house. Logan’s been underfoot lately, and Ruby’s threatened to quit the ranch entirely on his account.”

Arthur chuckled and shook his head before raising a hand in farewell to Cody.

The house wasn’t far from the stockyard at the ranch, perched on a slight incline so that it overlooked proceedings. The house was simple but sturdy, with shutters painted green and a broad porch that wrapped around the front and one side of the house. It was large enough that on hot nights, they’d drag their mattresses out there and soak up whatever breezes they could. It was a fine refuge from the world…

…or at least, it used to be.

Even before Cody entered the house, he could hear raised voices. He paused just outside the door, catching only snatches of the conversation as the words drifted intermittently out of the open windows.

“…the last time I’m going to be scrubbing this floor… You come galloping through!” Ruby, his daughter, proclaimed.

“Mr. Carter… woman’s work!” Logan shouted back triumphantly. Cody winced—he knew that was absolutely the wrong tactic to take.

Right on cue, there was the sound of feet pounding over the raised wooden floor, and Cody heard Logan squeal. He stepped back just in time, and the front door was flung open as eight-year-old Logan burst through in the guise of a cannonball. Before he could make good his escape, Cody reached out and snagged the boy by the collar and yanked him backward, making his arms windmill.

“Oh, hi, Pa,” the boy said, a slow smile creeping up on his face. Cody stared back at him with dark brown eyes that matched his boy’s, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed in disapproval.

“Get back here, you little—” Ruby said, skidding around the corner that led to the kitchen and dining room, brandishing a wooden spoon like a cudgel. She pulled up hastily when she saw her father. “Oh! Pa, when did you get here?”

“Just in time to see you two behaving like heathens,” Cody rumbled. He pulled Logan back to the doorway and nudged him back indoors. “What are you two thinking, carrying on like this?”