Prologue

Sagebrush Hollow, Wyoming

March 1877

Seth Donovan stood in the open field as wind moved across it as if it had just blown out a cold breath. The air whipped the weeds in a wave like he was standing in the middle of the ocean. He looked out beyond the ranch to the foothills of the Absaroka Range.

This was his little slice of paradise in Sagebrush Hollow, Wyoming.

The ridges above still held streaks of late snow, where spring had not fully won.

Not like down here. Here, the wildflowers were starting to bloom. The days were getting longer and warmer by the week. And today, looking out at his beautiful land, he knew one thing was true: It was all the finest sight Seth Donovan had ever seen.

Not because the ranch was grand. It wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

But every single one of the boards that had been set, every fence rail put up, every corral post—it was all his own sweat.

He’d worked for years for this land, and to build it up the way he’d always dreamed.

Even as a boy, he’d worked the land, dreaming of the day he would have a ranch to call his own. Ranching was in his blood. Horses were in his blood. His father had trained horses for other men his whole life, and Seth had spent enough years cleaning stalls and sleeping in drafty bunkhouses to get to where he was now.

And this patch was only the beginning. Eventually, this ranch would be grander than anything anyone had ever seen.

He hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked at the man beside him. Nick Gunter, the man Seth had hired to build his new ranch expansion, was a large man with thick arms and thick legs. Strong as a mule.

And one heck of a worker.

Seth pointed to the stretch just beyond his barn. “The new stable needs to go there. But if we build too near the creek, spring thaw’ll turn the whole place into a bog.”

Gunter scratched his jaw and squinted across the field. “That means hauling timber farther.”

“Then haul it farther,” Seth drawled.

The man gave him an amused look. “Easy for you to say.”

“You’re right—it is easy for me to say,” Seth replied, “because I’m paying for it. And if I was gettin’ what you’re gettin’, I’d be happy to do it.”

That earned him a snort.

“I want another corral set farther back, with enough room to work younger stock separate from trained geldings. I’m not riskin’ another foolish hand getting kicked in the head because he can’t tell a green colt from a seasoned mount.”

Gunter grunted and spat into the dirt. “That’s a whole lot of fence.”

Seth’s lips twitched. “It is,” he agreed.

He started walking, and Gunter followed with the rolled plans tucked beneath one arm. Seth’s stride was long and confident, born from many years spent outdoors and on horseback. He crossed the yard toward the existing barn, the leather of his gun belt shifting against his hip, his boots pounding the dirt mercilessly, and his hat brim casting away the sun as it bit down. With the wind and the sun dimmed, it felt nice outside.

And it’ll be even nicer when this is all finally done.

A pair of horses lifted their heads as he passed the corral fence. Their ears twitched, and one of them whinnied. Wanting a snack, Seth was certain. At the nearest mare’s excited nicker, he laughed softly, reaching up and running a hand along her neck.

“Once that stable’s up,” he said over his shoulder, “I can start taking in better breeding stock. No more scraping by on local trade. I want buyers coming from Cody and Red Lodge—from as far as Billings, even, if they’ve got sense to know a good horse when they see it.”

Gunter shook his head, pinching his chin. “You’re thinkin’ real big here.”

Seth flashed him a smug grin. “That’s because thinking small don’t get a man anywhere.”

That was one of the truest things he’d ever known. He’d spent half his life thinking ahead. First, with his father, then with his brother, Henry. They had grand plans to take over Wyoming—and before long, the whole doggone West.

Seth and Henry had talked for years about making something that would matter, building up the Donovan name in a way no one could ever overlook. Expanding this ranch was about more than just training horses or scraping enough together to get by. Seth was determined never to find himself living one horse sale at a time.

A real ranch. A growing one. Multiple ranches, if he could manage it.

Seth stopped beside the barn and turned back to look at the house. From a distance, the cabin wasn’t much to look at, but it was his. Plain, perhaps, but solidly built, with a roof that had held through every winter. The porch only needed one board replaced, which he planned to fix the next day. All in all, his little piece of heaven was sturdy, solid, and beautiful.

But it would be much, much more—and though Seth wasn’t one for celebration, he had to admit that it did excite him.

He looked off beside the house, where the wagon shed leaned slightly with age, sitting near a chicken coop and a stone well. Beyond them, a rough-fenced garden of herbs and vegetables stretched out in uneven rows, the fencing worn but still holding its shape.

By summer, if Gunter and his crew started on time, the place would look a whole lot different. In addition to the new stable and expanded fencing, there would also be an expansion on the house, a bigger shed, bigger coop, and a nice hand pump on the well. And an even larger garden.

Gunter clutched his papers. “I reckon I got enough to go on,” he said. “We’ll come by in a couple of weeks to get started. Just need to gather the lumber.”

***

Seth shut the front door and made for his bedroom. After closing himself inside, he crossed to his desk in the far corner of the room and opened the top drawer, where a folded newspaper sat on top of his lockbox. He pulled out the desk chair, took the box, and opened it.

Money never looked like enough once a man laid it all out in front of himself.

But it was.

This was seed money. The start of something big.

He smiled, satisfaction rolling over him. Years of savings scraped together. Lean winters, lame horses, buyers who tried to haggle him down like some fool—it was all for this.

It was enough to get started and, eventually, get further than most men dreamed.

He stacked the bills and dumped out the coins, counted them up once more, then closed the lid, smirking. Then, his eyes drifted to the newspaper laying beside the box.

He’d been writing an advertisement for that very paper. He hadn’t quite figured out the words yet, though. It was turning out to be a lot harder than he thought it would be. He’d nearly laughed when he wrote the first draft—it sounded too polished, too formal—but he supposed that was the point.

Successful rancher seeks a refined and attractive young lady of good character for marriage…

Attractive. Charming. Graceful. Those had been the words he’d gone through when selecting the right ones for the ad. He’d been sure to use all the words the women in town said they liked to hear, but admittedly, he’d hated himself while writing them.

They seemed strange coming from him.

Then again, if a man intended to marry, he might as well be honest about what he wanted: a pretty woman who would keep a home worth coming back to. By Seth’s reckoning, he’d worked hard enough to earn that much.

More than that, though, he was tired of coming back to an empty house, eating at odd hours, and doing everything himself. He may not be sure of the exact wording for his ad, but he knew what he was, at least: a man with a thriving ranch, a strong future, and enough confidence to offer a woman a respectable life.

He truly wanted nothing more than a woman with some grace about her. Someone charming, someone who might make this place feel a little less… rough.

He appreciated his ranch hands, but their crass words and dirty habits didn’t exactly make for polite company. A woman would make the place feel so much more appealing. Once he added on to the house and filled it with a beautiful woman’s laughter, what could stop him? He would have everything.

As a low roll of thunder moved over the mountains, Seth glanced out the window before pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. He’d just bent to write when a sharp rap rattled the front door. Not a polite knock, which might be suggestive of a neighbor’s easy rap. This was urgent, nearly desperate pounding.

Seth shoved back his chair, the leg scraping roughly across the floor as another blow rocked the door.

He left his room and found his way down the hall into the main area of the cabin. Glancing through the window, he saw Deputy Eli Brannigan standing on his porch. Water droplets beaded the brim of the man’s hat; Seth hadn’t even noticed that it had begun to rain, a torrent of water crashing down in cold, slanting sheets.

Panic rose in Seth’s chest, and he flung the door open.

Brannigan’s horse stood in the yard, sides heaving, and judging by that and Bennigan’s face, he’d ridden hard to get here. His face was flushed blood red, and his breath came out in quick bursts. His eyes were wide, lips shaking.

Something’s wrong—very wrong.

“What happened?” Seth demanded, pushing the storm door open.

Chest quaking, Brannigan struggled to catch his breath. “It’s Henry,” he choked out.

Seth’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What about him?”

Brannigan swallowed. “His horse showed up without him. He ain’t at the house, and his young’uns say they ain’t seen him since yesterday.”

Reality hit like a slap across Seth’s face. “When did Shooter come back?”

“Maybe an hour ago. Maggie saw the gelding tear into the yard all lathered up and bleeding at the flank.”

Maggie was Henry’s neighbor, a plain woman but kind as kind could be. She often babysat the children while Henry was away.

“The kids said the house was a mess when they got back from Maggie’s yesterday…” Brannigan kept talking, but Seth was barely listening. Not because it wasn’t important, but because he needed to get saddled up. If his brother was missing, Seth was going to find him.

Quickly, Seth snatched his hat from the peg inside the door, along with his rifle from the wall, then stormed out into the rain. Water hit his face, so cold it felt like a thousand sharp blades slicing into his flesh. But he just kept running, the water stinging harder with every step.

“Did you follow the horse’s tracks?” he snapped over his shoulder.

“Not a lot of good in it. Storm’s makin’ a mess of the ground.”

Seth sneered. “Then I guess we better get to ridin’ before it washes everything away!”

***

The road to Henry’s bent through low land and climbed past scattered cottonwoods and a shallow draw where spring runoff gathered. Seth had ridden it a thousand times, in sun and snow alike. This time, however, it felt different.

Tonight, he wasn’t heading to the house; he was following the trail that Shooter, Henry’s horse, had left, hoping the gelding’s tracks would lead him to his brother.

Rain lashed his face mercilessly while lightning flashed in the western sky, blinding him momentarily, and thunder rolled close behind. Even after his eyes had cleared, the whole world had become a blur.

Can’t see a blasted thing.

Brannigan had been right. Tracking was going to be impossible in this weather. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to think. Brannigan had mentioned something the kids said—something about the house being a mess?

I need to see the house.

***

By the time they reached Henry’s spread, other men were already there, their lanterns nearly obscured by the downpour. The little white house stood with its front door hanging crookedly open.

Seth hit the ground before Ajax, his glossy black stallion, had come to a full stop. He took two long strides to the porch, hopping over the steps entirely, throwing the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall with a loud thwack.

“Henry!” Seth shouted desperately, then stopped in his tracks, gaping.

The place looked worse than just a mess.

Drawers had been yanked completely out of their frames, their contents dumped unceremoniously. A chair in the sitting room was overturned. Cupboards flung open, shards of ceramic scattered across the floor. A dark pool of oil sat beneath the shattered remnants of a lamp, spreading slowly over slick floorboards.

And everywhere, amid the destruction, were muddy footprints—at least five or six sets worth.

Moving further into the house, toward the bedrooms, Seth called for his brother again.

No answer.

“Where are the kids?” he asked over his shoulder, not caring who answered.

“At Maggie’s.”

Seth turned to see the sheriff, who had apparently followed him inside. “She don’t know anything?”

“Only that Shooter turned up riderless. Henry was later’n usual getting back, but she just assumed he got caught up with you, getting horses from a neighboring territory or some such.” Still panting, Brannigan planted his hands on his hips and leaned forward before continuing. “Wouldn’t be the first time. It wasn’t until she saw the horse that she sent her husband out to look for him.”

“We found something!” someone yelled from behind the house.

Seth whirled around and ran out, using the lantern light as a guide through the storm.

Tracks were puddling with water, most too deteriorated to get anything useful from, but there were a lot—too many. Boots, hooves, and long furrows Seth could only guess had been formed by something heavy being dragged across the ground.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Follow ’em!” Seth yelled over the rain.

They moved quickly, catching sporadic glimpses of partially intact hoof prints that led to a rise beyond the house. When Seth, Brannigan, and a few others climbed up the rise, though, they found nothing except for a scrap of cloth snagged on a thorn branch next to a wild scatter of misshapen puddles that had likely once been boot prints.

Seth recognized the fabric as being from Henry’s coat. Carefully, he moved to a boulder near the puddles, its craggy surface stained with red, and crouched, touching the rock.

“Whoever was here must be hurt in a real bad way,” Brannigan said.

“Might’ve been out huntin’,” Seth said, trying to convince himself the words were true. “For all we know, this could be from a deer.”

“Look here…”

Seth’s attention shifted to the man who’d spoken, then to his shaky, outstretched finger. As he looked in the direction the man indicated, his heart sank.

There, half-buried in the mud, was Henry’s hat.

There wasn’t a body, though. Nothing but a bloodstained boulder and a muddy hat.

Henry was just… missing.

***

When Seth got back to Henry’s house, he saw a few women gathered on the porch, whispering about the children like nosy women did. He knew the townsfolk meant well; they were all here to join the search party, but he felt the blood drain from him when a man’s voice interjected.

“There’s an orphanage in Cody. A woman at my church said she could arrange it‍—‍”

Seth’s brows furrowed as he stomped onto the porch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brannigan’s wife stepped forward from the group of whispering women. “It doesn’t have to be permanent, just a temporary solution until proper arrangements can be—”

“Not a chance,” Seth growled, then spun around and stormed across the grass to Maggie’s house.

Just as he reached the porch, the door flew open, and Maggie appeared, as though she’d been watching for him the entire time.

“The kids here?”

Maggie nodded and stepped aside. Seth took his hat off and moved to step inside, but halted suddenly.

“Sorry, I’m awfully wet‍—‍” He choked as he caught sight of all three kids huddled together, right in front of the fireplace, emotion tearing through his chest.

They look just like him…

Billy, the oldest at eleven years old, sat stiff-backed as if trying to hide his fear, though he looked to be on the verge of tears. He was stout with brown hair, a strong boy in every sense of the word. Seth watched the boy’s jaw flex, the angles of his face sharpening as he grew closer to being a young man.

Seth swallowed, his eyes moving to nine-year-old Millie, the middle child and only girl. She clutched a red-haired rag doll by one limp arm and sat right next to Billy, her back against his arm. Her long hair, almost identical in color to her older brother’s, had been pulled back in a single braid, though it was frazzled on top.

Little Tom, the youngest, sat off by himself, tears falling down his cheeks freely. The five-year-old looked exhausted, his blond hair standing on end like he’d been running his fingers through it.

Sadness almost swallowed Seth whole. These children were his brother’s entire world. He couldn’t let them go to an orphanage, temporarily or otherwise.

They’re my kin. My blood.

“Come on, then,” he said gruffly.

They stood and followed him back to their empty, ransacked home. Ignoring the neighbors who still loitered, watching them, Seth focused on the children, doing his best to speak gently.

“Gather up some of your things. Whatever you can carry.”

They didn’t move at first, just stared with wide eyes, like they weren’t sure they’d heard right.

“You’re stayin’ with me,” Seth added as patiently as he could manage, “’til your pa comes home.”

Seth watched his niece and nephews walk inside their ravaged house, then turned to address the neighbors gathered on the porch. “They ain’t being sent anywhere.”

Brannigan cleared his throat. “Donovan, you ought to think practical‍—‍”

“I am thinking practical,” Seth snapped. “I got the room. Those young’uns already lost their ma. Now, their pa is missing, and I’ll be danged if I’m goin’ to abandon them!”

“It’s just…” Brannigan trailed off, then tried again. “It’s a great deal to take on.”

Seth let out a humorless laugh. “You think I don’t know that?”

Sighing heavily, he dragged a hand down his face. He knew his cabin was too small, and he had no earthly idea how to provide for children. He worked from before dawn until dark and had barely mastered feeding himself regular meals. The money sitting in his lockbox sure as hell wouldn’t last long with three frightened children to clothe and feed.

Seth knew all these things, and he’d likely learn more along the way.

And not a bit of it mattered.

“We’re family,” he said, “and that’s the end of it.”

Chapter One

Hannibal, Missouri

April 1877

Caroline Whitaker stood at the front of the small schoolroom with an open book in both hands, sunlight streaming in through the window to warm her cheek. The room smelled of chalk dust and fresh pine. She loved the scent of a new school, freshly built.

Outside the tall windows, the town of Hannibal went about its day. Wagons rattled so close to the school that the pristine windowpanes shook. The blacksmith’s hammer clanked against metal. People greeted each other in the street.

Inside, however, the classroom was quiet. Twenty-one students sat in wooden desks facing her, their attention held by the novel in her hands.

Caroline adjusted the small pair of glasses at the tip of her nose and looked down at the page.

“‘She is tolerable,’” she read carefully, “‘but not handsome enough to tempt me.’”

A ripple of giggles passed through the older girls as she continued, and Caroline felt warmth creep up her neck as she continued.

“‘I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.’”

With that, Caroline paused and closed the book gently, savoring the passage. Something about it felt painfully honest; pride and wounded feelings had a way of shaping people’s lives in very important ways.

“All right,” she said, setting the copy of Pride and Prejudice on the desk beside her. “Who can tell me why Elizabeth Bennet was offended by Mr. Darcy’s remark?”

Several hands shot into the air.

“Because he insulted her!” one girl blurted without waiting to be called upon.

“Very good, Sarah,” Caroline said with a smile. “And what does Elizabeth do when she hears this?” She looked around, then pointed at a boy toward the back of the room. “Yes, Tommy?”

“She gets mad.”

“That’s right,” Caroline said, nodding. “And after that?”

Before anyone could answer, the small brass bell mounted beside the door rang sharply. One of the boys had rushed over to give it an enthusiastic shake.

“All right, books away!”

Instantly, the room exploded with noise. The students scrambled to gather up their things. Slates were stacked, pencils tucked away, and chairs scraped loudly across the floorboards.

“Don’t forget your assignments!” Caroline called as her students began to rush out the door. Within moments, the schoolhouse emptied in a flood of noisy children, and silence fell over the room.

Caroline moved in between desks, tidying them up, picking up abandoned papers children had left behind, and stacking them on her desk.

Teaching was not an easy profession for anyone. Some days were harder than others, though, days when children grated on her every nerve—but most days were all right. In fact, the good days made every single headache worth it.

For her part, Caroline felt blessed to be shaping young minds. With her whole heart, she loved being a teacher, and she loved the children themselves. Here, in the classroom, she could forget the rest of the world for a little while each day. She was happy, despite the difficulties that had plagued her over the past year, both personal and professional.

In fact, Caroline mused, teaching might be the thing that got me through it all.

She was placing books back on a small shelf near the window, her back to the room, when she heard the door open. Frowning, she turned.

Who could possibly be‍—

Her lips parted when she saw the handsome stranger standing on the threshold. He appeared to be in his late twenties, with neatly combed brown hair, a strong jawline, and a well-tailored coat that marked him as a man of status. He smiled pleasantly as he stepped inside.

“’Scuse me, miss,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Caroline’s heart fluttered faintly. “Oh, no! Not at all,” she replied, raising her arm with the intention to gracefully wave off his concerns—and knocking an apple off her desk in the process.

Nice, Caroline. Very graceful.

She smoothed her skirt instinctively, closing her eyes to hide a wince as the apple rolled across the floor.

“How may I help you?”

The man looked around the room. “I was told the new schoolhouse might have a small library,” he said. “I’m passing through town and hoped to find something to read.”

Caroline brightened immediately. “Yes, we do have a few books,” she replied. “As long as you return what you borrow.”

She crossed the room to a shelf along the far wall and began scanning the titles. “Most are for children, of course,” she explained, reading through bindings, “but I have a few suitable for all ages.”

“And what would you recommend?” the stranger asked, his hands behind his back as he fixed a smile on his face.

“Well…” Caroline turned around and hesitated, suddenly nervous. Then, she snapped her fingers and crossed to her desk. Picking up the book she’d just been reading to her class, she gave him a sly smile.

“If you enjoy novels,” she began. “Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorites. I’ve been reading it to my class.” She tapped the cover. “It has wit and wonderful characters, and the heroine is very clever.”

The man chuckled and leaned against the desk. “Clever women can be dangerous, I’d say.”

Caroline smiled shyly. She liked to think she was a clever woman. “Wouldn’t admirable be a better word?” she asked, surprising herself with the note of confidence in her voice.

He smirked, studying her face, leaving her feeling exposed. His eyes were beautiful—a soft chestnut brown.

She smiled, feeling a foolish spark ignite in her belly. Well-read men intrigued her, because educated folk generally enjoyed intelligent conversation, too. The locals she’d met in Hannibal hadn’t seemed overly keen on the fact that she was so scholarly, but perhaps this stranger would appreciate a thoughtful sort of woman.

He chuckled. “I think I’ll take that one, then,” he replied, standing up straight and holding out his hand.

When she handed him the book, their fingers brushed for just long enough for heat to flush her cheeks, and her heart fluttered.

Tucking the book beneath his arm, he nodded. “Thank you, Miss…?”

“Whitaker,” Caroline supplied quickly—perhaps a bit too quickly. Hoping against hope that she hadn’t come across as desperate, she cleared her throat, smoothing her skirt again. “Caroline Whitaker.”

“Well, Miss Whitaker,” he said with another charming smile, “I appreciate your recommendation.” He placed his hat back on his head. “I hope to see you again when I return it. I’ll be sure to tell you what I think.”

With that, he turned to leave. As Caroline watched him walk out the door, her heartbeat roared in her ears. She let out a shaky breath.

What a handsome man…

She allowed herself a moment to imagine an absurdly romantic scenario. He was a traveling gentleman with a love of books, which she shared. They’d had a pleasant conversation that had, at least to her, seemed a bit… charged.

She shook her head gently, her knees shaking as heat rushed through her.

You’re being foolish again, Caroline.