Chapter One

Silver Ridge, Colorado

1875

The air was heavy with the scent of blood and gunpowder. Sheriff Weston Vance’s chest heaved as he tried to force more air into his lungs. His vision was blurry at the edges, his eyes burning from the acrid air. Groans and gunfire rang together in a discordant melody, like a church organ out of tune. Weston had taken shelter behind an outcropping of rocks, just a few feet away from his fallen deputy.

There was no time to mourn him, not when Victor Mercer stood just on the other side of those rocks. There was an injured woman out there, too. Weston had heard her scream, and her soft sobs indicated that she was still alive. He needed to save her.

“Come out, you coward!” Victor goaded him.

Weston clenched his jaw and waited. His impatience had already cost him dearly, and though the blood roaring in his ears urged him forward, Weston knew he must wait. If he charged around those rocks and fired his pistol recklessly, Victor was sure to be ready for him. They would have a shoot-out, something which would be risky for both Weston and any injured innocents caught in the crossfire.

Weston inhaled deeply and tightened his grip on the pistol. He needed just one good shot to take out Victor Mercer, but Weston didn’t know how many of the man’s gang were still around. Some had fled. Some were lying wounded or dead.

There might well be some still nearby and capable, though, determined to support Victor until the bitter end.

“You ain’t got nothing to say now?” Victor sneered. “You came up here all high and mighty! What happened?”

Everything had gone wrong; that was what had happened.

“Well, I might just have to take out my anger on this pretty lady here. Sure would be a shame if she got shot—”

Weston burst from his makeshift shelter. Victor’s grim face and his cruel brown eyes were just a few feet away. His gun was in hand, pointed straight at Weston’s heart, and Weston fired as fast as he could.

Weston jolted upright in bed, his heart pounding so loudly that he heard its echo in his ears. He gasped for air, confused as to why his body was so wound up. At last, his senses returned to him. It was morning.

He was lying in bed, drenched in sweat. He was safe. He was fine.

Weston inhaled deeply, more out of instinct than any conscious thought. The air smelled faintly of wood and soap, instead of blood and gunpowder. When he turned his head and looked through the thin sliver of window that wasn’t covered by the curtains, he saw dirt roads and the side of the general store of Silver Ridge.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Weston didn’t remember what had caused him to jolt upright in bed, but he could guess easily enough: it was Black Hawk. It was always Black Hawk.

He threw aside the quilt and climbed out of bed, moving to wash his face and hands. He trimmed his beard and dressed, the motions mechanical. Since being ‘moved for his own safety’ to Silver Ridge, everything felt stiff and rehearsed. He’d only been in this little town for a few weeks, and he already felt the days bleeding into one another.

If he’d been given a choice, Weston never would have left. ‘For your own safety’ seemed like the kind way of saying ‘we all know you made a mistake and we want you gone.’

He ate breakfast—some salted ham and fried potatoes from the previous night—and drowned himself in coffee. Weston sighed and closed his eyes. Once, he’d cared about getting up in the mornings and protecting the town. He’d cared about being the sheriff and doing some real good.

It was hard to muster up that kind of enthusiasm for protecting Silver Ridge. The place was too calm, so peaceful that he doubted a sheriff was even needed. He’d probably spend the day settling disputes between neighbors over missing cattle and trees growing across property lines.

Weston left his rented room and climbed down the stairs, which led directly to the sheriff’s office on the ground floor. It was a simple room with two desks, a stove that wasn’t currently in use, and a bookshelf containing a few volumes on the county’s history, maps of the area, and a few tattered (likely useless) law books. Behind the sheriff’s office was the single, empty jail cell. Thus far, it had only been occupied once, by a drunken local who’d become a bit too disruptive in the saloon.

The door opened, and Weston’s deputy Jonah Reed walked in. Jonah was a young man around twenty-four years old with blond hair and hazel eyes. He still had a boyish charm to him, and as far as Weston could tell, everyone in town loved him.

“Morning, Sheriff!” Jonah exclaimed. “Fine day, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

It was pointless to draw comparisons, Weston knew that. Still, he found himself looking at that young man, who’d probably never faced anything more dangerous than an argument over who made the best apple pie at the church’s Christmas potluck, and felt himself judging the boy. Jonah clearly wasn’t the sort of man who’d ever be useful in a dangerous situation, in actual peril.

Not like Weston’s old deputy Chris Townsend.

But he’d lost Chris at Black Hawk.

A lump rose in Weston’s throat at the thought, but he made sure not to let his feelings show. It was Weston’s own fault, after all.

“I heard some complaints on the way over,” Jonah said, dropping into the chair behind the other desk. “Mrs. Black said that one of her chickens has gone missing.”

“Is she sure something didn’t eat it?”

“She didn’t see any signs that something ate it.”

That meant nothing. Everyone knew there were mountain lions and coyotes in the area.

“Last week, Mrs. Black also said someone was stealing her eggs,” Weston pointed out.

“Maybe they were,” Jonah said guilelessly. “I’m happy to go check things out myself. If there turns out to be some kind of problem with her chicken coop, maybe I can help fix it. Poor woman has been having a hard time since her husband died, you know. They were married for sixty years.”

Weston hadn’t known.

“I think maybe she just wants some company,” Jonah mused.

Weston grunted and bit his tongue. He didn’t have a problem with Jonah going over to the woman’s house, of course. Mrs. Black probably would benefit from the company, but the sheriff’s department wasn’t supposed to be entertainment for a lonely old woman.

“Pastor Charlie also wants us to come look at his house. He’s lost one of his goats, and wants our help in finding it.”

Weston pinched the bridge of his nose. “I see.”

“And Miss Eliza says she’s lost a cat,” Jonah continued.

“So our morning is full of missing animals,” Weston replied dryly.

“Not just missing animals. There’s still that matter to sort out with Mrs. Burke,” Jonah pointed out. “She loaned Mrs. Everett her frock and has yet to get it back from her.”

“How could I forget?”

Weston had heard all about Mrs. Eleanor Burke’s pink dress, loaned to Mrs. Mina Everett for her anniversary party. Mrs. Burke insisted that the dress had only been loaned to Mrs. Everett, who’d gone to visit relatives in Wyoming. Weston had already explained to Mrs. Burke that he would not search Mrs. Everett’s home for the dress while she was away, much to Mrs. Burke’s dissatisfaction.

Weston’s thoughts wandered as Jonah began regaling him with everything he’d learned on his walk over from the west side of town. It seemed as if Jonah had encountered half the town on the way.

As he listened, outside the window, Weston suddenly spied the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Weston found himself not wanting to look away, even though some distant part of himself realized that he was staring.

She was tall and slender, wearing a pretty blue dress. Brown curls peeked out from beneath her bonnet, framing a delicate face. Her eyes were hazel-green and magnetic.

She opened the door and entered the sheriff’s office. The woman smiled, and it was like watching the sun emerge for the first time after weeks of storm clouds and terrible weather.

“Mrs. Brooks,” said Jonah, tipping his hat to her. “A pleasure.”

She shook her head. “Lydia, please. Mrs. Brooks makes me sound so old.”

Weston didn’t think so. This woman was nowhere close to being considered old. She was probably twenty-five or so, just a handful of years younger than he was. Maybe she was recently married, and the name Mrs. Brooks was new to her.

He wasn’t quite sad to realize that the woman was already wed, but he was, maybe irrationally, just a little disappointed.

“A pleasure, Lydia,” Jonah said. “Why, I haven’t seen you in a while. Was it Samuel’s Christmas party?”

“You have a good memory,” Lydia said, sounding surprised. “I believe that was the last time.”

Weston clenched his jaw. He was a rational man, and he’d been telling himself for weeks that this was a small town where nothing ever happened. The people here were just different than he was used to. Friendlier. People in Silver Ridge did things like this—having little meaningless conversations that lasted for far too long before getting to the actual reason for their visit.

Jonah laughed. “Hardly. No, I remember because Samuel’s poor daughter caught that wreath on fire, and you were the one who put it out.”

Lydia’s cheeks pinked. “It wasn’t Rose’s fault.”

“Of course not,” Jonah said. “It was just a memorable accident, that’s all.”

Weston cleared his throat, hoping to end the conversation there. Lydia and Jonah both looked at Weston as if they’d only just realized he was in the room.

“Oh!” Jonah exclaimed. “Where are my manners? I don’t suppose you’ve met the new sheriff.”

Weston couldn’t quite keep the scowl from his face. If Jonah launched into an explanation of Weston’s transfer to Silver Ridge and everything he knew about him, Weston might just walk out the door and never return.

“Indeed, I haven’t had the chance to meet him yet,” Lydia said, narrowing her eyes. Weston suspected she didn’t appreciate her conversation about the Christmas party being interrupted.

“Weston Vance,” he introduced himself gruffly. “What can we do for you?”

She looked like a well-to-do woman. Now that he’d gotten past the realization that she was beautiful, a seed of dread had begun to grow. She’d probably have yet another frivolous complaint about a neighbor.

“You may not know about this, Sheriff, since you’re new in town,” Lydia started. “A few weeks ago, there was a terrible mining disaster that impacted several families in the area. The church has been taking up donations to help those who are affected.”

“And you want a donation?” Weston asked. He supposed he could spare a few dollars for the cause.

“No,” she said. “I am hoping that we might use the sheriff’s office as a new collection site for the donations. We’ve had a few things go missing from the church, and we suspect a thief. I don’t imagine, however, that anyone would be so brazen as to steal from the sheriff’s office.”

Weston grimaced. He was a sheriff whose job was to enforce the law. Protecting sacks of flour and baked goods, or whatever else might be received as donations, was simply not his responsibility.

“I have already had a notice printed to hang in the window,” Lydia said.

Weston almost laughed at the absurdity of it, as well as Lydia’s absolute presumption. Clearly, this woman had never been told ‘no’ in her life. If she had printed a notice, she’d assumed that he would agree. She was only asking as a courtesy. Somehow, that bothered him more than anything else.

Someone needed to remind the people in this town what the purpose of the sheriff actually was.

Chapter Two

“Well, I don’t see why not,” Jonah said.

“No?” asked Weston. “You don’t?”

Lydia Brooks kept her back straight and her expression carefully composed as she surveyed the two men. She did not know Jonah well, but he was still a familiar face. He’d only lived in Silver Ridge for a year, but Lydia had never heard anybody ever complain about him.

The sheriff was another matter. At present, he was scowling at her as if she was asking something terribly inconvenient, which she wasn’t. Even if he hadn’t been scowling, though, there was something about Weston’s face that seemed…severe. It was strange, because Lydia thought he might be handsome otherwise. He had thick, dark brown hair, and a lovely pair of gray-blue eyes. His beard was neatly trimmed and perfectly suited his strong jaw. He looked dependable and strong, like the kind of man who ought to be a sheriff.

Evidently, he was in a thunderous mood.

“Why is the request unreasonable?” Lydia asked coolly. “Do you have some problem with charity, Sheriff?”

“No,” he retorted. “But the purpose of the sheriff’s station isn’t to be your personal storage space. If supplies have gone missing from the church, I’ll send Jonah to have a look, but it’s not our duty to keep track of your donations.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “No? I think it’s everyone’s duty to ensure the children of our community have food, Sheriff. Many of these families have lost not only husbands, sons, and fathers, but also their income. People are mourning and struggling, and in Silver Ridge, we take care of our community.”

Weston gazed at her with an unreadable expression, and Lydia tilted her chin up, making it clear she wasn’t willing to back down. And why should she? The request was so simple, and the previous sheriff would have agreed without hesitation!

“It might be helpful,” Jonah said hesitantly to the sheriff. “If people come by to drop off their donations, you’ll get the chance to meet a lot of the folks in town.”

Given the look on Weston’s face, Lydia doubted the man really wanted to meet more folks from the town.

“A week,” Weston said. “We can keep the supplies in the back room that long, and that’s it. Jonah will post your notice.”

A week?

Lydia forced a smile, certain that the sheriff was just trying to be difficult. Doubtlessly, he’d realized how ridiculous and uncharitable his refusal looked, but he was too proud to admit that he was in the wrong.

“Thank you,” Lydia said, drawing the notice from her bag and unfolding it. “I’m sure the families involved will appreciate your generosity.”

He grunted.

Lydia turned to Jonah, who happily accepted the notice from her. Then she left without offering so much as a farewell to the unkind sheriff, whose eyes had remained fixed on her the entire time, as if he expected her to commit some kind of crime.

“Ridiculous!” Lydia muttered to herself.

Her face felt hot with frustration, and Lydia just knew that the most unsightly flush had probably broken out across her face. The gall of that man! Given how irritated he’d been at her simple request, Lydia should’ve just refused his offer and found some other place to keep the donations. Now she’d have to deal with that man any time she wanted to drop off supplies or do an inventory!

By the time Lydia reached the general store, she’d almost managed to calm herself. She entered and immediately went to the counter, where Samuel Ward stood. He was a short, balding man with striking green eyes and a heavily lined face that told the story of a man who was generous with his smiles and laughter.

“Lydia!” he greeted. “Welcome!”

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“I have the donations ready,” Samuel told her, bringing Lydia back to the present. “I can take them to the church if you like.”

That was good. Lydia had discovered that if she was left too long with her thoughts, a dark hole would form in her chest, and tears would follow soon after.

“No need,” she said. “For the next week, we’re taking all the donations to the sheriff’s office. We’ve had some supplies go missing around the church, and I think they’ll be safer there.”

“Huh,” Samuel said, wrinkling his nose. “Who steals donations from a church? What an awful thing to do!”

Lydia nodded, despite the swell of sympathy in her chest. The thief was either someone completely awful, or someone incredibly desperate. Perhaps both. Regardless, the donations needed to be secure. The people of Silver Ridge had made those donations with the intention of helping the families suffering from the mine collapse, and Lydia would make sure that was exactly where the supplies went.

“I’ll bring them myself, then,” Samuel said. “I’ve been wanting an excuse to meet the new sheriff anyway.”

Lydia tried to smile, she really did. Something of her distaste must have shown on her face, though, because Samuel laughed.

“I see that you aren’t impressed.”

“I believe the sheriff has had a bad morning,” Lydia said. “It happens to the best of us.”

Samuel’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “It does indeed.”

“As always, thank you,” Lydia said. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

They exchanged their farewells, and Lydia left the general store. She had nothing left to do in town. It would make sense to return home, but the thought of going back to her empty house made a knot twist in her chest. Lydia sighed deeply. Like so many other times since Nathaniel’s passing, she had the desire to turn back the hands of time and do everything better.

“Lydia!”

Before she turned to look, Lydia recognized that warm, delightful voice. It was Abigail Hart. She was a tall woman with straight black hair and warm brown eyes. Abigail was always cheerful and energetic, and there was something about her soft-featured face that gave the impression of kindness, which was accurate to her character. Abigail was kind indeed. Very much so.

Lydia’s spirits lifted. She and Abigail both lived near one another on the outskirts of Silver Ridge. At least Lydia would not have to make the walk alone.

“I assume you’re in town managing the donations?” Abigail asked.

“I am,” Lydia said, walking to her friend. “The sheriff has agreed to let us store the donations in his office for a week.”

Abigail furrowed her brow. “I thought we were moving them to the sheriff’s office permanently?”

Lydia sighed. “I had hoped to, but evidently Sheriff Vance has other ideas.”

Abigail nodded sympathetically. “He did strike me as a little…gruff.”

Lydia shook her head. “I think he just enjoys being frustrating.”

“I suppose a week is better than nothing,” Abigail offered.

“I suppose.”

“Are you heading home?”

“I am,” Lydia said. “Are you? We can walk together.”

Abigail nodded, and they set off down the road together. Lydia’s face warmed, the conversation reminding her of just how infuriating the sheriff had been.

“I had the impression that the sheriff was looking down on me,” Lydia said as they walked, “and my charitable work. Can you believe that?”

Abigail offered her a shrug. “He isn’t from Silver Ridge. Maybe wherever he’s from is a much harsher place.”

Lydia frowned. “Perhaps. If he’s going to be the sheriff here, though, then he needs to learn a thing or two about us.”

“I’m sure he will,” Abigail said. “Not everyone is comfortable with moving to a new place right away.”

“He didn’t seem uncomfortable. He seemed rude.”

Abigail’s lips twitched in amusement. “He’s clearly made quite an impression on you.”

“He’d make an impression on anyone!” Lydia exclaimed. “I have never been treated so terribly before in my life.”

Lydia knew that was far from the truth; the first eighteen years of her life had been so horrible that she rarely spoke about them, even to Abigail. Still, Lydia knew that her friend Abigail would find her melodrama amusing.

Abigail shook her head. “I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Lydia frowned. Maybe he would, but that still didn’t excuse his treatment of her that morning. “Maybe.”

“He’ll be working with Jonah,” Abigail added. “If anyone can make Sheriff Vance see the good in this town, it’s him.”

“You think so?” Lydia asked.

“Well, you’ve met Jonah. Don’t you think so?” Abigail asked. “He’s so kind and cheerful.”

Abigail had begun talking about Jonah a few weeks prior, a lot, and it was clear to Lydia that her friend was besotted. If Abigail would pursue Jonah was currently unclear, but they would make a good pair if she decided to.

“And unmarried,” Lydia teased.

The words had the intended effect, and Abigail blushed fiercely. “Well, yes. I suppose he is.”

“Maybe you should take some donations to the sheriff’s office,” Lydia suggested with a grin.

“I—I am not going to take donations just as an excuse to see him!” Abigail exclaimed.

Lydia laughed. “Why not?” she asked. “It wouldn’t be the most absurd thing a woman has ever done to get a man’s attention.”

“Still…” Abigail trailed off.

Lydia remembered what it was like to be in love, and that familiar tightening spread through her chest as she remembered the early days of her courtship with Nathaniel Brooks, one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. He’d been a successful businessman, always dressed in his nicely tailored suits, and Lydia had been a wisp of a young woman who’d just left the orphanage. It was his kindness that she’d noticed first. He’d treated her like someone who mattered, something which Lydia had seldom experienced in life.

“Have you ever thought about remarrying?” Abigail asked in that familiar, cautious way. It was the same way everyone spoke when bringing up marriage, or widowhood, or Nathaniel.

Sometimes, Lydia felt as if the whole town was waiting for her to break. Maybe she would. She took a steadying breath. “I doubt it,” she said quietly. “Nathaniel was a great man, far better than I deserved.”

Nathaniel had been very successful, and if he’d been patient enough to court a woman properly, Lydia was sure he could’ve found a better wife. He could have married a real lady, someone from a wealthy family and gentle breeding. It was only Nathaniel’s impatience and loneliness that had driven him to place ads in the paper.

“He wasn’t better than you deserve,” Abigail said firmly. “You deserve the best, and he was a very good man.”

Lydia smiled softly. “He was.”

She thought about how lonely their marriage had been at times, and how often she had touched her stomach and hoped that she might be with child. She never had been. Nathaniel, good man that he was, had tried to conceal his disappointment, but Lydia had read the despair in his eyes.

He had wanted children as fervently as she had.

“You look sad,” Abigail said, squeezing Lydia’s hand. “I am sorry for mentioning it. I worry about you.”

“I know,” Lydia said.

They had nearly reached her house. It was a lavish place, three stories with a façade of white columns and a generous porch. Nathaniel had taken care of her more than she had ever dreamed possible. Once, she remembered thinking that the house was everything she had ever wanted. Now, it was quiet and empty as a tomb.

She had tried to make the house lively again by accepting tenants for the small cabins on the property. A few families now lived under her roof, but they were quiet and unobtrusive. Lydia did not have it in herself to ask them to be loud for her, or to keep her company; she knew that would be an absurd request.

“I will be fine,” Lydia added, hoping to reassure her friend. “I promise.”

Abigail furrowed her brow. She looked as though she wanted to say something more, but she seemed to decide against it. “Take care of yourself, Lydia.”

“I will,” she promised.

They went their separate ways, with Lydia continuing the final trek to her house alone. A lump rose in her throat, and she inhaled deeply in an attempt to soothe her rattled nerves. Nathaniel had passed away over a year prior, and sometimes she carried the grief well.

There were other times, though, when it snuck up on her, and his loss became too great to bear. Those were the worst days.

Lydia pressed her back against the door once she was inside. She stood there for a long time, collecting herself and mourning what might have been.