Prologue

Missouri, Early Autumn, 1865

The parlor smelled of old paper, pipe smoke, and disappointment.

“I am not some parcel to be traded,” Delia said, her voice sharp against the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle.

Her father stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his spine as straight and unyielding as the walnut bookcases that lined the room. “Don’t be dramatic, Delia. This arrangement ensures our survival.”

Delia lifted her chin. “Survival is not the same as living.”

The fire cracked in the hearth, the only sound between them for a moment. Outside, beyond the lace curtains, trees burned orange and rust with the coming cold. Inside, the cold was already present—a chill that owed more to what was left unspoken than to the autumn air outside.

“Judson Blackwell is a respected man,” her father said. “His holdings are vast. His influence—”

“—is built on fear,” she finished, referring to the fact that Judson and his men were akin to a gang around these parts, intimidating others and scaring them into complacency. She crossed the carpet to him, skirts swishing like restless wind. “You haven’t seen how he looks at me. Like I’m already his possession. He doesn’t speak to me—he speaks at me.”

“You exaggerate,” her father murmured. “You always have.”

Delia swallowed down the ache rising in her throat. Her hands curled at her sides. “Mother would never have agreed to this.”

He flinched. A small thing, but she saw it.

“She isn’t here,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, worn thin. “And the estate is failing. You know that. I have no son to secure our name. Judson’s proposal is the only one that remains. He is…willing.”

Willing. Like a butcher might be willing to take on a lamb that had grown too lean.

Delia turned away. Her gaze caught on the portrait above the mantle of her mother in softer times, seated among peonies, her hand resting lightly on Delia’s small shoulder. A memory flickered: her mother’s fingers brushing through her hair, the smell of rosewater, the whispered prayers before bed.

She blinked them away and left the room without another word.

The hallway stretched long and dim, lined with shadows cast by gas sconces. Her slippers barely made a sound on the Turkish runner. Her thoughts, however, came in a rush—clattering and unsettled.

She needed air. Light. A plan.

As she passed her father’s study, a voice drifted through the cracked door. Low, assured. Not her father’s.

Judson.

She stilled, breath caught. The door was open no more than an inch, but it was enough to see him. Hear him.

“Her father’s desperate,” Judson said, amusement curling in his voice. “He’ll agree to anything. Once we’re wed, I’ll have full rights to the dowry and the land. That northern parcel borders the McElroy ranch—I’ve wanted that access for years.”

A pause.

“And the girl?” someone asked.

“Pretty enough,” Judson drawled. “Too high-strung for my taste, but she’ll fall in line. They all do.”

Delia’s mouth went dry.

Her fingers sank into the velvet wallpaper, steadying herself as bile crept up behind her teeth. She shut her eyes tightly, as if darkness might make the words vanish. But they still echoed, burning into her.

She had always suspected the truth—that her worth in this arrangement was little more than acreage and coin. But hearing Judson speak it, hearing her future so coldly measured and parceled out, stripped away even the faint hope she’d tried to hold. Whatever dreams she once harbored of marriage, of belonging, had vanished. She was not a bride at all. Only a transaction, and nothing more.

A gust of wind rattled the stained-glass window at the end of the hall. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck the hour. The chime was deep and final.

Delia stepped back, the heel of her slipper muffled by the rug. Her hands trembled, but her breath came sharper now. Clearer. For a moment, she saw it all spread before her—a life beneath that man’s thumb, her body and name carved up like acreage, her voice reduced to a whispered yes.

No.

She turned and walked swiftly to her room, every step steadier than the last. Marta would help her. There were ways to leave, ways to vanish if one was careful and quick.

Judson Blackwell would not own her.

Outside, the wind picked up, tugging at the shutters as if the world itself had exhaled. And inside the quiet house, resolve sharpened Delia Merriweather.

Chapter One

The pages crackled like dry leaves as Delia turned them, her gloved fingers trembling only slightly. The Missouri Gazette spread across her lap smelled of ink and dust, its classifieds a latticework of want and desperation: farmhands sought, livestock traded, fortunes lost, hearts bartered.

She scanned the columns beneath the lace-filtered light of the sitting room window, eyes moving past “Widow seeks household help” and “Two mules for sale” until her gaze caught a heading in plain, unvarnished print: Companion or Matrimony—Ladies Willing to Relocate.

Across from her, Marta Klein sat straight-backed in the armchair, a teacup cooling in her hands. Her dark brows, still so sharp despite the threads of silver at her temples, drew together in quiet worry. The morning sun caught the edge of her spectacles, making her look almost stern—but Delia knew better. Marta had once been her mother’s lady’s companion, and since Eliza Merriweather’s passing, she had become more than servant or chaperone. She had become closer to blood. An aunt, a shadow, a steady hand on trembling shoulders. Her voice had soothed childhood fevers and braided Delia’s hair on stormy nights. She was the last tether to a life Delia no longer trusted.

“You’ll have to choose soon,” Marta said gently, her German accent softened by years of living on American soil. “The wedding is set for next week, and you know he will not wait quietly if he senses hesitation.”

Delia nodded without lifting her eyes. Her stomach curled like a ribbon too tightly tied. The thought of Judson Blackwell’s hand on her arm, the bite of his control dressed in courtly smiles—it set her heart racing for all the wrong reasons. He would come for her. She didn’t doubt that now. And if he came and found her still under this roof, still within reach, she feared what he might take beyond her name.

Judson was the sort of man who could chill a room just by walking in. He ran his house and his business with a tight fist, his word law to those who depended on him—and punishment swift for anyone who didn’t. Delia had learned young that kindness, in his hands, was only ever a tool for control. He was clever with his anger, careful to wound where no one else would see, but every bruise and cruel whisper marked him as a man who would never let go of what he claimed. There were plenty in the city who owed him something, but it was Delia who’d learned what it meant to be owned.

“Look at this,” she murmured, touching the edge of one small advertisement. “‘Wyoming Territory rancher seeks practical woman for companionship and work. Must be strong, honest, unafraid of labor. Marriage expected.’ That’s all it says. No flattery. No promises. Just…bluntness.”

Marta leaned forward, taking the paper to examine the words for herself. “No name?”

“Only an address in Fox Hollow. Out West.”

“It could be anyone,” Marta said, setting the page down slowly. “A widower with a dozen children. A drunkard. A man crueler than the one you leave behind.”

Delia looked up, the morning light tracing gold along her auburn lashes. “And yet it feels…honest. Somehow. He says what he needs and nothing more.”

Marta’s face softened. “You sound as if you already admire him.”

A faint smile tugged at Delia’s lips. “Not admire. Only…I don’t know. Maybe I just prefer the sharpness of truth to the poison of charm.”

Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the maple tree beside the porch. Leaves flitted against the glass like small, desperate hands. Autumn had come quickly this year, the chill creeping beneath doors, through floorboards, into bones. There was a finality about the season—a closing of one chapter, the rustling end to long-decaying.

“You know what this means,” Marta said. “If you answer it, you will not return. You will leave everything. This house, your name, your books….” Her gaze flicked toward the shelves lined with faded volumes. “Even me.”

Delia reached across the small table between them and closed her fingers over Marta’s. “You’ll still write. And I’ll find a way to write back. Somehow.”

Marta did not smile, not really. But her grip tightened. “Then let’s write the letter.”

Delia nodded. Her throat felt raw, her eyes hot, though no tears came. She rose, smoothing the front of her skirt, and crossed to the secretary desk near the window. The inkpot was low, the nib of the pen dulled by years of correspondence and careful journaling. She dipped and set to work, each word a promise, a step toward freedom.

She signed the name she’d chosen—not Delia Merriweather, not the daughter of a fading estate. Something simpler. A name no one could trace, one she could wear like armor, or maybe like a clean dress at dawn.

And when she finished, she folded the page with shaking hands and sealed it with a crimson ribbon pulled from the lining of her old bonnet. Her pulse drummed wild and fast.

She stood in the hush of the room for a long moment, the letter in her palm like a key. Behind her, the clock on the mantel chimed the hour. It startled her more than it should have.

Outside, a crow landed on the garden wall. It cocked its head, watching her with dark, knowing eyes. As if it had seen women make choices like this before.

She turned to Marta, voice low but steady. “It’s time to go to the post.”

And Marta, always the guardian of the quiet, dangerous things, only nodded.

***

It took less than a week to receive the reply. A slip of paper, coarse and creased, folded inside a plain envelope. No seal, no signature—only a few spare lines penned in a hand that leaned leftward like a man bent against the wind:

If you’re serious about work and a hard life, come. Fox Hollow Station. Mid-November train.

Delia read it three times by the light of her bedside lamp, her heart fluttering like a sparrow in her chest. It was not warm. It was not welcoming. But it was real.

And it asked for nothing she hadn’t already offered.

She set to packing the next morning. Quietly, methodically. Marta helped without speaking, her movements brisk but reverent, methodical, careful as she laid out each dress and shawl. Together, they folded dresses that would never pass for frontier wear, tucked away ribboned gloves and a worn book of poetry, and chose the plainest shawl to sit atop the trunk.

“There will be no second trunk,” Marta said, watching her.

Delia shook her head. “Too much would make them question me.”

“And the combs?”

Delia hesitated over the small carved box that had belonged to her mother. “Just one,” she said. “The rest can stay.”

They moved like clockwork after that, the ticking of the parlor clock marking each small farewell. Marta stitched a second hem in Delia’s petticoat, hiding two silver dollars and a bit of folded paper with her new name and story, should anyone ask. Delia wrapped a kerchief around her hair, braided tight to hold beneath her bonnet. Her hands trembled only once—when she reached to take down her mother’s framed portrait and then, thinking better of it, let it be.

She left a single note in her jewelry box, unsigned, with only one line:

Forgive me for choosing life.

Outside, the dusk pressed soft and purple against the windows.

Delia stood in the hallway, her trunk waiting by the door, her coat already buttoned to her throat. Every inch of the house breathed of memory: the creak on the third step, the scent of beeswax polish, and the wild mint Marta always kept in the kitchen. Somewhere upstairs, the echo of laughter from years ago lived in the dust.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Marta murmured behind her.

“I know.” Delia looked over her shoulder, eyes burning.

She didn’t say goodbye.

She opened the door, stepped out into the gathering night, and didn’t look back.

The train station rose like a skeleton in the fog, all wooden beams and rusting iron rails, cloaked in the hush of early dawn. Delia stood at the platform’s edge, her breath forming little clouds in the brittle air, her trunk a mute companion at her feet.

She had said nothing to her father. Not a word left behind. It was safer that way. Silence, she had learned, was the only kind of armor that didn’t draw fire.

The sky was just beginning to bleed pale over the horizon, the color of thawing pewter. Crows shifted in the bare branches above, restless as her heart. Her fingers tightened around the ticket she’d purchased with money scraped from Marta’s emergency jar, a single fare to Fox Hollow, Wyoming Territory.

Every part of her ached with leaving. Not just in body, but in bone. In blood. The kind of ache that pulsed in memory, in questions she could not ask. There were too many ghosts in the walls of her father’s house—her mother’s voice, her own laughter, the smell of cinnamon bread on Sundays.

But beneath the ache, beneath the twisting dread of being found, dragged back, or simply swallowed whole by the unknown, there beat something quieter. Smaller.

Hope.

The train came around the bend with a shriek, steel wheels grinding against the frostbitten tracks. Delia flinched, then steadied herself. Her gloved fingers brushed the small pouch hidden in her skirts—Marta’s threadwork, her silver coins, the letter from the rancher, worn soft at the edges.

She boarded without help, hauling her trunk behind her like a penance. The cabin was near empty save for a sleeping man and a mother with two children huddled beneath a crocheted shawl. She chose a seat by the window and pressed her forehead against the glass.

Missouri would be behind her soon. Its fine parlors and bitter tea. The heavy portrait frames and heavier expectations. The girl who had once sat by the window dreaming of Paris, of poetry, of love.

Gone.

In her place: a woman with a new name, a new destination, and a letter from a man who hadn’t promised anything but truth.

The whistle blew.

And the train began to move.

The countryside blurred into watercolor through the frost-dusted glass. Trees bowed in the wind, their skeletal branches flashing past like memories she could not hold. Delia sat still as the world sped away from everything she had known.

Clara would have wept at the romance of it all. Her sister had always believed in love letters folded into drawers and boys who carved names into tree trunks. She would have brought lace-edged handkerchiefs and painted her lips rose for the journey. Delia could almost hear her laugh now, soft and dreamy. Clara had been born with softness Delia could never quite mimic.

With Delia came a hush and a hunger.

Not for a man’s touch, not for a gentle romance, but for something more elemental. A place to claim. A corner of the world where no one knew her name, where she could become whoever she dared to be. She had lived too long within walls that whispered what she could not do, what she must endure, what she must become. And she had listened. Until now.

She turned her face toward the morning sun rising over a broad and empty field, and for the first time in months, let herself imagine. Not a love story. Not the promise of safety or wealth. But the shape of a life made by her own hands. A cabin warmed by her own fire. Days marked by her own choices. A purpose that grew like corn from seed, slow, honest, and real.

The train creaked as it climbed a gentle slope. Smoke curled against the windowpane like the soft breath of possibility. Delia blinked, and for a heartbeat, she saw it: a woman standing beside a barn, sleeves rolled, a scarf tied over her hair, sunburnt and sure.

She didn’t know if she would ever be her.

But she wanted to try.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the rails hum through her bones.

Let Wyoming be wild.

Let it be unforgiving.

Let it be hers.

Chapter Two

Wyoming Territory, Fox Hollow. Late Autumn, 1865

The morning broke cold and clear, the sun barely cresting the distant ridge, light scattering across the valley in thin gold threads. Beau Fletcher shouldered open the barn’s heavy door, breath rising in quick plumes as he took in the day. The air held that brittle promise of first frost, biting enough to sting the cheeks, sharp enough to keep a man awake. The horses stamped and snorted in their stalls, restless for oats and movement.

Tess was already there, pitchfork in hand, face set like flint. She didn’t look up as he entered, only jabbed the fork into a pile of last night’s straw with more force than sense.

“Tess,” he said, careful to keep his voice even, “I asked you to spread that for Daisy and the foal, not scatter it halfway to Laramie.”

She whipped around, auburn hair wild beneath her battered felt hat, eyes bright with more than just defiance—something older, sadder, unspoken. “You want it done your way, do it yourself,” she snapped, flinging the fork so it landed with a dull clang against the wall.

Beau flinched at the sound. “You know we can’t keep up if you won’t pull your weight. I’m not asking for more than you can handle, Tess. But this—” He gestured at the mess, at the half-emptied feed sack torn open on the floor, oats spilling like seeds across the planks. “This isn’t help.”

Her jaw set hard. “I didn’t ask to be here,” she said, words raw and sudden. “Didn’t ask for you. Didn’t ask for any of this.” She brushed past him, the scent of hay and old soap clinging to her coat, boot heels ringing out against the barn boards.

Beau reached for her arm but thought better of it. “I didn’t ask for this either,” he said quietly. The words drifted behind her, unanswered. She slammed the door on her way out, rattling the old glass pane so hard he thought it might shatter.

For a moment, the barn was still except for the shifting horses and the slow thud of Beau’s heart. The shape of Tess’s anger hung in the air like the memory of thunder. He stood in it, jaw clenched, breath shallow, fighting back the urge to shout after her. He’d tried anger, tried silence, even tried gentle words, but nothing got through.

He let out a slow breath, forced his hands to unclench. Light filtered through the cracks in the barn walls, picking out dust motes that spun and danced in the cold air. He listened to the rhythm of Daisy’s chewing, the low nicker of the colt, and the distant slam of the kitchen door—Tess’s final word.

She’d been like this for weeks, grief braided into every word and gesture. Since her mother’s passing in the spring, she had turned sharper, fiercer, all her old laughter honed into barbs. Beau knew the shape of that grief. He’d worn it himself, years before, when his parents drowned fording a river in the melt season. And he wore it now, mourning his sister just as much as Tess mourned her mother. But nothing had prepared him for raising a fifteen-year-old girl, especially not one as headstrong and quicksilver as Tess.

He moved through the chores anyway, hands steady even as his mind wandered. The winter woodpile needed stacking, the upper pasture fence was down, and the water trough had frozen again overnight. Every task felt heavier than it should, like he was carrying the whole ranch on his back, with Tess’s pain as an extra weight he couldn’t shrug.

He tried to remember his sister’s voice, the way she used to sing to Tess at dusk, or the quiet way she’d pressed Beau’s hand when words failed him. “You’re stronger than you think,” she’d told him once, years before sickness hollowed her out. He didn’t feel strong now. He felt alone. And he hated himself for thinking it.

By the time he finished mucking stalls and sweeping up the spilled oats, his shoulders ached with more than work. He glanced toward the house. Smoke was curling from the chimney, promising warmth he knew he wouldn’t find inside.

He lingered in the barn a moment longer, hand resting on Daisy’s warm flank. “She’ll come around,” he murmured to the horse. “She has to.” But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. He wondered if the only thing left between him and Tess was the silence neither would bear to break.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the barn’s tin roof and carrying with it the faint sound of Tess’s voice, raised now in another room, perhaps arguing with the old dog or muttering to herself, or maybe just trying to hold her world together.

Beau squared his shoulders, stepped into the weak morning sun, and prepared to face whatever argument the day still held.

He would not give up. Not on Tess. Not on the ranch. Not yet.

The sun crept higher, slanting through the bare cottonwoods and glinting off the hoarfrost that rimmed each crooked post. Beau leaned into the work, gloved hands numb as he tested a sagging section of wire. The pasture beyond was still rimed with silver, cattle moving slowly and ponderously through the stubbled grass. His boots crunched over frozen weeds.

A distant rider cut across the far end of the field, coat flapping behind like a crow’s wing. Nash Carter—always punctual, always easy in the saddle, his sorrel gelding picking its way through the low brush with practiced care. Beau felt the smallest easing in his chest. His friend had that effect, bringing a measure of calm wherever he went, a balm to Beau’s frayed patience. The only man who seemed to understand his pain. Or if he didn’t, listened anyway.

Nash swung down, boots thumping to earth. “You look like you slept in the barn, Beau. Again.”

Beau offered a tight half-smile. “Didn’t get much sleep, if that’s what you mean.”

Nash looped his reins around a fencepost, glancing at the battered boards. “That girl of yours giving you fits?”

“She’s not a girl anymore,” Beau muttered, stooping to check a knot in the wire. “Some days I think she’s more stubborn than every mule I ever owned.”

Nash snorted. “Runs in the family, don’t it?” He crouched to help, hands steady as they wrestled a new length of wire into place. “You hungry? I brought biscuits. Sophie made too many again.”

Beau shook his head. “Not right now. Too much to do before the ground freezes up solid.”

They worked in companionable silence, the wind whipping low across the grass. Nash passed Beau a tin mug of coffee, black and biting, and together they surveyed the land. The ranch looked endless sometimes—hundreds of acres, every fence and roof beam waiting for a pair of hands. But this morning, it felt like a burden too heavy for any man, let alone one worn thin by loss.

Beau broke the quiet. “I can’t get through to her, Nash. Tess. She barely talks to me. When she does, it’s just to remind me what I’m doing wrong.”

Nash sipped his coffee, gaze steady. “You both lost a lot. Grief’s a strange beast, Beau. It don’t just disappear because the sun comes up.”

“She’s angry. All the time. Not just at me, at the world. I keep thinking if I work harder, if I show her things can hold together, she’ll come around. But….” He shrugged. The words dried up in the wind.

Nash nudged his shoulder. “You ever think about talking to her? Not as her uncle. Just as a man who misses her mama, too?”

Beau looked away, jaw tight. “I try. Feels like talking to a shut door.” He tossed a splintered post aside. “I keep wondering if I did right by her. Or if I’m just making things worse, keeping her here.”

“You’re all she’s got.” Nash’s voice was quiet, unyielding. “And you’re better than you think. She’ll figure it out. She just needs time.”

Beau let the comfort settle, though he barely believed it. They finished bracing the fence, boots scuffing the dirt, their breath mingling in the sharp air. Far off, the mountains hunched under the morning sun, distant and indifferent.

Finally, Nash broke the silence again. “You get a letter yet?”

Beau nodded, rolling his shoulders. “She wrote back. The woman from the ad. Said she’d take the train, be here in a week or so.”

Nash grinned. “About time. Maybe you’ll have someone to keep you in line.”

Beau shook his head, almost smiling despite himself. “Don’t know what to expect. Didn’t say much about herself. Seems practical enough, I suppose. That’s all I asked for.”

“Practical is good,” Nash said, elbowing him lightly. “Maybe she’ll teach Tess to smile again. Or teach you, for that matter.”

“I ain’t expecting miracles,” Beau muttered. “Just someone who can work. Someone who doesn’t look at this place like it’s a death sentence.”