Prologue

Virginia City, Nevada — Christmas 1875

The scent of roasted beef lingered in the air, warm and savory, curling around the rafters of the log cabin like smoke from a sweet dream. Jesse Boone stirred under the heavy patchwork quilt, the distant crackle of the hearth nudging him from sleep. Somewhere in the kitchen, pans clinked and his wife, Linda, hummed—a sound he’d know anywhere.

Sunlight leaked through the frosted windows in pale streaks, catching the snowdrifts piled outside the glass. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his long hair, still tangled from sleep. Cold kissed his skin where the blanket fell away.

Christmas morning, he thought.

In that moment, his mind drifted back to all the Christmases before he married Linda. There’d been no stockings, no gifts. No warm meals waiting or wood-stove mornings filled with the smell of sweet bread and spiced cider. Just another day in the orphanage. Maybe a little quieter than most. Maybe a little meaner, too.

But now? Now it meant something.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and let out a breath, shoulders rolling back with the satisfying crack of tight muscles loosening. The chill of the floor bit his bare feet, so he reached for the thick wool socks Linda had knitted for him last winter, gray with crooked stitching and one thread pulled too tight around the heel.

He dressed slowly in the quiet. A thermal shirt, a thick flannel overshirt, worn jeans, and the wool vest Linda liked because it made him “look respectable.” He didn’t bother brushing his dark brown hair. Linda liked it wild.

The smell hit him stronger as he stepped out of the bedroom: beef roasting low in the iron pot by the hearth, sugar and spice rising from whatever she was baking.

Jesse stepped into the doorway and lingered there a moment, letting it soak in. Linda had her back to him, and he watched as she dusted off the flour smudged across her shoulder. Her chestnut hair was messily braided, though a few rebellious strands curled loose down her back.

He let it wash over him, the warmth. The scent of nutmeg and cloves. The hiss of bacon in a cast-iron skillet. The way the snow made the world outside the window look like a storybook, all soft edges and silver light.

He cleared his throat.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he teased.

Linda turned, brandishing a wooden spoon like a pistol. “You mind your cheek, Jesse Boone,” she retorted. “I’ve been up since before dawn, I’ll have you know. You could’ve helped.”

He crossed to her, taking the spoon and kissing her on the lips, slowly and deeply. When he finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed.

“There,” he said softly. “Moral support. I hear that’s the most important kind.”

Linda laughed and swatted him with a dish towel, her voice warm. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Darn right I am,” he said, and grinned.

They sat down to eat just after sunrise. Two mismatched plates, a chipped porcelain pot of coffee, scrambled eggs, and thick slices of fresh bread Linda had baked the day before. Jesse poured the coffee while she carved thin slices off the roast, even though he insisted she shouldn’t bother.

“Can’t believe how much snow we got overnight,” Jesse said, glancing out the window.

“I hope Luke and Molly and the kids will be able to make it,” Linda said, a crease forming between her brows.

“I wouldn’t put it past Luke,” Jesse said. “He’d risk a blizzard for your apple pie.”

Linda smiled.

“And if they can’t come, well, then it will just be the two of us,” he said.

“The three of us,” she reminded him, her hand moving to her swollen belly. “Next year, we’ll have a little someone around. Little hands grabbing all my cinnamon rolls before you can get to them.”

“I can hardly wait,” Jesse said, his voice tender.

But even as he smiled, a flicker of something deeper moved through him, something quieter and harder to name.

He’d never known his parents, at least not long enough for them to make any kind of impact. Most of what he’d learned about family, about fatherhood, came from watching other men, good and bad. The worst of them had come easy. The best he’d had to piece together like old glass: fragile, sharp-edged, and never quite whole.

And now, here he was—a man with ghosts in his past, about to become a father.

He glanced at Linda, at the small movement of her fingers over the swell of their child, and something shifted in his chest. Fear, yes. That would always be there. But something else, too…resolve.

He didn’t know what kind of father he’d be, not yet. But he knew what kind he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave or hurt. He wouldn’t disappear.

This child would know his voice and would grow up safe. Loved.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start rewriting the rest.

“Neither can I,” Linda replied.

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his own. “You remember our first Christmas? The busted stove? How cold it was?”

“You made soup over the fireplace. Burned the heck out of it.”

He chuckled. “Still the best bowl of soup I ever had.”

“And still one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had.”

He smiled at her, reaching for her hand and squeezing it, his rough fingers curling around hers, flour dust and all.

“I love you,” he said. “Both of you.”

“And we love you,” Linda replied, eyes warm and clear, her thumb brushing along the edge of his hand.

For a moment, the cabin seemed to hush around them, just the fire murmuring low and the snow shifting outside, the morning perfectly suspended in time.

Jesse looked at her, really looked, and felt something catch in his chest. He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment, never had been. He’d grown up learning not to trust in things that could be taken from you. Warmth, kindness, a roof over your head. They were luxuries, not guarantees.

But here, with Linda’s hand in his, and the promise of their child kicking quietly beneath her apron, Jesse felt something he hadn’t dared feel in years…hope.

He hadn’t known it could be like this. Life. Love. Waking up warm beside someone who laughed at your worst jokes and baked bread just because she liked the way it made the place smell. A home with creaking floors and crooked doors and boots by the fire. A future that felt like something solid instead of smoke.

He didn’t deserve it, not really. And yet, somehow, he’d found his way here, through the cold and the violence and the years of hunger, into the warmth.

And this time, he believed it would last.

He could see himself growing old here. Teaching his children to ride. Fixing fences each spring. Maybe even building that second room off the back, like Linda kept asking for. Just simple, honest living.

He squeezed her hand again, quietly memorizing everything—her freckles, her scent, the weight of this moment.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Jesse Boone wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

He was looking forward.

“Well,” he said, after a moment. “I suppose I’d best get the chores done.”

Linda smiled. “Yes,” she agreed. “And I’ve still got a million things to do, and it’ll be much quicker without you under my feet. So off you go.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he turned to get his coat.

“Will you put some wood on the fire before you go?” Linda asked over her shoulder as she started wrestling a mountain of potatoes.

He walked over to the stove, feeding another split log into the flames. The fire flared to life, crackling with a fresh breath of pine sap and dry bark.

Then he turned to the door.

Lulu, their dog, was stretched out near the door. Her thick coat of white and gray curled like smoke. She was a mountain mutt with the look of a Pyrenean shepherd, maybe mixed with husky or wolfdog. Broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, quiet. They’d found her near-starved and half-frozen the previous winter, tangled in a snare trap on the far side of the ridge. Jesse had hauled her home wrapped in his coat, not entirely sure she’d make it through the night.

But she had, and she’d never left his side since.

Jesse pulled on his coat. His boots were still damp from yesterday’s snow-haul, but they’d do. Lulu lifted her head the moment he reached for his gloves, tail thumping once.

“You comin’?” he asked.

She was already standing.

The cold slapped him the second he opened the door. Snow glittered across the fields like powdered glass, blinding and sharp under the low winter sun. He squinted out over the ridge where the fence lines vanished beneath drifts, breath puffing in front of him.

Lulu bounded ahead, plowing through the snow like a bear cub, paws tossing up white clouds in her wake. Jesse followed her to the barn, his boots creaking over packed snow and frozen mud. Inside, the air was warmer, close with the smells of hay, goat, and old wood. The goats grumbled as he stepped in, heads poking out over the pen rail.

“Alright, alright,” Jesse muttered, grabbing a pitchfork. “I know. You’re starving to death.”

Lulu sat by the open stall, tongue lolling, watching him with mild disapproval, as if to say, You’re slow and dramatic about it. Jesse worked quickly, refilling the hay, checking water, mucking out the worst of yesterday’s mess.

He didn’t mind chores. Especially not out here, surrounded by quiet hills and trees coated in white. It was honest work. Clean. Gave him time to think, though lately, his thoughts had started to shift more often toward what kind of father he’d be. Whether he’d be good at it. Whether he’d know what to say, what to do, when the kid got sick, or scared, or angry.

Heck, would the child look like him, bearing his sharp blue eyes or unruly brown hair?

He brushed those thoughts away as Lulu barked once, sharp and low.

Jesse straightened, pitchfork still in hand, to see a flock of snow geese flying overhead in a V-formation.

He watched them for a moment and then turned away. He leaned the pitchfork against the wall of the barn and headed out again.

A while later, he was stacking the last of the morning firewood behind the barn when Lulu gave another woof and trotted toward the trail. Jesse wiped his gloves on his vest and stepped out into the clearing just as the cart rolled into view.

Luke sat high on the bench, reins in hand, shoulders hunched inside his patched sheepskin coat. His battered hat was dusted in snow. Beside him sat their son Killian. And next to him, his wife Molly smiled brightly, cheeks pink from the cold. She waved when she saw Jesse.

Jesse lifted one hand in return, a small smile tugging at his mouth. It always caught him off guard, that quiet warmth in his chest when he saw them. A few years ago, he wouldn’t have believed he’d ever have neighbors like Luke and Molly.

He’d met Luke two winters back, during a stretch of bad weather that stranded Jesse on the wrong side of the ridge with a busted pack horse and a frozen water skin. Luke had come riding down from his newly bought parcel of land, looking more optimistic than prepared, hauling a shovel and swearing at the wind. He’d offered Jesse help like it was nothing, like they weren’t strangers in the middle of a snowstorm.

After that, they just…kept helping each other.

A fence mended here. A winter barn raised together. The kinds of things that built trust without ever needing a big conversation.

Molly had come into Jesse’s life not long after that, all energy and quick wit, and more than able to hold her own with Linda. They were the kind of couple Jesse hadn’t realized he missed until they showed up, the kind who made holidays brighter, chores shorter, and silence a little less heavy.

Over time, they’d become more than neighbors.

They were family, the chosen kind.

Before Luke could stop the cart, Killian jumped down, legs pumping through the snowdrift with the kind of reckless joy that only six-year-olds possessed.

“Uncle Jesse!” he shouted, grinning wide.

Jesse chuckled as Lulu bounded out to meet him. The boy threw his arms around the dog’s neck and nearly tumbled into the snow.

“Easy there, hellion,” Jesse called, striding forward. “Lulu’s got more sense than you, but less patience.”

Killian giggled and patted the dog’s shaggy head before running straight for the cabin, shouting, “Aunt Linda! We brought sugar cookies!”

Luke brought the cart to a stop, and Jesse helped Molly down. She had one hand resting on her stomach. Like Linda, she was also pregnant, but with their second child.

“Merry Christmas, Jesse,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for having us.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replied. “And you know you’re always welcome here.”

Then she turned to Luke, her expression softening.

“Go and warm yourself inside,” he said. “We’ll be in shortly.”

Molly headed toward the house, and Jesse helped Luke guide the horse toward the small corral beside the barn.

“She still giving you trouble with her front left?” Jesse asked, gesturing to the mare.

Luke nodded, easing down from the wagon seat with a grunt. “Yeah. Got a stone bruise last week. Molly says I’m just lookin’ for excuses to stay off the road.”

“Well,” Jesse said, unbuckling the harness, “she’s not wrong.”

They shared a laugh as Jesse lifted the bridle free, the mare snorting softly. The leather was cold and stiff in his hands, but familiar. The rhythm of farm work, even on Christmas, felt like something solid. Something that didn’t change.

Luke leaned on the fence post, watching the house. “Who would have thought it?” he said. “Two babies on the way.”

Jesse looked toward the porch, where Linda stood with Molly, their arms around each other in that easy way women had when they genuinely liked one another. Linda was laughing—head thrown back, eyes bright—and Molly was saying something with her hands, already halfway through a story.

“Yeah,” Jesse agreed. “Although it looks like yours is coming sooner than spring.”

“Don’t tell Molly that,” Luke muttered. “She’s holdin’ out for a March baby. Said February’s too cold to be pushing a baby out.”

Jesse chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “Linda will kill us if we take too long.”

Inside, the cabin smelled of roast beef and yeast rolls, cinnamon and pine sap. The fire was burning high, and the room was bright with both lanternlight and sun filtering through the frosted windows. Cedar boughs hung from the mantle, and popcorn and cranberries hung across the beam above the table, Linda’s handiwork.

Killian was already settled on the rug with Lulu, waving around the carved wooden horse Jesse had made him last spring. Linda set out mugs of spiced cider while Molly eased herself onto the bench, rubbing her belly.

Jesse pulled out chairs, and Luke helped bring in the basket of gifts.

Lunch was loud and merry. It was the kind of meal that filled more than just stomachs.

Steam rose off the roast as Luke sawed into another slice. “Linda, I swear,” he said, pointing his fork across the table, “you feed me like this too often, and I might move in.”

Linda smirked. “Please do. I could use the help fixin’ that pantry door. Seeing as my husband can’t find the time.”

“Oh, now that’s low,” Jesse said, reaching for the breadbasket. “After all I did—”

“You carved the roast,” Linda said flatly.

“—and I served the cider.”

Luke grinned. “You’re practically a housewife, Jesse.”

Jesse leaned back in his chair, raising his mug. “Coming from the man who cried when the baby goat licked his hand?”

Luke choked. “That’s not what happened.”

“There were tears, Luke.”

“It was a tender moment!” Luke insisted.

Molly snorted into her cider, covering her mouth too late. “Oh Lord, here we go.”

Linda was laughing now, that full-bellied, nose-crinkling laugh Jesse loved most. “Didn’t you name her Sweetie?”

“She was sweet!” Luke said, indignant. “And I’ll have you know, she followed me for weeks. Imprinted, like a duck.”

“Well, after all those tears you shed for her, she probably felt like she owed you something,” Jesse said.

“It’s not my fault that I turned out to be some kind of goat whisperer.”

Laughter broke out around the table, and even Killian, sitting between Lulu and a slice of pie, giggled, though he clearly didn’t know what was so funny.

The meal lingered like all good ones did, with everyone leaning back in their chairs, too full to move but unwilling to let the warmth fade. Plates sat empty but for crumbs and gravy smears. The pie was down to a single slice, which Killian was eyeing with quiet determination.

“I think I’ve outgrown my pants,” Luke declared, resting both hands on his belly.

“I’m not surprised,” Molly said, brushing crumbs from her lap. “You had three helpings.”

“I had to,” he said seriously. “You saw the look Linda gave me when I hesitated. Fearsome stuff.”

Jesse chuckled. “That’s my wife.”

“I think you’re going to have to roll me to the cart,” Luke joked.

Everyone chuckled.

“Well, I’m not doing dishes,” Linda said, standing and stretching her back with a wince. “It’s Christmas.”

“I’ll do ’em,” Molly offered, already halfway to gathering plates.

“Nope,” Jesse said, standing up too. “Guests don’t wash dishes. That’s the law of the West.”

Molly smirked. “You just made that up.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” Jesse replied, scooping up mugs and stacking them with surprising precision. “And besides, the dishes can wait. We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Like what?” Killian asked.

“Presents,” Jesse announced, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “Come on, everyone. To the sitting room.”

Without hesitating, Killian raced into the sitting room with the others following behind.

The fire was burning steady now, throwing soft amber light across the room. The air smelled of cinnamon and cider and smoke. Jesse stirred the coals with the iron poker, and Lulu thumped her tail lazily from her spot in front of the hearth.

Killian plopped himself down beside her.

“Now,” Linda said, reaching behind the rocking chair and pulling out a small basket, “for the real reason you came.”

“Presents!” Killian bounced in place.

“Small ones,” she added quickly, narrowing her eyes in mock-seriousness.

Jesse stepped over to the bookshelf where he’d tucked a few wrapped bundles—simple things in brown paper, tied with bits of string.

“Go on then, Killian,” Linda said. “Yours is the one with the pinecone on top.”

The boy lunged for it, tearing the paper open with wild glee. Inside, he found the carved bird-whistle Jesse had spent evenings whittling near the fire.

His face lit up. “It sings!”

“Sounds like a duck,” Jesse said, sitting down on the rug. “But we can pretend.”

Killian immediately blew a shrill note, which earned him a bark from Lulu and a groan from Luke.

“Lord help us all,” Luke muttered. “That’s gonna be my whole week now.”

Linda handed Molly a soft, folded bundle tied with blue yarn. “I know it’s not much, but I figured you could use it.”

Molly unwrapped the scarf, hand-knit, forest green, and warm-looking. She ran her fingers along the stitching, a rare softness in her smile.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “And you actually finished it?”

“Almost gave up twice,” Linda admitted. “But I kept picturing you freezing at that sad little water pump and forced myself to keep going.”

“I’m touched,” Luke said dryly. “You didn’t knit me a scarf?”

Linda tossed him a jar from the basket. “No, but you get the pickled beets.”

“Pickled—? That’s not a gift,” he said, inspecting the label with suspicion.

“Sure it is. It’s your jar from last winter, just returned with interest.”

Molly handed Linda a small wrapped package in turn. “This one’s not exciting, but it’s from both of us.”

Inside were three jars of preserves. One marked raspberry, one marked peach, and one marked with a handwritten note that read: Blackberry 1879 — May explode.

Linda laughed.

Molly suddenly turned solemn. “We lost part of the pantry shelf that last time one of those jars popped.”

“It’s true,” Luke agreed. “Best to eat that one first.”

“We will,” Linda said, suddenly handling the jar like she would an explosive.

By the time the fire had burned low and the sky outside had shifted to the pale gold of late afternoon, the gifts had all been opened, and the laughter had faded to a cozy hush.

Molly rubbed her belly and leaned back in the rocker, half-dozing. Luke was helping Jesse box up leftovers in the kitchen, and Killian lay on his stomach near the hearth, trying to teach Lulu to “fetch” the whistle.

Jesse glanced toward Linda, curled up at the end of the settee, her hand resting absently over her belly. She was watching the fire, a soft, tired smile on her lips.

This was Christmas. Not the fancy kind, not the kind with music and ribbons and glass ornaments. Just a room full of warmth, small gifts passed with real meaning, and the people who made winter feel less lonely.

And Jesse, who’d once thought he’d never want anything but silence and survival, realized he’d never felt so full.

But as the light faded outside and the snow began to fall again in soft flurries this time, Luke stood and stretched.

“We oughta get goin’ before the trail ices.”

“You sure?” Linda asked. “We’ve got space for the whole lot of you.”

Luke shook his head. “Appreciate it, but I know my wife—she wants to be in her own bed with her feet up and that quilt from her mother.”

Molly nodded. “But thank you for the offer.”

Jesse and Linda walked them out, loading the gifts and leftover jars into the back of the cart while Lulu trotted behind Killian, who insisted on playing one last round of “tag” before climbing in.

Molly hugged Linda tightly, resting her hand on Linda’s belly as if blessing the child that hadn’t come yet.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered. “Next year, we’ll both have our hands full.”

Linda smiled. “I can’t wait.”

As the wagon rolled away into the snowy woods, the voices and laughter fading behind the trees, Jesse stood with his arm around Linda, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

The world was quiet again, golden with late afternoon light. The smell of pie still lingered in the air. Inside, the fire crackled softly, and Lulu had already claimed the warmest rug.

He looked down at Linda then—the woman who’d made this wild life feel like home—and felt something steady rise in his chest.

This was the good life. Hard-earned, real, and full of light.

“Come on,” Linda said, taking his hand.

They turned and headed back inside, where the cabin glowed soft and golden, the fire snapping low.

Linda yawned as she stacked the last of the dishes.

“I swear, if we eat like that every Christmas, I’ll have to let my seams out.”

Jesse rolled up his sleeves, grinning. “Guess that means I’ll have to get you a bigger apron.”

“You offering to sew it, too?”

“I could try. Wouldn’t be the first time I stitched something crooked.”

She laughed, that bright, unguarded laugh that always hit him square in the chest, and handed him a towel.

“Here. You dry, I’ll wash.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, shoulder to shoulder at the washbasin. The warm water steamed faintly in the chill air. Linda hummed under her breath as she worked, sleeves rolled high, her brown hair coming loose from its braid.

When she flicked water at him with her fingertips, he jerked back, pretending outrage. “Hey now!”

“Consider it payback for you eatin’ half the pie.”

“I had help!”

“Uh-huh.”

She did it again, a quick flick that caught his cheek. He retaliated with a splash from the rinse bucket. Her mock gasp turned into laughter, full and rich, the sound bouncing off the cabin walls and warming something deep inside him.

“You’re impossible,” she said, swatting his arm with a dishcloth.

“Maybe,” he said, leaning close, “but you love me anyway.”

Her eyes softened. “I do.”

He smiled and poured two small glasses of cider from the jug cooling by the door. “To Christmas,” he said, handing her one. “And to next year—when this house’ll be twice as loud.”

“To next year,” she echoed, clinking her glass against his.

They moved toward the fire, intending to sit and let the night settle around them. Outside, the wind had gone quiet. The world felt hushed, peaceful, safe.

Then the horses started.

At first, it was just a snort, the kind of sound that made Jesse glance up, mildly curious. But then came the sharp stamp of hooves, the restless shuffle of nervous animals. The tone changed. Not curious but frightened.

Jesse’s body went still.

Linda froze halfway to sitting. “What is it?”

“Not sure.” He set his glass down slowly, listening.

Another snort, louder this time. The creak of the fence rails. A quick, sharp whinny that made his pulse jump.

Jesse’s expression shifted, and the warmth of the moment drained away, replaced by instinct. He crossed to the wall, grabbing his coat from the peg and his rifle from above the hearth. The metal was cold in his hands.

“Stay inside,” he told her.

“Jesse—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s probably just a coyote sniffin’ about.”

Linda said nothing, but he could see the apprehension in her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised.

He opened the door. The night hit him like a wall—sharp, silent, full of white light from the moon reflecting off the snow. The horses shifted restlessly in the corral, their breath fogging in the cold. Beyond them, the trees stood dark and still.

He listened. Nothing but wind.

It’s just a coyote, he told himself. Or a fox passing through.

Still, the unease sat heavy in his chest.

He stepped off the porch, boots crunching over snow, Lulu padding close behind him, ears pricked.

“Easy,” he murmured to the mare nearest the fence, running a steady hand along her neck. “Ain’t nothin’ out here, girl.”

Her skin trembled beneath his palm. She snorted, eyes rolling white.

And then—

A crash. Wood splitting, sudden and violent.

From inside the cabin.

Linda’s scream tore through the air, high, sharp, and terrified.

Jesse’s heart stopped.

“Linda!”

He spun, sprinting across the yard, snow flying under his boots. Lulu barked once, then followed. The front door hung open, one hinge twisted, the wood splintered. Jesse shouldered through it, rifle half-raised.

The fire still burned, but everything else was chaos. A chair overturned. Dishes shattered. The scent of cider and smoke twisted with something metallic…blood.

He heard them outside, men’s voices, rough, laughing, retreating. The sound of hooves pounding into the distance.

Jesse’s vision tunneled. He staggered forward.

“Linda—?”

She was lying on the floor near the table, the edge of her apron soaked red. Her eyes were open, unfocused, her hand reaching weakly toward him. For half a second, the world narrowed to the sound of the fire popping, the wind outside, the low whine of Lulu at the door.

He dropped to his knees beside her.

“No, no, no—” His voice broke. He pressed his hands against the knife wound in her chest, desperate, shaking. “Linda, stay with me, you hear? You’re alright. You’re—”

Her breath hitched once. Then it didn’t come again.

He froze as the room spun, then fell utterly still.

Outside, the hoofbeats faded into the night.

Jesse stayed there, motionless, his hands slick with her blood, the warmth seeping away under his palms. The smell of spiced cider and roasted beef lingered in the air, the ghost of a life that had existed only minutes ago.

Lulu crept close and lay down beside her, head resting on her still hand.

Jesse didn’t follow the riders. He didn’t need to. He knew what this was. It was revenge, and it was all his fault.

And even if he could find the strength to go after them, he couldn’t.

Because the only thing left that mattered to him in the whole world was lying dead on the cabin floor.