Prologue

Summer 1878

Outside Rapid Creek, Dakota Territory

The late-summer sun dipped low, casting warm golden light over the prairie as the Lockwood carriage rolled steadily down the dirt road toward home.

Naomi rode beside the carriage on her sorrel mare, Dahlia, her gloved hands folded over the reins. The wind tangled loose strands of auburn hair around her cheeks.

“I saw the way Sheriff McKae looked at you in town,” her father teased from the driver’s seat. “Like a man who’s just spotted the last cinnamon bun at the mercantile.”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “This cinnamon bun’s not for sale.”

Her mother laughed softly. “You could do worse, sweetheart. Noah’s always been polite. Comes from a good family.”

“He also spits into the wind and eats with his elbows on the table,” Naomi shot back, grinning.

Her father chuckled and shook his head. “You’re not a girl anymore, Naomi. You’re twenty-two. Most folks your age have a ring on their finger and two babies on their hip.”

“Well, I ain’t most folks,” she retorted.

Her parents exchanged a look as Naomi leaned back and let her gaze wander over the endless stretch of prairie. She’d ridden these trails since she was small, barefoot, and tangled-haired, daring the world to throw her. She’d spent many summers racing Noah across the pastures, climbing cottonwoods, falling into creeks with scraped knees and bruised pride.

It was easy with Noah. Always had been.

But that was the problem.

If Naomi had loved him, if she could’ve seen herself in the life he wanted—a neat house, hot supper at five, a baby on her hip while he came home from the jailhouse—then maybe she’d already be “Mrs. McKae.”

But she couldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t squeeze herself into a role that felt like a corset two sizes too small.

Noah wanted a sweet, steady wife who’d sit in a rocker and mend shirts, not minding when he worked late or made decisions without asking—not a woman who ran a ranch, fixed fences, and tracked coyotes with a rifle on her shoulder.

And deep down, Naomi knew she’d never change; she didn’t want to. She refused to fold herself into someone else’s idea of a “proper” woman. She wanted to be herself, just as she was.

“Maybe I’m not meant for all that,” she murmured aloud, half to herself.

Her father glanced back, brow furrowed. “All what?”

“Marriage. Settling down. Letting someone else take the reins.”

He studied her for a moment, the wind teasing his graying hair. “Naomi, it ain’t weakness to lean on someone, especially if they love you right.”

Naomi folded her arms and rested them on the side of the wagon. “You love Mama, and you still taught me to shoot before I learned to bake.”

He chuckled. “Figured you’d survive longer that way.”

Naomi smiled, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to laugh.

Then, her father sobered, his voice growing serious. “You’re strong, girl—stronger than most men I know, in fact—but even the strongest horses stumble when they try to carry too much alone.”

She looked at him, sensing something quiet and worn in his expression.

“I’m not alone,” she said. “I have you.”

The horses trotted on, the jingle of tack filling the silence before he spoke again.

“You do, but your mother and I… Well, we worry.” He paused, eyes fixed on the open plains. “Things have been tough this year—drought in the west fields, a drop in cattle prices. I can hold things together for now, but if something don’t give…”

Her stomach dipped, but she didn’t respond right away.

She’d noticed; of course she had. It hadn’t happened all at once, but gradually, in quiet fragments that built like sediment in a riverbed.

The north pasture, once a sea of green, had turned brittle and yellow by midsummer. Her father had started skipping meals when he thought no one was paying attention; her mother had taken in extra sewing for a few neighbors out by Custer, and Naomi had sold off two heifers earlier than she’d wanted to. They’d needed the cash more than they needed the calves.

Then, two years ago, Opal had come along: a surprise, though never spoken of as such.

Naomi had been twenty when she found out Mama was expecting again. Folks whispered about the age gap, but her parents had just smiled and said they still had a little sweetness left in their years.

At first, Naomi had been thrilled. A baby in the house again—what could be more hopeful?

But after the birth, their burden had grown heavier. Another mouth to feed. More bills from the doctor. Fewer hours in the day for Naomi to work the herd or mend fences without Mama needing help with rocking or changing the baby. Sleepless nights spent walking up and down the house at midnight. Mama had aged faster after Opal arrived, the way women sometimes do when they’ve already given everything and are asked to give even more.

And Papa… He never complained, but Naomi saw how often he stayed up late at the table, his books spread out in front of him, rubbing his temples with calloused fingers and muttering numbers under his breath.

So yes, things had changed.

Glancing down at her two-year-old sister, who was sleeping with her fist curled against her cheek, Naomi’s chest tightened.

Naomi loved her fiercely. Would die for her. But life had gotten harder since her little sister arrived. More confined. Like the ranch itself was shrinking under the weight of what it used to be.

Exhaling slowly, she turned back to the horizon, where the sun was painting the sky with gold and fire. “I know things have been hard,” she murmured, “but we’ll get through. We always have.”

Her father nodded, but didn’t speak. Quiet stretched between them again, and this time, it felt even heavier.

Then, he gave her a sideways glance, his eyes twinkling. “You ever think about what would make it easier?”

Naomi arched a brow. “Let me guess: a man with a ring, strong shoulders, and a name to pass down?”

He chuckled. “Just sayin’… Sometimes, a little help goes a long way.”

After another long moment, he exhaled slowly.

“I’m not asking you to marry for the ranch,” he said gently, “but it wouldn’t hurt to think about finding someone to help shoulder the weight. Someone who’d treat you right.”

Naomi stared out at the horizon, which had now melted into streaks of molten copper. She wanted to insist that she could manage just fine—that she didn’t need a man to prop up the Lockwood name—but the quiet, tired honesty in her father’s tone kept her tongue still.

He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze, weathered fingers warm against hers. “Just think about it.”

“I will,” Naomi said softly.

The moment settled between them, quiet and fragile, broken only by quiet babbles from the basket tucked between her parents, where Opal stirred from her nap.

As they continued their journey, the trail narrowed, winding between rocky outcroppings and uneven earth baked hard by the summer sun. The wheels of the carriage jolted over a section of rough terrain, and her father clicked his tongue at the horses.

“Easy now,” he murmured. “Almost home.”

However, the horses’ ears twitched, and their bodies stiffened; they must’ve sensed something—maybe a snake slithering through the brush or a sudden drop in air pressure.

Then, a sudden snap echoed through the hills like gunfire.

The carriage lurched violently as a wheel gave way, splintering against a jagged rock half-buried in the trail. One of the horses reared, the other twisting in panic.

“Hold on!” her father shouted.

Naomi barely had time to register what was happening before the world pitched sideways.

The carriage tilted, then flipped, wood splintering, glass shattering, screams swallowed by the sound of snapping leather and panicked hooves.

Startled, Dahlia bolted, and Naomi didn’t have a chance to think before she herself was thrown through the air, her hat flying off her head. After a heart-stopping moment of weightlessness, she hit the ground and rolled, dirt and dust scraping her skin as her breath was stolen.

For several seconds, there was only silence, except for the frantic thudding of hooves disappearing down the trail.

Then, her mother’s voice, sharp and pained.

“Henry!”

Naomi gasped and pushed herself up, every bone aching. The overturned carriage was a tangle of wood, canvas, and shattered glass.

“Mama! Papa!” she cried, stumbling toward the wreck.

“Naomi—” Her mother’s voice was weak, trapped. “Opal… get Opal…”

Heart pounding, Naomi scrambled around the wreckage, kicking debris aside.

A soft whimper rose from a patch of tall grass nearby.

“Opal,” Naomi breathed.

She found her baby sister lying face-down in the grass, her cotton cap askew, cheeks tear-streaked, but alive. Naomi scooped her into her arms, sobbing in relief.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she whispered, rocking gently as her legs shook.

But her parents…

Naomi turned back to the carriage. Wood creaked and shifted, groaning ominously. Her father’s hand was visible beneath a collapsed beam, unmoving.

“Papa!” she screamed, rushing to him, clutching Opal to her chest.

Her mother coughed, her voice growing fainter. “Naomi…?”

“I’m coming—I’m here!” Gently, Naomi set Opal aside on a blanket of wild grass and dropped to her knees. She dug with her bare hands, splinters tearing at her skin as she tried to lift the shattered doorframe. Her muscles screamed as a piece of the axle shifted above her.

“Just a little more, Mama, just a little‍—‍”

Then, with a sickening crack, the entire front end of the carriage collapsed in on itself.

Naomi screamed as dust billowed outward, stinging her eyes, choking her lungs. She crawled backward, coughing and shaking, hands bloodied and trembling.

“Mama…?” Her voice sounded small, even in her own ears.

There was no answer.

A heavy curtain of dust hung over the wreckage, curling in the dying light. Naomi crawled back to Opal and pulled her close. The little girl clung to her neck, sobbing quietly.

Naomi held her tight, rocking back and forth in the dirt. Her body was shaking, her mind spinning. But deep inside, something settled—cold, sharp, unrelenting.

They were gone. Her parents. Gone.

Opal looked up at her with wide, terrified eyes.

“I’ve got you, baby,” she whispered.

She looked out across the vast plains, wind sweeping through the golden grass. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, feeling grit scrape across her cheek.

In a matter of minutes, her entire life had changed; she and Opal were now orphans. They were alone.

Chapter One

Summer 1881

Rapid Creek, Dakota Territory

Three years later

Naomi drove the hammer down with a sharp crack, the sound ringing out across the empty pasture.

The fencepost groaned but held. She leaned back on her heels, sweat trailing down her neck despite the breeze.

One more nail.

Just one more, and she could move on to the next break.

She brushed a strand of windblown hair from her eyes with the back of her glove. Her fingers ached, her arms sore from the morning’s work, but there was no one else to do it. There hadn’t been for a long time.

Another hammer strike. Another crack of iron against wood.

In the distance, the prairie stretched in golden-brown waves beneath a sky that threatened rain. Naomi glanced up. Clouds gathered like a promise she didn’t trust. Rain would be a blessing if the land would just drink it right, but after last summer’s false storms and bone-dry weeks, she wasn’t holding her breath.

She stood, dusted off her trousers, and looked down the fence line.

Still a few panels to go, she thought to herself.

Some of the cattle had gotten loose last night—again—and Florence had found one nosing through her laundry like it had never seen bloomers before.

Naomi sighed.

She’d meant to do this three days ago, but Opal had come down with a fever. Nothing serious, thank goodness, but Naomi hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time, tending to her sister and praying the fever didn’t turn into something worse

Florence had scolded Naomi for pacing the floor all night—again—and practically shoved her out the door this morning to fix the fence while she minded Opal.

“You keep hovering over that child like a mother hen, she’ll never learn to roost on her own,” Florence had muttered, handing Naomi a slice of bread and a cup of strong coffee before she could argue.

Now, Naomi heard them faintly through the open windows of the house: the soft murmur of Florence’s voice, low and comforting as a well-worn hymn, and Opal’s bright, bubbling laughter drifting through the breeze like sunlight.

The sound stirred something warm in her chest.

Florence Hale had been with the Lockwoods for nearly two decades, longer than Naomi could remember with any clarity. She’d come on as their cook when Naomi had barely been out of her pinafores, and she’d somehow become part of the bones of the place; like the porch beams or the pantry shelves, Florence was always there, always steady.

But since the accident, she’d been more than just a cook.

Florence had been the one to hold Naomi in the quiet of night when she’d first come back from the crash site, blood on her sleeves and dust in her hair, too shocked to speak. She’d been the one to rock Opal to sleep when Naomi’s calloused hands trembled too badly to do it herself. She’d been the one who picked up the pieces when Naomi hadn’t even realized she was breaking.

No matter how hard the days got, no matter how lean the pantry was or how dark the sky looked, Florence always found a way to make things feel whole: a stew pot bubbling on the stove, biscuits warm from the oven, a gentle word when words were hard to come by. She didn’t speak often of her own past—the family she’d lost or the life she might’ve had—but she poured all of her heart into theirs.

She didn’t hover. She didn’t nag. But when Naomi faltered, Florence was simply there.

And with Opal? There was no question.

Florence loved the girl like her own flesh and blood—sewing her dresses, teaching her hymns, and sneaking her sweets when Naomi wasn’t looking—and she’d somehow become the only person Opal would allow to braid her hair in the mornings.

Naomi glanced toward the window again, her hand resting on the next rotten fence post.

The older woman had come outside to sit in the old rocker on the back porch, her sturdy frame wrapped in her favorite blue shawl and a bowl of snapped green beans in her lap. Opal sat cross-legged at her feet with a tiny rag doll, babbling excitedly.

Florence listened with the patience of a saint, nodding and smiling, as if Opal were the most important person in the world.

Maybe she is.

Naomi’s throat tightened with quiet affection… and guilt.

She didn’t say it often as she probably should, but Florence had helped her hold everything together when it should’ve fallen apart.

Naomi didn’t know where they’d be without her.

She didn’t want to know.

After a moment, she turned back to her work. She picked out a nail from the tin and drove it into the wood, pressing her weight into it until the post stood firm.

There. One more thing done. A thousand more to go.

She tossed the hammer into the toolbox at her feet and grabbed the wire spool from the dirt. As she worked her way down the fence line, her thoughts continued to wander.

This summer was supposed to have been better—at least, that’s what she’d told herself last fall, when she’d sold off three heifers and bartered for hay with the McKae family, and when the snow had finally melted, and the earth had started to soften underfoot, she’d told herself again.

But their debts hadn’t vanished, the barn roof still leaked, and the price of beef had dropped again.

Even with Florence’s help and the extra hours Miles Raikes had been putting in after school, they were stretched thin. Too thin.

If something doesn’t change soon…

She didn’t finish the thought—didn’t need to—because the truth was, they were surviving, but just barely.

And surviving isn’t the same as living.

Naomi straightened slowly, the wire spool drooping in her grip.

She didn’t hear the horse at first; she felt it: a subtle shift in the air, the instinctive prickle along the back of her neck that came from years of living on open land.

Turning toward the drive, Naomi saw Gus Riker riding up like he owned the ground beneath her boots.

He sat his horse easily, the reins loose in his gloved hand. The animal was a fine one—well-fed, glossy, expensive. Everything about Gus was expensive, in fact, from the tailored cut of his coat to the polished leather of his saddle. He didn’t belong to this land. He took it.

Naomi’s jaw tightened as she planted her boots and waited.

Not again.

Gus reined in a few yards away, dust puffing up around his horse’s hooves. He tipped his hat, a smile already in place, smooth, practiced, false.

“Miss Lockwood,” he drawled. “Hard at work, as always.”

Her eyes flicked toward the house, calculating how far Florence and Opal were from this conversation.

“What do you want?” she asked flatly.

His smile widened, pale blue eyes darting to the sagging stretch of fence behind her, then back. “You know what I want.”

He dismounted without waiting for an invitation, and his boots hit the dirt with casual confidence. Naomi hated that she had to lift her chin to look him in the eye; he was taller than most men, and his broad shoulders blocked the sun as he loomed over her. He smelled of leather and tobacco and something sharp that somehow hinted at control.

“I came to make another offer,” he said lightly. “I think you’ll find it… generous.”

Naomi set the spool down and wiped her hands on her trousers, buying herself a moment to calm her racing pulse. She refused to let him see her irritation.

That’s what he wants.

“I’ve already given you my answer,” she said, “more than once.”

“And I’ve already told you,” Gus replied calmly, “that answers can change.”

She stared him down. “Mine won’t.”

His gaze slid past her, taking in the house, the patched roof of the barn, the uneven fence line. He didn’t even try to hide his brazen assessment.

“Ranching’s been hard these past few years,” he remarked. “Prices aren’t what they used to be. Banks are getting less patient. What’s more, accidents happen—storms, fires…” He shrugged. “It’d be a shame if something were to push your ranch past the point of recovery.”

Anger flared, hot and sharp, in her chest—and beneath it, something chilling: recognition.

This was how he worked. Not fists. Not shouting, but pressure. He leaned until things cracked.

Naomi forced her hands to unclench. “You don’t scare me.”

Gus chuckled, as if her defiance amused him. “I don’t need to scare you. I just need you to be practical.”

“Practical?” she echoed. “Like marrying a man who thinks he can buy people the same way he buys land?”

His smile thinned—just a fraction.

“I’d give you security. Pay your debts. Provide for your sister. You’d never have to lift a hammer again.”

Naomi thought of Opal’s laughter drifting from the house. Of Florence’s steady hands. Of the fence she’d just repaired with her own sweat and muscle.

“I don’t want your security—and I don’t want you anywhere near my family.”

Gus stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re running out of options, Naomi. Foolish pride won’t keep a ranch standing.”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “Neither will intimidation.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, the wind whispering through the grass between them. Finally, Gus straightened and replaced his hat.

“I admire your spirit,” he said. “Truly. I just hope it doesn’t cost you everything.”

She stepped back and pointed toward the road. “Get off my land.”

His eyes hardened, but his smile returned as he mounted his horse.

“I’ll give you time,” he said over his shoulder, “but don’t take too long. Circumstances have a way of deciding for people who won’t decide for themselves.”

Then, he rode off, leaving dust and unease in his wake.

Naomi stared down the trail until he disappeared from view; only once he was out of sight did she exhale, releasing the breath she’d been holding.

Her hands trembled—not out of fear, she told herself, but from anger at the knowledge that he wasn’t bluffing; men like Gus Riker didn’t need to raise their voices to destroy things.

She stood for another moment, then turned back toward the house.

The walk wasn’t far, but each step felt heavy: boot heels pressing into the dry earth, one after another, like dragging chains. The prairie wind tugged at her braid and whispered through the brittle grass at her feet. Her body ached from the morning’s work, but it was a familiar ache.

The unsettling weight in her chest bothered her more.

As she reached the back steps, she caught sight of herself in the side window, a faint reflection in the rippled glass.

The image staring back at her was not that of the young woman she’d been three years ago.

Her skin was sun-bronzed and wind-chapped, her freckles darker now after countless long days beneath the open sky. Smudged dirt streaked across one cheekbone, and a faint cut traced her temple, probably from a wayward wire. The soft light in her hazel eyes had darkened, growing sharper, harder.

Her hair, which she’d once left to tumble in careless waves, was tightly braided down her back more often than not these days, though loose strands had escaped to cling to her damp forehead. The ribbon securing the end was frayed and faded—Opal’s favorite color once, bright blue. Naomi hadn’t replaced it.

She stood straighter, staring at her reflection like it might offer some kind of answer.

This is who I am now.

A rancher. A sister. A woman too stubborn to give up, even when quitting might be easier.

Naomi turned and trudged up the steps, then pushed the door open with more force than necessary, the wood creaking on its hinges as she stepped into the kitchen.

The warm scents of rising yeast and woodsmoke greeted her instantly—thick and familiar, a comfort that wrapped around her shoulders whether she welcomed it or not. Flames crackled gently in the hearth, and a thin ribbon of steam curled up from the blackened kettle on the stove.

Florence stood at the flour-dusted worktable, sleeves rolled up, rigorously kneading dough like it had personally offended her. Across from her, Opal perched on a stool, elbows on the table and chin streaked with flour, gleefully shaping a lumpy ball of dough with the single-minded intensity only a five-year-old could manage.

Naomi didn’t say anything at first. She just stood in the doorway, arms crossed, boots caked in dry soil.

Florence glanced up without pausing her work. “You slam that door like you’re mad at it—or is it someone else caught your temper this time?”

Naomi sighed and tugged off her gloves, tossing them onto the bench. “Gus Riker just paid me a visit.”

Florence’s hands stopped mid-fold. “Again?”

“Didn’t even bother with a polite ‘hello’ this time. Just jumped right to hinting that bad things happen to people who say no to him.”

Opal looked up, nose scrunching. “Is Gus the one with squinty eyes and shiny boots?”

Naomi tried not to smile. “That’s him.”

“He’s stinky, like dusty leather and smoke,” Opal said gravely, poking her dough. “I don’t like him.”

“Good instincts,” Florence muttered, returning to her kneading with even more force than before. “That man’s soul is spoiled as milk left out in August.”

Naomi moved to the basin to wash her hands, scrubbing her skin with a rough brush which lived on the kitchen windowsill. “He keeps acting like he’s offering to do me a favor. Like marrying him would be some gift.”

Florence didn’t comment, but seeing the subtle way her jaw tightened, Naomi could guess what she was thinking: he wouldn’t be pressing this hard if the ranch weren’t vulnerable. This wasn’t just about land; it was about control, about Naomi rejecting him when she should just give in to what he wanted her to believe was inevitable.

Naomi dried her hands on a linen cloth and turned toward the table just as the back door creaked open again.

“Anybody home, or did y’all run off and leave the bread to burn?” teased a loud, familiar voice.

Naomi’s agitation eased just a fraction. “We only left it to rise, not burn!”

Sarah McKae strode in, bringing the scent of saddle leather and peppermint with her. Her dark braid was messy under her bonnet, and her grin far too pleased with itself.

“Aunty Sarah!” Opal said, hurrying over to her.

“Well, look at you,” Sarah said in mock amazement as she scooped the little girl up. “You’re growing as fast as a bean pole!”

Opal wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like beans.”

Sarah chuckled, setting her down again. “Truth is, neither do I,” she said with a cheeky wink.

Florence rolled her eyes as Opal giggled.

“Don’t go putting any ideas into her head,” she chastised. “It’s hard enough to get her to eat her vegetables.”

“Oh come on, Flo,” Sarah said, smiling. “No five-year-old likes vegetables.”

Naomi said nothing, suppressing a smile. That was the thing about Sarah: she always made an entrance. She arrived loud, opinionated, and full of stories and sass.

And Naomi loved her for it.

They’d been best friends since Naomi was ten and Sarah twelve, and in some ways, not much had changed over the years. Sarah was a persistent whirlwind, all elbows and laughter and bold convictions. Quick with a joke and quicker still with a punchline. Unfortunately, she also remained utterly convinced that her brother, Noah, was the perfect match for Naomi.

“Glad I found you,” she said, earning a scowl from Florence as she plucked a piece of dough from the table. “I was hoping to catch you before you turned into a full-blown hermit again.”

Naomi smirked and leaned back against the counter. “I’ve been out fixing fences all morning. Didn’t realize that counted as seclusion.”

“You spend too much time fixing things,” Sarah replied dismissively, “and judging by the storm on your face, you need to hit more than just nails.”

Florence huffed. “Gus Riker came ’round again.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow and then let out a dramatic sigh. “Of course he did. That man’s got less self-awareness than a wet chicken.”

Naomi chuckled despite herself.

Sarah hung her bonnet on a peg near the door, then strode across the kitchen. “So? Did you finally tell him to go soak his head?”

“I told him to get off my land,” Naomi said. “He didn’t take it well.”

“He never does,” Florence muttered.

Sarah leaned on the table, watching Naomi with that sharp, assessing gaze she always wore when she was looking to cause trouble. “You know what you need?”

“Please don’t say ‘whiskey,’” Naomi replied.