Prologue

St. Louis, Missouri, 1843

Eliza Graves had learned, long ago, that the world was not kind to girls. The orphanage had been proof enough of that. Four grim walls, a leaky roof, and a headmistress who wielded a switch like a natural extension of her hand.

It hadn’t taken long for Eliza to realize that the only person she could rely on was herself. By sixteen, she’d been out of the orphanage for two years. Her life hadn’t been easy, but she was free.

She’d scraped by on seamstress work when she could find it—which, unfortunately, was almost never. Shopkeepers didn’t like hiring “street girls”; they were trouble, apparently, unreliable and untrustworthy.

Ironically, Eliza had learned that she couldn’t trust the shopkeepers, either. They promised honest pay, but the moment she finished a piece, they always seemed to find some excuse to short her, and what was she supposed to do? Whine?

No one cared about orphans—least of all the men who wielded power over them.

For the past week, Eliza had sought refuge in the entryway of a burned-out bakery, huddling under the tattered remains of an old quilt. She’d been surviving water and the occasional scrap of food she could beg, barter, or steal. She spent the cold nights staring up at the moldering image of a loaf of bread, her stomach eating itself.

Today, she would play the thief.

I have no choice.

The corner bakery smelled of fresh bread and spiced honey, a comforting scent in the bitter frost. Her stomach had been aching for days, a deep, hollow pain that shot pinpricks of light into her eyes. She needed food—needed it more than she needed caution, more than she feared the consequences.

Eliza had done this before, but never in broad daylight.

She scanned the market. Vendors barked out prices, waving toward baskets of fruit, dried meats, bolts of fabric. A woman in a bright red shawl haggled over the cost of potatoes as a tired-looking father wrangled two unruly boys near a crate of chickens.

Then, there was the baker, a balding, thick-bellied man wearing a perpetual scowl, standing behind his stall piled high with fresh loaves. He barely glanced at his customers as he worked, kneading dough on a wooden slab dusted with flour. A smaller man stood beside him—an apprentice of some sort—gathering loaves.

Eliza adjusted her scarf, making sure her face was mostly hidden beneath the fabric. She was small, quick, and quiet.

This wouldn’t take long.

She lingered near the stall, pretending to study a row of pies. Her fingers itched as she judged the timing.

The apprentice turned to help a woman count out coins. “No trouble, ma’am! We’ll work this out together.” The baker was distracted, reaching for another lump of dough.

Now.

Eliza’s hand snapped out like a striking viper, fingers curling around the warm crust of a fresh loaf. She tucked it against her chest and turned, slipping into the crowd.

She didn’t make it ten steps before she heard the shout.

“Thief!”

Panic exploded in her chest, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t hesitate.

She ran.

The market erupted into chaos as she sprinted, ducking past startled customers and weaving between carts. A woman yelped as Eliza barreled past, nearly knocking a basket of apples from her hands. A dog barked, spooked by the sudden movement.

“Stop her!”

The heavy sound of boots pounded behind her, growing closer.

Eliza dodged left, squeezing between two men unloading a cart of barrels. Panting, she hit the street at full speed.

The bread was still clutched to her chest, fingers digging into the crust. She needed somewhere to hide.

She spotted an alley ahead—a narrow gap between two brick buildings—and darted toward it, shoving past a man, who cursed as she knocked him off balance.

The alley was dark and cool, thick with the dank scents of rotting wood and stale beer. Pressing herself against the rough brick, she held her breath and listened.

Several men ran past; she counted to five, then ten, her heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, she edged forward, peering around the corner.

The street was still busy, but no one seemed to be looking her way. She turned, ready to make her escape—

And froze.

A shadow shifted at the far end of the alley, resolving into a heavyset man wearing a stained apron. He blocked the exit, his beady eyes locking onto her.

“Well, well,” he sneered. “What do we have here?”

Eliza’s breath hitched. She spun, ready to bolt back the way she came, but the sound of scuffling boots at the alley’s entrance made her heart stop.

Two more men stepped into view, their faces hidden in the dim light.

Trapped.

Eliza’s grip on the bread tightened as her mind raced. Breathing in quick, panicked bursts, she backed up, pressing herself against the cold brick of the alley wall. Her fingers tightened around the bread, though she knew it wouldn’t do her much good now.

The man in the stained apron took a step closer, his piggish eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Thought you were clever, did you, little thief?” His thick hands flexed as if imagining them closing around her wrist. “You’ll learn soon enough what happens to street rats who steal.”

The other men moved in from behind, cutting off any chance of escape. One of them, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, cracked his knuckles. “Should’ve thought twice before takin’ what ain’t yours.”

Eliza gulped, forcing her panic down. This wasn’t the first time she’d been at the behest of hard men, cruel men. She knew what happened when they caught a girl alone.

Not this time.

Her eyes flicked upward, scanning the nearby buildings.

There—a wooden crate stacked near the alley wall. If she could climb it, she might be able to reach the rooftop. She’d have to be quick.

Eliza bolted, shoving past the scarred man with all her strength. He cursed, stumbling into the other. She lunged for the crate, scrambling onto it, her fingers grasping for the edge of the rooftop—

A hand locked around her ankle and yanked her back down.

She hit the ground hard, slamming her elbow into the cobblestone. Pain shot up her arm, but she barely had time to react before rough hands hauled her up.

“You little—” the man started, but his words were cut off by the crack of a gunshot.

The man holding her flinched, his grip loosening just enough for Eliza to wrench free. She stumbled backward, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Who took that shot? And why?

The other two men jerked their heads toward the alley entrance, where a figure stood silhouetted against the light of the street.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his stance relaxed yet commanding. A revolver gleamed in his hand, smoke curling from the barrel. He wore a long coat that swept just above his boots, his hat tilted low over his eyes.

Even in the dim light, Eliza could see the smirk on his face.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” he drawled. “Three against one hardly seems fair, does it?”

The men hesitated, their eyes flicking to one another, but the man with the apron scowled. “Ain’t none of your business.”

The stranger twirled his revolver once before settling it back into position. “See, I think it is. I don’t take kindly to men roughing up a lady.”

Eliza’s breath hitched. He thought she was a lady?

The scarred man sneered. “Ain’t no lady—just a street rat.”

The stranger shrugged. “Maybe. But I like to keep things sporting. So how about this—you let her go, and I don’t put a hole in your chest.”

The alley went silent. The apron-wearing man’s lip curled, but the way his fingers twitched told Eliza he was considering it.

Another gunshot split the air. The stranger hadn’t hesitated, firing a bullet so close to the man’s boot that the cobblestone beneath it shattered.

The heavyset man jumped back, cursing.

“I’d hate to waste another bullet,” the stranger mused, cocking the revolver again.

The men didn’t need another warning. With a few muttered curses, they turned and slunk away, each throwing Eliza one last glare before disappearing into the street.

Eliza’s heart was still pounding, her breath uneven. She should have run, but her legs felt frozen in place.

The man holstered his revolver and took a step closer. “You all right?”

Eliza stared at him. Now that he was closer, she saw him better—the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of confidence in his dark eyes. He wasn’t old—probably in his mid-twenties—but he carried himself like a man who’d seen the world and wasn’t afraid of it.

She realized then that she was still gripping the loaf of bread to her chest like a lifeline. Slowly, she nodded. “I—yes.”

The corners of his lips quirked upward. “You got a name, little thief?”

“Eliza,” she said before she could think better of it.

Her pulse quickened. A smart girl wouldn’t have given her real name. But she was off balance, breathless from nearly being dragged into a situation she might never have escaped from.

“Eliza,” he repeated, trying the name out, then gave her a nod. “Nice to meet you, Eliza. Name’s Grant.” He tipped his hat. “Grant McAllister.”

“Why’d you help me?” she asked warily.

Grant chuckled, leaning against the alley wall like he had all the time in the world. “I got a soft spot for troublemakers.” His gaze flicked to the loaf in her hands. “That, and I know a hungry kid when I see one.”

Eliza swallowed. She didn’t know what to say.

“No home?” he asked.

Her silence must have been answer enough.

Grant exhaled, shaking his head. “Damn shame.” He pushed off the wall and studied her a little longer. “You got anywhere to go?”

She hesitated. She should have said yes, that she had people waiting for her, that she was fine. But she wasn’t fine.

She was alone. Starving. Exhausted. This handsome, confident stranger was showing her kindness she hadn’t known since—well, ever.

Eliza licked her lips, then finally shook her head.

Grant sighed, but a smirk played at his lips. “Figured as much.”

She stiffened as he stepped closer, but he only reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin.

“For the bread.”

Eliza gaped. “I—”

“Take it,” he insisted. “Can’t have you starting your new life in debt, can we?”

Her chest ached. My new life?

She stared at the coin, then at his face. His dark eyes gleamed as he smirked—not cruelly, like the men who’d cornered her, but like someone who knew things.

She took the coin.

Grant’s smirk widened. “Smart girl.” He nodded toward the street. “Come on, then. I know a place where we can get something better than stolen bread.”

Every hard-learned lesson of self-preservation screamed at Eliza to walk away. But where would I go? He could be the miracle she’d been praying for.

She exhaled, clutching the coin, and followed him.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope.

Chapter One

Chimney Rock, 1850

Weston Cade woke to the sound of trouble—again.

A sharp rap against the side of his wagon yanked him from a shallow, restless sleep. His hand shot to the revolver resting near his bedroll before his mind caught up.

Jesse Carver’s voice carried through the early-morning darkness, edged with urgency. “Weston!”

Weston exhaled, tension shifting into irritation. He scrubbed a hand over his face before pushing himself upright. “Damn it, Jesse,” he muttered, shoving off his blanket. “Sun ain’t even up yet.”

“Yeah, well, neither is the O’Donnell wagon. Wheel snapped clean off,” Jesse shot back. “Figured you’d want to see to it before it drags the whole damn train to a stop.”

Weston cursed under his breath. If there was one thing he hated more than interrupted sleep, it was delay.

Swinging his legs to the side of his bedroll, he reached for his boots, shoving his feet into the worn leather. He barely took time to shrug on his coat before stepping out into the cool dawn air.

The camp was stirring, the muted sounds of murmured voices and shifting supplies filling the space between wagons. The sky was still dark, though the faintest sliver of light melted into the horizon.

Weston took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of damp earth, horses, and last night’s campfires.

Jesse stood with his arms crossed, watching with his ever-present smirk. “Didn’t figure you’d want me to wait ’til breakfast.”

Weston shot him a glare. “Let’s go.”

Together, they moved through the encampment, boots crunching against the dirt. As the wagon train began to rouse from sleep, a few early risers were already tending to morning chores—stoking fires, feeding horses, shaking out blankets.

As they neared Maggie O’Donnell’s wagon, Weston groaned inwardly. The right rear wheel had given out completely—not just cracked, but snapped at the hub, the heavy wooden spokes splintered like dry kindling. The wagon itself sat tilted at a rough angle, half-sunken into the dirt.

Maggie stood beside it, hands on her hips, looking about as put out as a woman could be. Her fiery red hair stuck out at all angles, framing a ruddy face smattered with large freckles. She reminded Weston of a warhorse—strong, sturdy, and no-nonsense—and he’d learned quickly not to underestimate her.

“You took your sweet time, Cade,” she grumbled.

Weston ignored her, crouching to inspect the damage. “You hit something?” he asked, running his fingers along the broken wood.

Maggie huffed. “If I did, I didn’t see it.”

Exhaling through his nose, Weston crouched to examine the wagon’s undercarriage. They were lucky it hadn’t happened while moving—if the wagon had tipped, they’d have had more than a broken wheel to deal with.

Jesse crouched beside him, letting out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s not a clean break. Musta been wearin’ thin for a while, to snap when it ain’t even movin’.”

Weston nodded. “Been carrying too much weight.”

Maggie bristled. “I packed the same as everyone else.”

“Not sayin’ you didn’t,” Weston replied. “Just this wheel couldn’t handle it.”

Maggie muttered something that sounded a lot like a threat, but Weston was already standing, dusting off his hands.

“We got spares?”

Jesse scratched the back of his head. “One, maybe two left. Ain’t got another stop for a while, so if we use ’em up …”

Weston sighed, weighing his options. They couldn’t afford to lose time, not with how the weather had been shifting. Spring rains through Kansas had already slowed them more than he liked; if they lost another wheel before the next town, they’d be stuck for days.

He turned back to Maggie. “We’ll replace it, but you’re lightening your load.”

Her nostrils flared. “You tryin’ to tell me what I can and can’t take, Cade?”

“I’m telling you if this happens again, you’ll be walking the rest of the way.”

Maggie’s lips thinned, but she didn’t argue. She knew as well as anyone that Weston wasn’t one to make empty threats.

Jesse clapped his hands. “All right, then. Let’s get to work.”

Weston rolled his shoulders, already anticipating a long morning. He beckoned a couple of sleepy drovers to help, then went to retrieve the spare wheel.

As he walked past the other wagons, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Pearl Dawson, Hank and Sadie’s daughter, was peeking out from behind her family’s wagon, watching the scene unfold with wide, curious eyes.

Weston raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t you got something to do, Pearl?”

The girl—barely eighteen and more stubborn than her own mother—grinned. “Ain’t much entertainment out here, Cade. Gotta take what I can get.”

Weston shook his head but didn’t push it.

By the time he’d returned with the spare, Jesse and the others had already started loosening the bolts on the broken wheel. Weston joined them, working in silence as the wagon train slowly came to life around them.

The first light of morning crept over the plains, casting long shadows across the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped and was answered by the low rumble of cattle.

Weston stole a glance at the horizon. They had a long way to go; Oregon was still weeks away.

He steadied the heavy wooden frame with one hand as Jesse loosened the last bolt.

“Careful,” Jesse muttered, glancing up. “Don’t need you throwing your back out. You’re gettin’ old, Cade—you’ll have a hard time leading this train if you can’t stand up!”

Weston huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Says the man who threw out his shoulder trying to show off with a lasso last week.”

Jesse grinned, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. “That was a strategic mistake. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Uh-huh.” Weston reached for the spare wheel, muscles straining as he rolled it toward the axle. “This one’ll last a good while longer. We just need to get Maggie to quit hauling half the damn prairie with her.”

Jesse snorted as he wiped his hands on his trousers. “Good luck tellin’ Maggie O’Donnell what to do.” He stretched his back, bones cracking. “Cade, you remember the first time we fixed a busted axle together?”

Weston grunted, lifting the wheel into place. “Which one? You’re gonna have to narrow it down.”

“The first time—Llano. Dead heat summer. You’d just gotten word your family’s ranch had been sold off again.”

Weston tightened the bolt with a little too much force.

Jesse leaned on the wagon rail, a nostalgic grin on his face. “You showed up fresh off a scouting job, lookin’ like you hadn’t slept in a week—dust in your hair, blood on your knuckles, and eyes like a kicked dog tryin’ not to show it.”

Weston didn’t answer, just kept working. The wheel creaked into place, settling in proper.

“I remember thinkin’,” Jesse continued, “this fella’s either gonna drink himself into an early grave or climb straight to trail boss.”

“I tried both,” Weston said flatly.

Jesse barked a laugh. “Hell, you sure did.”

There was a long pause.

“I didn’t become a trail boss ’cause I knew what I was doin’,” Weston said finally. “I did it ’cause no one else stepped up. Figured movin’ forward was better than rotting along with everythin’ behind me.”

Jesse tilted his head, warmth touching his grin. “Well, Cade, you fooled us all. We thought you had a plan.”

Weston chuckled. “I had a horse, a rope, and a whole lot of mistakes.”

Jesse clapped a hand to Weston’s shoulder. “And now look at you—pullin’ wagons through hell and back. You might be more like your old man than you think.”

Weston shook his head, a flicker of old sadness raising a lump in his throat. “I hope not.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the wheel secure.

Then, Weston looked up toward the wagons. “Let’s get movin’. Can’t outrun ghosts by sittin’ still.”

Jesse grinned. “You’re gettin’ poetic on me.”

Weston smirked. “Gettin’ old, more like.”

Weston gave the wheel one last check before stepping back and stowing his tools. “All right. Should be good.”

Jesse patted the rim and nodded. “Solid work. Let’s get this wagon movin’.”

Maggie, who’d been hovering nearby with her arms crossed, stepped forward. She gave Weston a look that said she’d left more than a few words unsaid, but seemed to resist the urge.

“Well,” she said gruffly, “I guess you boys ain’t entirely useless.”

Weston arched a brow. “You’re welcome.”

Maggie sniffed, then turned to her wagon. “Come on, kids—let’s get movin’ before Cade gets the idea to boss us around some more.”

Weston watched as Maggie’s children—Heston and little Lilly—scrambled into the wagon, both wide-eyed with excitement after watching the repairs.

“Mr. Cade?” Lilly’s tiny voice held the same Irish lilt as her mother’s.

Weston turned, softening just a little. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for fixin’ our wagon.”

Weston tipped his hat. “Anytime, little lady.”

Lilly beamed, disappearing under the canvas tarpaulin after her mother.

Jesse nudged Weston’s arm. “You got a fan.”

“Shut up.”

Jesse laughed.

As Maggie’s wagon rejoined the slow-moving train, Weston took a moment to survey the camp. Charlie Barnes, their trail cook, packed the last of the pots into his wagon. He was a wiry man with a sharp tongue, but there wasn’t a single person in this wagon train who didn’t appreciate a hot meal at the end of the day.

Across the dying campfire, Hank was tending to the horses, rubbing down his own mare and talking quietly to his wife, Sadie. The Dawsons had been married for nearly thirty years, and despite the hardships of the Oregon Trail, they still looked at each other like they’d just fallen in love yesterday.

Pearl had finally stopped snooping around, now occupied with helping mend a torn bonnet. Every now and then, she glanced toward Weston and Jesse, no doubt waiting for something else interesting to happen.

Weston shook his head. A lot of these people were either trouble, or looking for it. He didn’t mind being in charge, but he hated babysitting.

Jesse must have noticed his expression, because he nudged Weston with his elbow. “Hey—it ain’t so bad, huh?”

Weston exhaled, watching as the train slowly moved forward. “No,” he admitted. “Not so bad.”

He turned away, planning out the next stretch of the trail. The prairies would take up the next week’s travel, but trouble would no doubt find them—no matter how flat the land was.