Chapter One

Late April 1852

Big Cedar, Missouri

Splintering wood pulled Cole from his thoughts. It cracked like a dead branch snapping under a heavy boot and had no business being inside Slade’s Way. The orphanage ought to echo with worn floorboards groaning under the weight of thirty boys, the murmur of lessons in the common room, the clatter of spoons against tin bowls, and the calming timbre of Luke Slade’s voice reading in the evenings. This new sound intruded on that, and Cole hated it.

Leaning against the staircase wall, Cole watched the spectacle taking place in the front room. Two men in dirty town clothes were methodically turning it upside down and frowning while doing it. A stout man with a drooping mustache, Sheriff Brody, upended a bookshelf. Volumes bound in worn leather—histories, poetry, books on animal husbandry that Luke insisted they all study—tumbled to the floor in a chaotic heap.

The younger and thinner one, the sheriff’s deputy, yanked open drawers from a writing desk, scattering parchments and quills. The black smudges of their boot heels marred the polished floorboards that Cole and the other older boys had scrubbed on their knees just two mornings ago.

A bitter taste rose in Cole’s throat. This had nothing to do with investigation. This was punishment.

The youngest boys, those no older than seven or eight, huddled in the far corner in a trembling flock of patched shirts and terrified expressions. Their whimpers flowed in a thin current beneath the noise of the destruction. A boy of six, with hair the color of straw, buried his face in the shoulder of his older brother, his small body shaking with silent sobs. The brother in question—who had a scar on his left forearm where a dog had once bit him—stood upright and stared at the two men as if he were an adult as well. Yet, he shook like a leaf in a storm, and beads of sweat pooled on his forehead.

Cole’s chest burned, his large hands curling into fists at his sides.

He wanted to storm down the stairs, to plant his feet between those men and the boys, to meet their sanctioned violence with his own. But he remained still and clenched his jaw. The only thing he’d accomplish if he tried anything would be getting himself arrested.

Everyone knew Sheriff Brody took his marching orders from the town council—the same men Luke wouldn’t share whiskey with or let near the boys.

What am I supposed to do against someone with the full strength of the law on his side?

Luke Slade stood in the center of the maelstrom.

The years had stooped his shoulders and etched deep lines around his kind eyes, but he held himself with unshakable dignity. He kept his hands clasped behind his back—which was a habit of his that popped up whenever he had to contain his emotions. His face paled. His lips thinned into a bloodless line. As he pleaded with the sheriff, Cole could hear the strain in his measured voice and the tremor he fought to keep hidden.

Day after day, Luke had held steady like a ship in a storm, but the waves were getting higher.

Cole had seen this look on Luke’s face before—the one that swore he would die before he gave up. However, Luke’s resolve had always come in the face of nature’s fury or a boy’s fever. Never because he had to wrestle men abusing their authority.

This sight, more than any other, solidified Cole’s decision to leave, one that had been growing in his mind for months. Stories of trappers and traders passing through Big Cedar had planted the seed of it, hearing tales of vast country open under a sky so big it could swallow a man whole.

His own growing restlessness had watered it. Being a man in a boy’s world. He’d outgrown the orphanage. His ambitions stretched beyond the fences that enclosed these grounds.

Luke had wanted him to take over one day and succeed him as the new caretaker of Slade’s Way. Cole appreciated the thought, but it was a beautiful and comfortable cage. He loved Luke as the only father he had ever known. The boys as brothers. But he could not stay. He needed to find a place where his own name would gain value. Cole earned himself instead of getting it on a silver platter.

The chaos in front of him broke the camel’s back.

With a quiet resolve that settled over him like a heavy blanket, Cole went up to his room and knelt in front of a small wooden chest at the foot of his bed. Luke had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday, and Cole had carved the name ‘C. SLADE’ into the lid. Inside lay his few possessions: two neatly folded spare shirts, a worn copy of Shakespeare’s tragedies that Luke had given him, a small stone he’d found the first time Luke had taken him to the creek, and a leather pouch containing the money he had earned from mucking out stalls and chopping wood for folks in town.

Not much, but it was his.

He rolled the shirts tightly, placing them in the bottom of a sturdy canvas pack, and wrapped the book in a spare cloth to protect its cover. As his fingers brushed against the stone’s smooth surface, he remembered the day he got it. Luke had sat with him by the water, explaining how the current had shaped the rocks over time, making them strong and smooth. ‘Patience and persistence, Cole,’ Luke had said. ‘They can wear down any rough edge.’

Cole clenched his fist around the stone and closed his eyes.

He was leaving the man who had taught him everything, at the very moment that the man was under siege. Yet, the guilt tightening in his gut couldn’t overcome the pull of the horizon.

Once he’d finished packing, Cole slung the heavy pack over one shoulder. He took one last look around the dormitory, at the rows of empty beds, the faint scent of soap and boyish sweat, and the fading afternoon light slanting through the single window. This room had held the entirety of his life until this moment.

He had fought, laughed, and whispered secrets in the dark here. Watched friend after friend leave with new families, their empty bunks reminding him of the temporary nature of every connection he had ever made. That fear of being left behind had been his companion all his life.

Now, I’m the one leaving.

He swung his shaggy brown hair—he really needed to root out that habit, it showed he was nervous—and straightened his shoulders. His posture was impeccable. Luke had always insisted that a gentleman carried himself with purpose even when he had none. Cole had a purpose now.

He turned and walked out of the room, reaching the top of the stairs just as Luke’s voice rose.

“You ain’t found a thing, Sheriff, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ to find,” Luke said. “These’re good boys, and this is a decent home.”

“Council says this place’s a powder keg waitin’ to blow, Luke. I’m just here makin’ sure they ain’t talkin’ smoke.” He gestured to his deputy with a flick of his wrist. “Be done with it. We’re through here.”

Cole thudded down the stairs. Luke, who had been glaring at the sheriff, turned to Cole. His eyes swept from Cole’s face down to the canvas pack on his shoulder and then back up again. The hard line of Luke’s jaw went slack. The fight in his posture drained away, his shoulders slumping as if someone had dropped a pack mule’s burden on them.

Luke took half a step forward. “Cole, what in God’s name’re you doin’?”

Cole reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping a few feet from him. He kept his eyes on Luke, ignoring the smirking sheriff and his crony as they filed out the door. The weight of every year he had spent under this roof and the debt of gratitude he could never repay sank into his gut.

He swallowed. “Figure it’s high time I lit out, Luke.”

Hiccupping sobs from the corner where the young ones huddled twisted Cole’s gut into a knot, and he knew he deserved it. His role in the orphanage demanded he act as their big brother, looking out for them and helping them grow and achieve all their dreams, and he was leaving them.

“I can’t say I like it, but I understand,” Luke frowned. “You gotta do what feels right for you, son.”

That word—son—slapped Cole. Luke used it rarely, reserving it for moments of deep pride or profound sorrow. A hot sting pricked the back of Cole’s eyes, but he blinked it away, hardening his resolve. He had to do this. If he stayed now, he’d get caught in the web of guilt and obligation and might never leave. He owed Luke his life, but he couldn’t give him the rest of it.

“Been mullin’ over it a while. Wagons’re headin’ outta Kansas, and I mean to be on one.” He squared his shoulders, trying to project a confidence he didn’t fully feel. “Time I made my own trail, figured out what I’m worth.”

Luke took another step closer. The scent of old books, pipe tobacco, and ink unique to Luke drifted between them.

“This here’s your place, Cole. Ain’t no one else meant to take the reins.” He gestured at the overturned furniture and the scattered books. “But, you’re ready to take on the world if you want to. You got the hide for it.”

“You raised me tough, Luke. Showed me what’s right, what’s worth standin’ for.” A sad smile touched his lips. “Don’t reckon it’s a shock I’m fixin’ to stand on my own now.”

Luke’s chin trembled, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He placed a hand on Cole’s cheek. Calluses lined the man’s palm, ones he’d have earned from a lifetime of labor in service of others.

“That trail’s a thousand miles of hell—dirt, fever, arrows, and worse.” Luke shook his head. “You’re just a boy of eighteen.”

Cole placed his hand over Luke’s. “I’m a grown man, Luke. I need to do this.”

“Yeah… I reckon you do.”

“I’m grateful for everything you did for me. Every single bit of it. You raised me as your own flesh and blood, and I…” Cole’s eyes watered up. “Weren’t no better pa in the world I could’ve hoped for.”

Luke pulled Cole into a fierce hug. Cole dropped his pack and wrapped his arms around the older man, burying his face for a moment in the rough wool of his coat. That familiar scent of safety, home, and childhood enveloped him. The embrace bristled with unspoken words. Love and the fear of letting go. It lasted only a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

When Luke pulled back, he kept his hands on Cole’s arms. “You keep straight out there, Cole. Be the man I know you are.”

“I will.”

Luke’s grip tightened. “You keep your eyes sharp and your boots dry, ya hear?”

Cole nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He picked up his pack and gave Luke one last look, memorizing the face of the man who had shaped him into what he was now.

Then, he turned and walked away.

He stepped out through the doorway and into the crisp afternoon air, not daring to look back. To look back would be to break.

The dusty street of Big Cedar appeared strange to him, the familiar storefronts looking like pictures in a book he had just closed for the final time. He ignored the faces of the townsfolk who glanced at the boy with the pack leaving the troubled orphanage.

He turned west to Kansas and started walking.

Chapter Two

May 3rd, 1852

Kansas, Missouri

The journey from Big Cedar dissolved into a continuous rumble of wagon wheels and the drone of the fur trader’s commentary on the quality of the pelts he was hauling. Cole—being lucky enough to hitch a ride with someone going in the same direction—had listened, nodded, and offered a hand when needed, but his mind raced ahead to the Oregon Trail.

When the trader finally pulled his team to a halt on a rise overlooking the Missouri River, a jolt shot through Cole from the soles of his boots to the roots of his hair.

The noise hit him first. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, the frantic braying of mules, the shouts of men haggling over prices, the rumble of countless wagon wheels, and the tinny notes of a piano spilling from the batwing doors of a saloon. The town pulsed with an untamed energy that sent a tremor down Cole’s spine and pulled him forward.

He offered the fur trader a coin and his thanks and slid down from the wagon seat. As the trader’s wagon creaked away, Cole stood alone at the edge of a human ocean.

For a moment, the sheer scale of it all stole the air from his lungs, shrinking him to a single speck of dust in a whirlwind. At Slade’s Way, he’d been the oldest. The one Luke trusted the most and the others looked up to.

Here, he was no one.

Hollow stinging sank into his bones. He clutched his pack’s leather straps, his knuckles going white, and only the gentleman’s posture Luke had drilled into him kept his shoulders from slumping. He took a deep breath. Coal smoke, manure, frying bacon, and damp earth clogged the air.

A tremor ran through his hands. He wiped them on his homespun pants and forced a step forward.

***

Cole had to move with constant awareness to avoid being trampled by a freight wagon or shoved aside by a rough-looking man in a hurry. He put a hand over the small leather pouch tied to his belt, which contained the meager sum of his life’s earnings. He couldn’t stand around gawking.

The fur trader had given him a name: Boone Travers.

‘If you want to get to Oregon and live to tell of it, you find Travers,’ the man had said. ‘Hard as iron, but fair. He don’t run a charity, mind you, but his trains get through.’

Cole scanned the bustling encampments that fanned out from the city proper, looking for signs of a large outfit. He passed smaller groups with flimsy wagons and thin livestock. Arguments broke out over supplies, men drank from whiskey flasks in the middle of the morning, and steer wandered with empty watering troughs.

Then he saw it.

An area of disciplined activity sitting back from the main thoroughfare. A dozen wagons with clean and white canvas covers forming a semicircle. A blacksmith’s forge glowed hot, the smith shaping horseshoes with rhythmic swings. Men loaded crates of flour, barrels of water, and sacks of seed into the wagon beds. The operation had a seriousness to it that stood in stark contrast to the surrounding bedlam.

At the center of it all stood a man who could only be Boone Travers.

Though of average height, he commanded the space around him as if he were a giant. He stood with his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips, a dusty flat-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. He watched two men hitch a team of six mules to a supply wagon. Lines weathered his face like cracked leather, and a thick, dark beard covered his jaw.

As Cole watched, the man stepped forward and ran a hand down the leg of one of the lead mules, checking the harness with a practiced touch. He spoke to the driver, who lowered his gaze and nodded in deference.

Yeah, this must be him.

Cole wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and made his way to the camp. A hundred eyes pricked his skin as he crossed the invisible boundary into Travers’s domain. The men loading the wagons glanced at him and went back to their work. Cole knew they thought him to be just another dreamer looking to hitch a ride west, but they were wrong.

I’m gonna make it.

He swallowed past a hard knot in his throat and walked directly toward the wagon master, stopping a respectful few feet away.

Once Travers finished his inspection, he turned to Cole. He had the eyes of a man who judged things quickly and accurately—livestock, weather, and other men. For a moment, Cole felt transparent, as if Travers could see right through him to the frightened orphan boy beneath the confident posture.

“Sir, my name is Cole Slade.” He tipped his hat. “I hear tell you’re the man to talk to ‘bout headin’ to Oregon.”

Travers gave Cole a slow look, going over his worn but clean clothes, his sturdy boots, the determined set of his jaw, and the calluses on his large hands.

The silent appraisal lasted an eternity.

“Name’s Boone Travers. You heard right,” Travers said. “One man’s passage runs eight hundred dollars—up front.”

Eight hundred dollars. He might as well have said eight thousand. The pouch on his belt might as well be carrying pebbles. Forty-three dollars and sixteen cents. A lifetime of saving, and it amounted to nothing. The hopeful excitement that had carried him all the way here evaporated. His face flushed, blood rushing to his ears.

“Sir, I… I ain’t got that kind of money.”

Cole hated the words and the admission of failure before he had even begun his journey.

“But I pull my weight. Know stock, fix what’s broke, shoot straight. I’ll earn my keep, sure as sunrise.”

Travers let out a sharp sigh. He had clearly heard this speech before.

“Son, every broke soul from here to St. Joe tells me they’re a hard worker. This ain’t no charity, son. It’s business. Gettin’ folks to Oregon takes coin.”

“I can work as a trail hand, sir, I—”

“No pay, no passage.” Travers shook his head. “That’s the long and short of it.”

He turned away, his attention already shifting back to the wagons, dismissing Cole as if he were no longer there.

The finality of it slammed shut in Cole’s face like a closed door. He stood frozen, the noise of the city fading to a dull roar in his ears. The sensation of standing outside a locked gate, of playing a part he hadn’t earned, coiled in his gut once more. Just another orphan with empty pockets and big dreams. Luke had told him Kansas would chew a boy up and spit him out, and the first bitter taste of it coated Cole’s tongue.

I could go back.

He could swallow his pride and return to Big Cedar with his tail between his legs. Yet, the thought repulsed him so much that it sparked a fresh flicker of defiance in him.

No. He would not go back.

He was about to walk away and figure out some other plan, any other plan, when a violent braying ripped through the air.

The two mules Travers had inspected bucked and kicked, their bodies twisting against the constraints of the harness. The other four caught the fear like a flame catching on dry tinder, and the entire team erupted into a flailing mass of muscles and hooves. The two men handling them shouted and stumbled back, trying desperately to control the lead ropes but failing.

Leather straps groaned and snapped. The heavy wagon tongue jerked violently from side to side. One of the men, a younger fellow with sandy hair, tried to grab a bridle when a rear mule lashed out with its back legs. Hoof thudded against bone. The man went down hard in the mud, clutching his leg, his face contorting in agony. The mules tangled themselves in their own rigging and threatened to tear the entire wagon apart or bolt into the crowded street.

Men shouted and ran, some towards the injured man, others away from the dangerous animals. The controlled order of Boone Travers’s camp dissolved into panic.

Cole acted.

An instinct took over that years of handling the stubborn and sometimes volatile animals at Slade’s Way had honed. Dropping his pack, he circled wide, avoiding the dangerous kicking zone behind the animals. He fixated on the lead mule.

His voice flowed low and steady, a calming current in the storm of noise. “Easy now… easy, girl… Settle down.”

Luke had taught him that an animal’s fear fed on a man’s panic. You had to be the stillest thing in the tempest.

He kept talking in a meaningless murmur as he slowly closed the distance.

Reaching the side of the lead mule, he extended his hand with his palm down. He let the animal smell it, while his voice continued its hypnotic drone. The mule’s ears twitched, its frantic breathing slowing down. Cole laid his hand gently on its neck. He could feel the tremors running through the animal’s powerful body. He stroked its neck with slow passes from its ears down to its withers. The mule shuddered once, then let out a whooshing breath.

Its head lowered.

The calm spread down the line. The other mules settled, their frantic movements subsiding into twitches and shivers. Cole, still murmuring, moved carefully along the team, untangling a twisted strap here, loosening a harness that was biting into flesh there.

Within a minute, the mules stood still. They were exhausted and trembling, but they no longer threatened anyone.

Cole stepped back. He breathed heavily, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. The other men stared at him with their mouths agape.

Travers stood with his arms crossed, staring at Cole with an unreadable expression. He must’ve watched the entire event unfold without saying a word. Well, unless Cole had just been too invested in the mules to notice. Either way, Travers pushed himself away from the wagon he’d been leaning against and walked over to where his men were supporting the man who’d gotten hurt.

Travers examined the man’s leg. “It’s busted. Get him to the doc. Tell him to set it right and put it on my account.”

The men nodded and half-carried, half-dragged the groaning man away. Travers watched them go, then his piercing gray eyes turned back to Cole. The older man walked over and stopped right in front of him.

Cole met his gaze, his breathing returning to normal. He had done what needed to be done. It was as simple as that. He expected no praise or reward. The satisfaction of helping was enough for him.

“You got a name for handlin’ stock,” Travers said. “Where’d a pup like you pick that up?”

“We had mules at Slade’s Way, sir.” Cole smiled. “The orphanage where I was raised. Stubborn critters, most of ‘em.”

“That’s one word for it.” Travers glanced at the now docile team of mules, then back at Cole. “Lost a hand just now. Man busted his leg clean through. He ain’t crossin’ no prairie.”

Please say what I think you’ll say!

“Trail hand earns his passage, room, board, and ten dollars come Oregon—if we make it. Else, you get paid in blisters.”

Cole nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s hard, dirty work. Up ‘fore dawn, bed after dusk. You’ll be wet, hungry, bone-tired. You’ll fight mud, river, and mountain. And you’ll answer to me, every step. You still fixin’ to head west?”

Relief flooded through Cole with such power it almost buckled his knees. He had a place and he had earned it. The feeling was more valuable than any amount of money.

“Yes, sir.” Cole clenched his jaw. “I do.”

“The spot is yours then. We pull out at dawn, day after tomorrow. Find a place to stow your gear. You can sleep in the barn over there for the night.”

He gestured with his chin toward a weathered structure on the edge of the property. He started to turn away, then paused.

“Slade, you said?”

“Yes, sir. Cole Slade.”

Travers nodded once more, as if filing the name away. “Don’t make me regret this, Slade.”

With that, he walked away, already shouting orders to get the mules re-hitched and the loading finished.

Cole stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in. A genuine smile spread across his face, the first since he had left Big Cedar.

He walked over and picked up his pack. As he turned toward the barn, two other young men approached him. They looked about his age, maybe a year or two older, and wore the same trail-worn clothes as the other hands. One was lean and wiry with a perpetual sneer on his lips. The other had a broader frame and a scar over his left eye.

The sneering one stepped in front of Cole, blocking his path to the barn. “What’s the hurry, mule-whisperer?”

Cole’s hand tightened on the strap of his pack. “Can I help you?”

“Name’s Elias. That there’s Silas. Wyatt is a friend of ours.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“He was s’posed to ride this train. Now he’s busted up, and you’re sittin’ in his saddle.” Elias took a step closer. “We don’t take kindly to that. Don’t take kindly to you neither.”

Cole looked from Elias’s hostile face to Silas’s quiet glare. He held his ground, his posture as straight and unyielding as Luke had taught him.

“I didn’t ask for his spot,” Cole said. “I’m just here to do a job.”

Elias let out a cold chuckle. “Well, you best mind your step, greenhorn.”