Prologue

Parkville, Missouri

1845

“You don’t understand.” Fiona frowned, but tried to keep her voice as calm as she could. “I just need a few more days. That’s all I’m asking.”

The office smelled of ink, old leather, and cigar smoke, a heavy scent was felt suffocating in the quiet tension. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, glinting off the brass nameplate on the banker’s desk and the stacks of ledgers lining the walls. The rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock was the only sound, each second stretching the uneasy silence further.

Fiona Thatcher sat stiffly on the edge of a plain wooden chair, hands clasped in her lap. Across from her, Lars Grayson, the town banker, leaned back nonchalantly in his armchair. Tapping his burning cigarette, he leaned forward and looked directly into her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Miss Thatcher,” he said, his voice flat and uncomfortably tedious. “There’s simply no way around it. The payments are six months overdue, and with your parents gone…” He paused, as if he was thinking of what to say, then suddenly turned the conversation in another direction. “The ranch will go into foreclosure at the end of the month unless you pay the outstanding balance.”

Fiona nodded numbly. But inside, her heart felt like it was crumbling under the weight of his words. The home where she’d grown up, where she watched her little brother Ethan gentle a horse when he was only eleven years old—all those memories would slip away, like sand through her fingers.

A cold chill crawled down her spine, like a snake about to attack its prey. She inhaled deeply, still not willing to accept the truth. “There’s nothing more you can do?”

“I’ve done everything I can,” Lars said, still in that same monotonous tone. “But the bank has its limits. I’m sorry, Miss Thatcher. I truly am.”

Fiona swallowed hard, her throat dry. There was no use crying here, no use begging for something that wouldn’t come. But the longer she sat there, the more she felt like a little girl, lost and powerless.

“There’s always a way,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Always.”

Lars’s neutral expression shifted ever so slightly. He leaned forward, looking more serious now. “There is one option,” he said carefully, as though considering his words. “It might not be ideal, but I can’t think of any other solution.”

Fiona already didn’t like the sound of that. She cleared her throat. “I’m listening.”

Lars took a puff of smoke, then left the cigarette to burn itself in the ashtray. He eyed her with a stare that gave her goosebumps. “I want you to be my wife.”

“Your… your wife?” Fiona repeated in disbelief.

Lars nodded. “I’ve admired you for a long time, Miss Thatcher. You’re strong, hardworking, and you care deeply for your family. I believe we’d make a good match. If you Merry me, I’ll make sure the ranch remains in your name. You and Ethan can stay. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, as if time itself had stopped. Fiona’s mind raced. Marriage to Lars Grayson, a fifty-two-year old man? While she’d just turned twenty-one this summer?

Her chest tightened. She had dreamed of a love like her parents’, filled with laughter and warmth and late-night dances in the kitchen. While Lars… Lars was anything but that.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she managed, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

“Think about it,” Lars said, leaning back again, his meaty fingers resting on his big stomach. “You’re a smart woman, Miss Thatcher. I trust you’ll make the right decision.”

***

Fiona stepped out of Lars’s office and into the afternoon sun, tears pricking her eyes, but she blinked them away, focusing on the dirt road ahead. There was no time for weakness. She barely noticed the long walk to her ranch house. Lars’ proposal weighed down on her shoulders like a physical load.

Back at home, Ethan was waiting for her in the kitchen, his face pale and drawn. At just sixteen, he already carried more than his share of the ranch life.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said as soon as Fiona walked in. He held out a piece of paper. “This came in the mail.”

She took the letter and unfolded it, her lips moving as she read the letter to herself.

“Well?” Ethan asked cautiously. “What does it say?”

Fiona folded the letter carefully, her mind churning. “It’s Uncle Henry. He wants us to come stay with him. He needs help on his ranch.”

Ethan frowned. “Do you think we should go?”

Fiona could already sense the reluctance in his question.

“I don’t know,” she exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “But we have to decide… today.”

Chapter One

“You can’t just make a decision for both of us, Fiona!” Ethan’s voice thundered through the kitchen, shaking the fragile peace of the morning.

Fiona stood at the counter, her back turned to him. She didn’t say a word.

Not because she didn’t have anything to say. On the contrary: her mind was filled with dozens of battling concerns.

Was Ethan right? Was joining the Trail and heading all the way to Oregon too much for them to take on? They hadn’t been to their uncle’s ranch before; was there even a chance they would find it in the first place? Was she being too weak for not even considering the opportunity to Merry Lars?

No matter how hard she tried, Fiona couldn’t find the right answer to any of them.

“I’m not making the decision alone, Ethan,” she finally said in a strained voice. “It’s the only choice we have. And we’d better hurry, because we certainly don’t want to travel alone.”

“We’d better hurry?” Ethan repeated her words in disbelief. His chair scraped against the wooden floor as he shot to his feet and began pacing, boots striking hard against the wooden floor. “You just want to leave everything? Leave the ranch, the town, leave me?”

“I’m not leaving you,” Fiona argued, “because you’re coming with me.” She walked over to him, reaching out a hand, but he turned his back on her.

She let out a deep sigh. Ethan had his own reasons for not wanting to leave. He’d never see Father’s grave again, and that was probably his greatest grief now.

Every Sunday, he would lead Father’s favorite horse, Thunder, down the dirt road to the little white clapboard church at the edge of town. Behind it, in the tiny graveyard that was shaded by a pair of sprawling oak trees, he’d sit on the weathered bench beside their parents’ graves. For hours, he’d talk to them, his quiet voice mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant rush of the Missouri River.

Taking the Trail meant never seeing them again.

The silence was heavy with the worries that hadn’t given Fiona a good night’s sleep for months.

“I want to stay just as much as you do,” she whispered after a long moment.

“Then why are we leaving?” Ethan shot back.

She didn’t know what to say. All the answers that sprang to mind simply sounded wrong. “Because we can’t stay, Ethan. The ranch is gone. The money’s gone. Do you want to wait until we’re starving in the middle of winter with nothing but memories to keep us alive? Is that what you want?”

Finally, he turned around to face her, and she could see the pain he was hiding behind those angry, tired eyes. “At least we’d still be home,” he muttered resentfully.

Fiona took a step toward him, her heart aching at the sight of his hunched shoulders, the way he was trying so hard not to let the tears fall. “This place isn’t home anymore,” she said softly. “Not without Mother and Father, Ethan.”

Saying it aloud shook her more than she expected. After three years of never speaking those words, the truth struck hard, right in her chest.

Ethan shook his head, refusing to look at her. “They’re here, Fiona. They’re buried here. How can you just leave them behind?”

Before she could respond, he turned abruptly and stormed to the door. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling on its hinges.

Through the small kitchen window, Fiona caught a glimpse of him sinking heavily onto the porch steps, shoulders hunched. She hesitated for a moment; words still caught in her throat.

Finally, she decided to follow him outside.

“They’re not here, Ethan,” she said softly, sitting down next to him. “Mother and Father… they’re with us. Wherever we go, they’ll be with us.”

The moment she finished speaking, a gentle breeze started playing with her long, dark curls. As if Mother was trying to give them her blessing to move on.

Ethan lifted burning eyes to her. “Then promise me we’ll come back here one day. To show them what we’ve become.”

“Yes,”, Fiona said with a frail smile, hoping her voice wouldn’t break. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

Her promise seemed to soften him. She watched as the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, the defiance in his posture giving way to something more vulnerable. He turned away for a moment, his breath coming in uneven gasps, then stood, running a hand through his dark hair.

“They worked so hard to make a life for us here. And now we’re leaving. I just… I don’t want to disappoint them,” he said quietly.

“You won’t,” Fiona promised. “That’s not possible.” She paused for a moment, trying to gauge whether Ethan was believing what she was saying. Then she continued, “We’ll even bring Mother’s and Father’s belongings with us, to remind us of them. Mother’s favorite dress, and the shirt Father’s always wore to church. And…”

“And Thunder,” Ethan added, hope beginning to appear in his eyes. “We can’t leave him behind.”

“And we won’t,” Fiona said with more confidence. “We’ll take all the animals we can. And all the things we can. And I promise you that I’ll take us someplace better. Somewhere we can start over.”

As she outlined her plan, she began to feel the fire of conviction burning inside her again. “So what do you say, Ethan? Should we start packing for the road?”

Ethan’s determined nod was enough of an answer.

“Let’s start packing, then,” she whispered, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She hadn’t packed a single thing yet—not before talking things out with him; there was no way she could have done it without him noticing. But now, they could begin together.

“I heard there’s a wagon trail leaving from the church tomorrow morning,” she added. “It’s going to be a long day, but we’ll get through it. Together.”

***

By the next morning, their small wagon was loaded with only the bare essentials. Thunder stood tied to the back of the wagon, his black coat shimmering in the morning sun. They’d left behind the heavy furniture: Father’s worn armchair by the fireplace, Mother’s quilt-covered bed, the sturdy table where they’d shared so many meals.

The wagon carried only their clothing and a few personal keepsakes, along with Father’s weapons, Thunder’s tack, and the harnesses for the other farm animals. Fiona pushed the thought of the empty house out of her mind as she watched Ethan hitch their team of oxen to the wagon. They’d already loaded up the mules with Father’s farming tools to trade for provisions in town. After all, Uncle Henry had his own supplies—he wouldn’t be needing theirs.

Fiona’s throat tightened as she ran her fingers over the smooth wood of the front door one last time. Each piece they left behind held memories, reminders of the life they were abandoning. But the weight of sentimentality wouldn’t get them across the plains, and she knew they had no choice. She blinked back her tears and straightened her shoulders.

This isn’t home anymore.

It was time to move on.

***

“It’s alright, Mr. Mckenzie,” Fiona said with a smile to her next-door neighbor, the middle-aged man who was a good friend of Father’s. “You really don’t owe us anything for the sheep and the chickens. We can’t take them, and they would have starved to death if you didn’t take them.”

“Such brave children,” sighed Mrs. Mckenzie, handing Fiona a basket full of home-cooked food. “It’s not a lot. But you should have enough for at least three dinners there.”

“Did you give them the potatoes, Jenny?” her husband interrupted her. “And apples? And eggs! You must take some eggs with you!”

“You’ll never know when you’ll need them yourselves, Mr. Mckenzie,” said Ethan. Fiona could tell that he was trying his best to show his utmost respect towards the old couple, but his hand still tightened impatiently on the holster at his side that held Father’s revolver. “Besides, eggs don’t keep well on long, bumpy journeys. We’re alright. Really.”

“And where are you kids heading to?” Mrs. Mckenzie asked. “You mentioned your father’s brother—your Uncle Henry? He lives in Oregon, if I remember correctly?”

“Well, that’s what we need help with,” said Fiona, still feeling a bit uncomfortable asking. “We need to find the man leading the next wagon train west. I hope the group leaving tomorrow hasn’t already filled up.”

“You better hurry up, then.” said Mr. Mckenzie. “They’ll take as many as they can—safety in numbers—but once they’re gone, they aren’t waiting for any tardy wagons to catch up. They’re setting off as early as possible. Better safe than sorry.”

Fiona and Ethan said goodbye as the Mackenzies and returned to their wagon. Together, they hitched up the team of oxen to the wagon.

Ethan stood by the porch, his arms crossed and his face set in a hard, unreadable expression. The yard was silent except for the soft rustling of the wind through the dry grass.

“Are you ready?” Fiona asked quietly.

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “Do I have a choice?”

As they mounted the wagon off, she glanced back at the house one last time. Half of it had been in ruins, ever since she and Ethan had lost their parents. The sagging roof, the cracked windows, even the once-vibrant red paint now seemed faded and distant. Fiona could still see Mother on the porch, humming as she sewed, while Father leaned against the railing with a pipe in his hand.

Then, with a command from Ethan, the oxen began walking and the wagon jolted forward, and they began the slow, dusty journey into town.

***

“Who’s in charge of this trail we’re joining, anyway?” Ethan asked curiously.

“Jesse Cade,” Fiona answered, “but that’s all I know about him.”

The dirt road was unusually quiet that morning. A handful of the simple wooden buildings seemed empty, too. Fiona noticed that the sign advertising the local blacksmith was gone. He must have already left town.

“Do you see anyone yet?” Ethan asked as they approached the small Parkville church.

“Not really…” she replied, her doubts growing as they were approaching the church. “Wait… there’s a horse, see? Over there. Maybe there’s someone inside.”

“Do you think they already left? The travelers?” Ethan looked around, as if looking for someone he recognized. Anyone.

Fiona shared his fear, but she couldn’t allow herself to express it. Instead, she stopped the wagon and turned to him. “It’s not noon yet. People will come, I’m sure of that. We just need to wait.”

Ethan commanded the oxen to keep walking and slowly guided the wagon to a stop in front of the church. Up close to the church, it was easy to tell that the paint on the clapboard was badly peeling, and even some of the windows were broken.

Ethan’s eyes filled with pity as he gazed down the empty road. “It already seems so much more… sad than the last time I was here,” he muttered.

“Well, now you see why we need to leave this place.” Yet Fiona was still not willing to accept that this was once what she used to call home.

The town of Parkville had seen better days. Once a bustling hub for ranchers and traders, it was now a ghost of its former self. Many of the buildings were abandoned, their windows boarded up or shattered. The saloon, the blacksmith’s shop, the general store—all of them looked smaller, somehow shabbier than she remembered.

“I’ll take the mules to the general store,” she said at last. “Stay here and keep an eye on things.” She clambered down from the wagon, untied the two mules from either side, and led them slowly down the road toward the dilapidated general store.

The soft clip-clop of the mules’ hooves echoed along the quiet road. The town’s once-bustling streets were now desolate, a few residents still lingering by their homes, keeping to themselves. The scent of damp wood and dust hung in the air, and Fiona couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness as she passed the empty buildings.

Once she reached the general store, she tied the mules to the hitching post outside and went in. As she entered, a bell above the door chimed. Harold Johnson, the wiry old shopkeeper, looked up from the pile of not-so-fresh-looking apples he was sorting. His weathered face softened as he recognized a familiar face.

“Miss Thatcher!” he exclaimed, wiping his hands on his apron as he stepped outside to meet her. “You’re leaving?”

Fiona nodded, gesturing at the mules outside. “We need supplies for the journey.”

Harold nodded and followed her out to the mules. His gaze flicked briefly across the tools strapped to the mules’ backs. “Got plenty to trade, I see,” he said gently.

Fiona reached into her pocket and pulled out a small list of the food supplies she needed. “Flour, bacon, sugar, coffee, hardtack… We’ll need enough to last us a few weeks, at least. Can you help me get it loaded?”

Harold gave a low whistle as he scanned the list, then began helping her unload the tools. They worked together in silence, Fiona’s hands moving quickly as she handed Harold the farming tools she’d packed: Father’s plow, axes, saws, and several smaller hand tools that they wouldn’t need on the journey.

Once the tools were safely stored away inside, Harold went to the shelves and began gathering Fiona’s supplies, his movements quiet, efficient. Fiona helped, and together, they carried the supplies back outside and Harold loaded the mules with practiced care.

Fiona managed a small smile as he finished tying the last bundle. “I hope this will be enough,” she said worriedly.

Harold gave her a grim nod. “It’ll see you through. You’re doing the right thing, Miss Thatcher.”

“I hope so,” Fiona whispered, glancing at the mules. She turned back to Harold with a half-hearted smile. “Good luck.”

“You, too, Miss Thatcher,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “ You and Ethan take care of yourselves out there.”

***

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Fiona cried in angry impatience as she brought the loaded mules to a stop at the front gate of the church.

“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked, stepping out of the wagon to help her take over the animals, grabbing the bridle of the left mule.

“I forgot the coffee! The tin was right there on the counter in front of me!” she said irritably. She took a deep breath and turned to Ethan, trying to sound as gentle as she could. “Would you mind getting it for me? Please?”

Without a word, he ran back to the store. Fiona waited in silence as the minutes dragged on, watching for either her brother or any of the travelers to appear. She was worrying about all the dangers that might happen to them along the trip when a familiar voice shattered her concentration.

“Miss Thatcher?”

Fiona whirled around in surprise. “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed in disbelief.

Lars Grayson was standing there, small clouds of dust rising from his polished boots. His gray eyes were cold, his mouth set in a thin line. “You’re leaving?” he asked sharply. “Without even having the decency to tell me what you’ve decided?”

“Yes,” Fiona replied, trying not to lose her temper. “I’m leaving, Mr. Grayson. We have an uncle waiting to take care of us out west. It was the best decision for myself and my brother.”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer. “You told me you’d think about my proposal,” he announced in what was an almost threatening voice.

He began to stalk menacingly toward her until his faces was inches away from hers.

Her skin prickled with discomfort, but she refused to break his gaze. “I didn’t make any promises,” she replied, keeping her tone steady despite the knot in her stomach. “And I’m doing what I have to do to take care of my family.”

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Lars said, his voice rising. “You could stay. You could Merry me, and I’d take care of both of you. You wouldn’t have to struggle anymore.”

“At what cost?” Fiona replied hotly. Then she caught herself and breathed out, trying to control her tone. “I don’t love you, Mr. Grayson. I can’t Merry you.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said coldly, snatching her by the hand before she could step away. She gave a cry of frustration. His grip was tight and painful around her wrist, and her pulse quickened as fear began to tighten her chest.

“Let go, Mr. Grayson.” She glared at him, trying to steady her breathing, but her heart was racing uncontrollably.

He didn’t respond, merely tightened his grip on her. An awful feeling of helplessness surged through her, her mind spinning with fear and a desperate need to break free. “You’re hurting me, Mr. Grayson!” she gasped angrily, trembling.

“Where are you going without me, Fiona?” he hissed. “You’ll never make it in this world without me! Your only chance at security is to Merry me, and we both know it!”

Before Fiona could utter another word, Ethan’s voice cracked through the air, startling them both.

“Leave her alone!”

He was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his expression fierce.

“This doesn’t concern you, boy,” Lars said sharply.

“That’s my sister, sir,” Ethan growled, stepping forward. “Of course it concerns me.”

He threw the tin of coffee on the ground and it broke open, scattering coffee beans across the dusty road.

Fiona saw him reaching for Father’s revolver in his belt. She froze in terror. Just as she was sure he’d make the worst mistake of his life, he glanced at her—and, as if sensing her fear, he let go of the revolver handle and began walking slowly towards the banker.

Lars glared at him for a long moment before turning back to Fiona. “You’ll regret this,” he said.

“I won’t,” Fiona replied quickly, glaring at him with fierce determination.

Lars’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. With a sharp turn, he stalked away, his boots pounding against the dusty ground.

Ethan turned to Fiona, eyes filled with angry worry. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her throat tight. “I wouldn’t Merry him if he was the last man on earth,” she muttered angrily. If it came to dying on the Oregon Trail or tying herself down to a man who clearly had no qualms threatening her, she’d take her chances on the trail. Anxiously, she watched the banker’s receding figure until he disappeared into his office down the street.

Then she turned with a sigh to the spilled coffee beans. “Now… let’s see if we can salvage any of these,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

“He won’t harm you,” Ethan said with a sudden fierceness. “He can’t. And besides… you were right. It’s a good thing we’re leaving this place.”

“So, you’re not mad at me anymore?” Fiona managed a grin, but before she could hear Ethan’s answer, the creaking of wagons and the indistinct chatter interrupted them. She turned to see three more wagons approaching the church, clearly laden with supplies for a long journey.

“People!” Ethan exclaimed. “We’re not alone, after all!”

“I guess we’re not,” Fiona whispered with a smile on her face.

The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of hope.