Prologue

Lockhart, Texas

1875

Josie sat beside Amelia’s bed, her fingers trembling as they rested on her sister’s damp, fever-ridden hand. She felt guilty being so angry at her. Part of her wanted to shake her; to demand she get better. But she knew that wouldn’t do a darn bit of good. Amelia didn’t want to be sick. She had a lot left to live for.

More than Josie did, even.

Her throat clutched in sadness as she gazed down at her silent sister. The dim glow of the oil lamp cast a shadow across Amelia’s pallid face. Her once-rosy complexion was reduced to nothing more than a ghostly shade of white. Sweat clung heavily to her forehead.

Her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, but Josie didn’t—couldn’t—pay attention to those. Instead, she chose to look at the long eyelashes she’d always envied when they were little; Amelia’s soft, delicate skin; her full lips; the dark brown curls that cascaded around her pillow. They contrasted heavily now against her pale skin.

It wasn’t fair. That fever had ravaged her body completely.

Just as it had their mother.

Josie’s throat constricted again with emotion, but she refused to cry. Not yet. Not while Amelia still clung to this thin thread of life. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she adjusted the quilt over her sister’s frail body, tucking it around her as if she could shield her from the inevitable. As if she could somehow tuck her away so tightly that no monster could ever get to her, not even this fever.

Amelia’s lips parted in a weak smile, and her faded blue eyes—another thing Josie had always envied—flicked open. They glistened with gentle affection. Her lips parted, and she spoke in a hoarse voice. “Do you remember how we used to run through Mama’s sewing scraps?”

Josie let out a shaky laugh, brushing a damp curl from her sister’s forehead. “I do. We’d throw them in the air like money, pretending they were our riches.”

A faint chuckle escaped Amelia’s lips, but it quickly turned into a cough that rattled in her chest.

Josie’s heart clenched, but she forced herself to remain calm.

She deserves someone who can be strong for her.

Clearing her throat, she leaned over to the side table and grabbed a tin cup of water. “Have some,” she said softly.

Amelia nodded and leaned forward, lips trembling as she sipped from the rim of the cup. Everything she did seemed to expend so much energy.

“And Papa,” she went on as the coughing fit subsided, her voice so small that Josie had to lean closer to hear. “How he’d scoop us up and spin us around every night after he finished working outside…”

Josie nodded, a sudden warmth spreading over her. These were Amelia’s fondest memories. She seemed to be recalling them all now. Josie was glad for it, honestly, because they were also her favorite memories.

Papa’s laughter had been so loud—boisterous and rolling; it filled every inch of the home they’d grown up in. It was her favorite sound. Even to this day. His arms had always been open for hugs. Even in the times he struggled the most, he never let them feel unloved.

He was a good man. An honorable man.

Tears welled in Josie’s eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. Be stronger than that.

“He would have been so proud of you taking care of me,” Amelia said, her eyes darkening a bit. “I wish I’d listened to you. I should have run sooner.”

“Don’t,” Josie warned, shaking her head. “None of that matters now.”

But it did matter.

If Amelia had left that good-for-nothing man before he had stripped her of her whole spirit—before the bruises and all the nights she’d spent sitting up, trembling in fear—maybe she wouldn’t be lying here now, her body too weak to fight anymore.

Amelia turned her head ever-so-slightly. She looked at the wooden cradle at the foot of the bed, and Josie followed her gaze.

Inside, Samuel was sleeping, his tiny fists twitching in his sleep.

“Promise me,” Amelia rasped, her fingers brushing over Amelia’s hand before clutching it tightly. “Promise me you’ll protect him. That you’ll never let Randall take him.”

Randall. Randall Pierce, the scumbag who had caused all this.

The reason Amelia was dying now.

Josie tensed with anger at the sound of his name. The thought of him disgusted her, but the thought of him sinking his claws into Samuel was even worse.

“I promise,” .she said through gritted teeth “I won’t let him take Samuel. No matter what it takes.”

I’ll die first.

Amelia sighed with relief, her lips curving into a slight smile. She took in a breath, as if she was going to say more, but nothing but a rattle came from her throat… and then her hand went limp in Josie’s grasp.

“Amelia—!”

But by the time the name left Josie’s mouth, her sister had already drawn one single shuddering breath, and her chest had become still.

She was gone.

A silence filled the room, a hollowness that leeched into Josie’s body, into her head. It was the kind of silence that made her all-too-aware of the smallest sounds, as if they were deafening. Her breath she could hear in her ears, almost as loudly as the pounding of her heart. A strangled sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it as best she could.

Leaning down, she brought her lips to Amelia’s still hand and placed a small, tender kiss on top of it.

I made her a promise. I’ll see it through. But she had no idea how she would do it by herself. Especially here in Lockhart. They’d come here on the run. No one knew them—not really. The shopkeeper and his wife did, but only because the two sisters had rented this room from them by the week.

And the couple still knew nothing of the sisters, of their pasts, where they’d come from. They knew none of it because no one could.

We couldn’t risk being found.

Because they’d been on the run from Randall.

Samuel whimpered in his cradle, pulling Josie out of her trance. Quickly, she took a shaky breath, wiped away the trails of tears down her cheek, and stood up. The baby’s whimper turned into a full cry, as if he could already somehow sense what was happening.

Leaning forward, Josie gathered him up and held him against her chest. “I know,” she murmured, trying not to sob. “I already miss her, too. I’ll keep you safe… I swear it.”

***

The morning sun had popped up over the horizon, but Josie hadn’t closed her eyes all night. She couldn’t bring herself to.

Her body ached, and her hands still trembled with fear and grief. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy on her equally heavy eyelids. Yet she stayed awake, staring blankly out the window with Samuel nestled in her arms.

The same haunting image was burning itself in her mind—Amelia’s final breath, again and again, an unending moment that she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to escape.

The baby stirred in the crook of her arm, his tiny mouth parting with a sleepy sigh. She ran a gentle finger along his delicate cheek. His face was scrunching. He was about to cry. No doubt he was hungry.

At least he was actually able to sleep through the night these days. It was almost as if Amelia had been waiting to pass until he was weaned. But he wasn’t. Not yet. Not quite. They’d scraped together money to buy extra milk from a wet nurse in town, and when that ran out, they’d used cow’s milk, though it had been hard on his belly.

And now…?

Josie sighed as she pulled herself up to stand, careful not to disturb him too much. She hated the thought of someone so small, so helpless, carrying such a heavy burden. A mother who was gone, and a father—

Not a father. No father would treat the mother of his child like this.

Josie gazed down at the baby’s troubled face. How am I going to protect him from it all?

A sharp knock at the door jolted her out of her trance, spiking her pulse in fear.

No one ever visited.

She swallowed hard and carefully placed Samuel down in his cradle. Her heart was drumming in her chest as she went to the door, and her hand trembled as she grabbed the doorknob. “Who is it?” she called out, trying to gather herself.

“Miss Josie, it’s Mrs. Guthrie.”

Josie recognized the elderly woman’s voice at once. Relief flushed through her.

Not Randall.

It was just Mrs. Guthrie, the shopkeeper’s wife. Hers was a kind voice. Gentle. But now it sounded almost… troubled. “I came to check on dear Amelia,” she continued. “I came to see if either of you need anything.”

I’ll have to tell her…

Josie took a deep breath, yet she still hesitated for a moment, fingers heavy on the brass handle, before turning it with a heaving breath and pulling it open. The hinges let out a wild creak before revealing the concerned face of Mrs. Guthrie.

Despite the temporary nature of the sisters’ arrangement, Mrs. Guthrie was the closest thing to a neighbor and friend that Josie had. She had always seemed to have a soft spot for the two sisters, bringing them fresh bread and the latest news of town.

Josie had often wondered if the couple felt sorry for them—two girls with a baby and no men to help.

But it didn’t matter. Their kindness still meant a lot.

Josie blinked a few stray tears away and stepped aside to allow the woman in. “Amelia is…”

Gone. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the word. All she could manage was a brief gesture toward the bed, where its silent occupant lay, face covered by the bedsheet.

Understanding, sorrow, and compassion crossed Mrs. Guthrie’s face in quick succession. “The fever took her quick, then,” she said quietly, looking pained, as she pressed a wrinkled hand to Josie’s arm. “I’m so sorry…” Her hand was cool and soft, yet somehow, warming.

Josie swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “I have to bury her. I can’t—I can’t afford a proper burial. But I can’t leave her here, either.”

Mrs. Guthrie patted her arm gently. “We will figure something out. There’s a little place just past the ridge where others have been laid to rest. I will get David to dig the grave.”

Josie’s chest tightened with gratitude, but her relief was short-lived. She still had Samuel to protect, and Randall was still out there, no doubt searching for them. And it was only a matter of time before he found them.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible with the strain in her throat.

As Mrs. Guthrie went to the bedside to tend the body, Josie turned back to Samuel, unable to watch.

She had promised Amelia she would protect him, and she intended to keep that promise. No matter what it took, she would find a way to keep Randall from taking him.

Even if it meant running through the night and never looking back.

Chapter One

Josie Tate loved spring.

At least, she used to.

She’d loved the warmth. The smell of fresh blooms. The fact that everything was starting to blossom. Spring was beautiful. It gave new life, and it was something she always looked forward to.

But that joy was gone now. Today was the first day of spring, yet she felt like she was suffocating.

The streets of Lockhart were busy these days with the warmer weather. Women hung laundry; shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops or tidying their windows; the blacksmith was hammering away at his anvil.

Life was moving on.

Without her.

She was struggling to keep her head above water as everything else sailed slowly past.

It had been weeks since Amelia had succumbed to her fever, and since then, Josie had done everything in her power merely to survive and keep Samuel safe. She had thrown herself into working as a seamstress for hire as often as she could, yet that was barely enough to make ends meet. She had been sewing, long into the night, so long that her fingers were now blistered. She had been mending trousers, stitching dresses, taking on any amount of clothing that meant she could put food on the table and pay for her rent.

Tonight was one of those nights. Her hands trembled as she pinned another hem with a twitching clumsiness. Her fingers and wrists ached terribly, but she couldn’t afford to take her time. This dress had to be finished by morning.

I’d rather be anywhere else.

She hated the fact that she and Amelia had been forced to leave their family’s ranch and move to Lockhart. She missed home more than anything. Especially now, with all the whispers that followed everywhere she went. Even though she and Amelia had lived quietly, there were still those unkind rumors they’d always had to avoid or outrun.

And they’d just gotten worse since Amelia’s passing.

But Josie wasn’t surprised. A young woman living alone with a baby? No husband? No family? There were bound to be whispers.

Samuel stirred in his cradle, letting out a soft whimper, and she immediately abandoned her work to scoop him up before he could start crying.

He had been doing a lot of that recently.

“Shh, little love,” she whispered against the soft curls that had been growing out over the last couple of weeks as she rocked him gently. “We don’t want to wake the whole town now, do we?”

He nestled into her shoulder, his tiny little fingers curling around a lock of her hair. She looked down at him, managing to stifle the cry that had been flowing out for weeks now. He had Amelia’s blue eyes, and it was hard to look at them. They even held the same sort of pain in them. The pain of loss.

Josie kissed his forehead, her heart clenching. How much longer can I keep him safe?

A sharp rap at the door sounded, and her pulse thundered in her ears. She clutched Samuel closer out of pure instinct of protecting him, then forced herself to let out a long breath. It was probably Mrs. Guthrie again, reminding her to get some rest.

But when the second knock came—much harsher this time—her gut told her otherwise.

“Josie Tate.” It was a man’s grating voice, turning Josie’s blood to ice. “I know you’re in there.”

She would know that voice anywhere. It was a voice she despised, a voice like snake’s venom, toxic and deadly.

Randall Pierce.

Amelia’s husband. That mud-sucking, low-life tyrant.

Josie’s blood ran cold as she pressed a hand over Samuel’s back, praying that he wouldn’t cry out. She tried to focus on his warmth as terror and hatred clawed its way up her throat.

How did he find us?

“Josie!” A sharp blow rattled the door, shaking the frame. “Open this doggone door! Or I’ll break it down!”

She didn’t even want to breathe, afraid he might hear her.

How can I get out of here?

Panicked heartbeats flooded her chest as she stared wildly around the room, searching for an escape.

There—the back entrance. The one no one else knew about or used, except for Mr. and Mrs. Guthrie.

Randall slammed his fist against the door again, and Josie took off to the back room, heart in her mouth as his shouts followed her through the door. “You think you can keep my son from me? He’s mine, Josie. You hear me? Hand him over, and I might let you walk out of this alive!”

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

Randall Pierce had been nothing but a nightmare. In Amelia’s life, and now in hers. He had completely destroyed Amelia. There was no way she would let him come here now and tear Samuel away from her. As long as there was breath in her body, he’d never lay a hand on Samuel. Especially not when Samuel was all she had left of her sister, all she could do to keep her promise.

If Randall wanted the little child, he would have to kill her first.

Samuel’s face scrunched, he let out whimpering cries from curled lips. Josie didn’t blame him. He was probably just as afraid as she was with all the banging and yelling. She pressed a kiss to his cheek as she ran toward the wooden wardrobe beside the back window.

The back exit was hidden behind the wardrobe, and it led into an alley between the boarding room and the shop. Josie managed to shove the wardrobe away from the wall with one hand, desperation lending strength to her body. The door in the wall looked just wide enough for her and Samuel to slip through.

Randall was still shouting, still pounding against the door in the other room. It was now or never. Josie pivoted and grabbed a small satchel she’d left on the floor, with barely more than a few coins and one singular change of clothes for both of them. She flung the strap over her shoulder and then slipped through the door, hoping Samuel could keep quiet when they got outside.

Just in time. Behind her, she heard the crash of the door splintering open.

“Josie!” Randall’s bellow was followed by the hollering of men close by—men who must have been waiting out front.

Fear drove Josie’s legs now. She sprinted down the dark alleyway, away from the noise, not daring to wait even a moment to call for help. Skirt tangling around her legs, she wove her way through back streets, behind old barns, clinging to the shadows.

There was no time to stop, no time to plan. She simply ran.

She was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been, now that she didn’t have Amelia to run with. Now that a dangerous man was already threatening her ability to keep her final promise to her sister.

Her lungs burned as her feet pounded hard against the dirt. She kept between storefronts, weaving through alleys and behind buildings. Anything to keep off the main street. She didn’t want to draw attention. She didn’t want him to find her. She hated to admit it, but she was sure he was faster—but she was smarter.

The streets were silent, the windows closed. The loudest sound was the roar of her heartbeat in her ears. She didn’t stop running all the way through town until she reached the open plain beyond, stretched out peacefully beneath the night sky.

The tall grass whipped at her; dust rose in thick clouds from her hurried pounding steps. Samuel was crying loudly against her chest now, and she kept her arms wrapped tightly around him, shielding him as best she could.

She just kept running.

As far as she could… as long as she could. It was dark, and the night was quickly cooling; she worried about Samuel getting too cold. But it would have been far worse for him if she had stayed, or even if she had hesitated a few moments longer before leaving.

All the times they’d run before, they’d had some idea of where they were going. But now, she had no direction. No plan. Only a desperate need to get as far away from Randall Pierce as she could.

***

She didn’t know how long she ran before her body finally succumbed to exhaustion. Her knees buckled suddenly beneath her, and she collapsed into the prairie grass, legs turned to lead, immoveable.

Panting heavily, she looked up to the sky. The stars stretched like a peaceful blanket above her.

She cursed under her breath in a moment of madness, exhaustion. The stars need to pay attention. How dare the night be so peaceful when Randall was after her and Samuel?

…And then her senses returned, and her breaths came in ragged sobs as she painfully pulled her feet in and managed to sit up.

Her body was aching terribly. She wanted nothing more than to lie there for the rest of the night. But she couldn’t sit out in the middle of nowhere. Not with a baby.

I have to get up. I have to keep going.

Chapter Two

Austin, Texas

1875

The morning started like any other.

Cash Montgomery had a routine. One he took pride in. One he needed. More than anyone else knew. It kept him grounded. It kept him rooted in everything his family had built.

He was up before the sun, same as every day. He had shrugged into a brown button-down shirt and trousers, splashed water across his face to wake himself up and groaned, his back already aching.

No bellyaching. There were chores to do. A lot of them.

He glanced out the window and thanked God for the day.

It was like a painting out there, God’s painting, with streaks of blue and pink spread out over the horizon as the sun crept up.

The entire house was already stirring. He heard a dull thud against the wall from the room next door, followed by a muffled curse. Luke.

Cash chuckled. Luke was always clattering around in the kitchen this early. Stepping into the hallway, Cash trailed his hand along the weathered wooden wall. The floor creaked loudly underneath his feet.

Down the hall, Luke’s voice was resounding from the kitchen. His mouth was already running faster than a bee-stung mare. Morning was his favorite time of day—and it was Cash’s least favorite. He hated mornings almost as much as his other brother, Beau.

“I need more coffee,” grumbled Beau, his voice gravelly with sleep as he traipsed passed Cash, his footsteps heavier. He was the eldest of the three, broad-shouldered and strong as an ox. His hair was dark, always neatly combed back. Cash found it hard to believe that even in the early hours of the morning that Beau hated so much, he still made sure his hair was slicked back.

Cash shook his head, smiling, as he followed Beau through the doorway that led to the kitchen. The smell of biscuits and bacon hit him as soon as they opened the door. He smiled and his stomach gurgled.

“That smells amazing,” he announced as he walked into the kitchen. Luke was now sitting at the table, already shoveling food in his mouth, his wavy brown hair drooping down past his eyebrows.

Another thing Cash found hard to believe: how big his little brother was getting. He remembered when Luke was just a little thing not much bigger than his forearm. Ma had given birth to him in the very bedroom that now belonged to Cash.

Hank Calloway, their head hand, was pulling hot biscuits, his famous recipe, from the oven. And Beau was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he drank his coffee with a sour expression. “Could you eat any louder?” he muttered, shaking his head.

Luke grinned, his mouth full. “Ain’t my fault I work up an appetite.”

Cash took his seat at the head of the table and poured himself a cup of coffee before loading his plate. Breakfast was his favorite meal. A little fuel for the long day ahead.

“Fences need checking out past the south ridge,” Beau said, biting into one of Hank’s biscuits. “And that black colt needs more halter training.”

“I’ll handle the colt,” Cash replied gruffly, stuffing the biscuit into the side of his cheek.

“You sure?” Hank asked, turning from the stove, a piece of bacon in his mouth as he carried the cast-iron skillet of bacon to the table. “That colt has a mean streak a mile wide.”

Hank was a good man. He was older than Beau by thirty years or so, but he was a darn good cowboy. He had practically raised the three brothers after their parents passed away. He was wise and protective with big arms and an even bigger belly. He liked bread and pie a little too much, but that was quite alright with them. He was one heck of a worker. And everyone loved when it was his turn to cook breakfast. His biscuits were the stuff of legends.

Cash just gave the man a shrug. “He’s just a horse. Like all the rest of ‘em.”

Hank laughed. “Oh, I forgot, you think you’re a horse whisperer.”

Cash winked at him. “I am a horse whisperer.”

Truth was, he wasn’t a bit worried about that colt. He’d always known his way around horses. A lot better than he did with people. He knew the horses, and they knew him. The colt might be a tough one to tame, but he wasn’t tougher than Cash.

Luke leaned back in his chair, smirking. “All’s right with the world, eh? Too good to last too long. Reckon Remington’ll be sniffing around again soon.”

Cash’s grip tightened on his coffee mug at the name.

Grayson Remington.

He was the kind of man whose pockets were a little too deep. So deep that he thought money could buy him anything—including the Montgomery ranch. Even if he’d been told ‘no’ a thousand times. It didn’t stop him from trying. He’d been making offers for years, hoping one of them would crack under the pressure—or maybe hoping he could scare them one day with his gang of idiots.

“Let him try,” Cash grumbled. “He’ll never get this land.”

Beau nodded in agreement. “Darn right he won’t.”

All three brothers would have rather died than give him even so much an acre of their land. Pa had built this place from the ground up. And Cash wasn’t about to let some rich, slick-talking fool take it away.

This place was a lot more than just land. It was more than dirt and fences and cattle and horses.

It was home.