Prologue

Dodge City, Kansas

1870

Jesse Whitlock thanked God for the fact that the sun was sinking low over the hills of Montana Territory. The heat was starting to subside, giving him some much-needed relief. Orange bathed the sky as far as his eye could see through the rough, rocky slopes in the distance.

He sighed heavily, slinging the pick over his shoulder as his boots scuffled along the hard-packed dirt.

He was tired.

Dust caked his face and tickled his lungs. He cleared his throat and spat on the ground next to his feet. Dodge City, Kansas. The place where good men were swallowed up whole.

For the past few months, he, along with a handful of other men, had been out there in the heat and the dust. Laboring from dawn to dusk. Driving stakes, sluicing gravel, breaking their backs to pick through wash pits for any sign of gold that could buy them just another day or so of living.

Work had been slow.

Not much found for the taking. Most days, not even so much as a few flecks in his sack. Most days were a whole lot of nothing. Nothing but raw hands and a back that ached like he was twice his thirty years.

But he preferred this kind of hardship. Hard labor didn’t disappoint you. Not like everything else in life.

He’d bellied up and joined in on the war and had watched good men die for the cause. And it almost did nothing to him. He was used to life disappointing him by then. His mother, his favorite person in the world, had passed away when he was a boy.

After his father. But that death wasn’t as tormenting as his mother’s. His old man—he’d loved him, but he was hard and mean. Not to mention a drunk.

Jesse’s stomach growled. It had been hours since he’d wolfed down that strip of salt pork for dinner. So instead of heading straight to his small cabin on the outskirts of town, he angled his path toward Main Street. There was one stop he wanted to make. One that had been biting at the back of his mind for days.

“Howdy, Whitlock!” a couple of men called out from the saloon. He tipped his hat to them. Just old ranch hands he’d helped out a week or so ago, breaking horses. A good bunch of men. Rough as they came, but good men, nonetheless.

A few more folks waved as he passed by, and he continued tipping his hat with a nod, his lips tight. The town itself was modest in size, but it was also growing, and fast.

Clusters of log and clapboard buildings were going up apace. The hitching posts in town were crowded with more dusty horses than just a month ago. It seemed like a few merchants were even trying to bring some polish to the settlement: the hardware store boasted a fresh coat of whitewash, and a pair of lamp posts had been raised outside the bank with flames set in them early every morning.

But most buildings still looked rough-hewn, even if they were new. He could even still smell the sawdust on them.

Function over anything else. That’s what he always said, anyway. And most of the men in Kansas felt the same.

Long strides led him to the general store, which sat square in the middle of town. A wide porch ran along the front of it with barrels of potatoes and crates of apples from Richardson’s orchard stacked neatly under a slatted awning.

He smiled. Those apples were part of what he wanted.

He pushed the door open, and the brass bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as he stepped inside.

“Evenin’, Whitlock,” called Harold Duncan from behind the counter. Duncan was near fifty, with a big belly that strained the buttons on his vest and a round, pleasant face to match, half hidden by mutton-chops. “Come from digging, eh? You look about half-dead.”

“Feel worse than half,” Jesse admitted, tugging his hat off and running a hand through his dark hair. Dirt and dust knocked loose, falling in a cloud around him. “Came to get some beans for supper, coffee, maybe a slab of cheese if it’s not turned.”

“Got a fresh wheel off the last wagon. Help yourself,” Duncan said.

Jesse moved down the cramped aisles, past the stacked-up sacks of flour and barrels of molasses, past bolts and even candy licorice. And there they were, tins of navy beans.

He gathered a few of them in his hands, along with a satchel of coffee beans, and then went to the counter where the cheese wheel sat, chunking off a bit. It smelled sharp. Earthy. His stomach growled harder.

“Oh, and…” Jesse trailed off, thinking to himself. “How much would all this be with a slice of your old lady’s apple pie?”

Duncan cleared his throat and shook his head. “You’re paid up,” he said. “I’ll get you a piece of pie. Oh, and Whitlock, I near forgot. Got somethin’ for you. Came by the mail coach from Helena two days back. Thought you weren’t expectin’ any post, but I held it anyway.”

Jesse’s brow furrowed. “Don’t get letters. Never have reason to.”

Duncan fished under the counter and pulled out a single envelope, the paper rough and a bit crumpled. Looked like it had gone through hell and back, being so rough for wear. Jesse took it, feeling a slow unease seep into his belly.

There was no return name, just his own name scrawled in the middle, in handwriting he didn’t recognize.

“You’re actin’ like it’s a death notice,” Duncan chuckled. “Just open it up.”

Jesse managed a tight smile.

“Likely is,” he muttered. “It ain’t much, but paid up or not, I’d like to give this to you and your wife for the pie,” he went on, handing over some of the money he’d had in his pocket for the store. The older man nodded sincerely, clutching it to his chest.

“Thank you.”

Jesse wasn’t stupid. He knew Duncan gave him things for free every now and then. But the man, no matter how gold his heart was, had a living to make. He had to keep food on the table for his family, too, and Jesse didn’t want to get in the way of that.

He didn’t need a handout.

He would make do no matter what it took.

It didn’t take long to get home, but he sure was tired by the time he hit the small, narrow front porch. It was a simple place. Small. But good enough for him. Alone. Away from everyone else, but convenient to town.

Just like he liked it.

He struck a match to light the lantern on the small table just inside the door as soon as he walked in. A warm, yellow light filled up the small one-bedroom cabin.

Time to eat.

He clattered pots and pans and cans to spoon out the beans for supper. He smirked as he filled his dented metal pot, set it over the black stove, and cut himself a hunk of cheese to eat with it.

He kept glancing back at the envelope. It was staring at him from the table. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he sat down, broke the seal with his finger, and unfolded the sheet of paper.

Whitlock,

It’s Weston Rhodes.

Jesse sighed deeply, already dreading it with the first line. Weston Rhodes was his sister’s ranch hand out in Bozeman. Well, her late husband’s ranch hand. What could this man possibly have to say to him that was good? He cleared his throat, emotion already thickening up the phlegm.

I hate to bring such word to you this way, but your dear sister, Cora, took ill. It came on fast and got worse by the day. The doctor did what he could, but she was too weak to fight it off. Pneumonia, they say. She passed on the 3rd. The children, Brookes and Rose, are holding on, but they are torn up. They need you now more than ever. Please come.

God keep you,

Weston Rhodes

He read it twice, three times, the words blurring together.

His sister.

Cora.

Gone.

The woman who had brushed the dust from his hair when he was just a boy. Who had scolded him for fighting in school. The one who had laughed and danced barefoot out in the summer grass with him while they caught lightning bugs.

The only family he had left, and now he didn’t even have her. And neither did her children. They were now orphans. He put his head in his hands, elbows braced on the table, breathing ragged as deep despair wracked his body.

Darn this world. Darn it all.

The beans hissed on the stove. He barely noticed. He was too distraught.

He knew there was no way he’d get there before she was buried, but he knew he owed it to her to be there for her children. He knew what it was like, losing both of his parents.

He barely ate that night, despite his hunger, and packed up only what he needed, closed up the cabin, and sauntered off, his bag slung over his shoulder.

It was going to be a long journey, and he was going to have to make it as quickly as possible.

***

Jesse sighed atop the wind-swept hill in front of Cora’s ranch house and pulled off his hat, holding it tightly in his hands.

A few neighbors were there, just leaving, when he finally rode up with a hired stagecoach. A couple of women he’d recognized from years before, Sylvie and Savannah. They barely looked at him. But he didn’t exactly want them to, either.

Weston was there, standing close to the kids, his hat to his chest as he stepped out onto the porch to greet him. Brookes and Rose were both pale and stood behind Weston, their heads down at the ground, refusing to look at him. Rose’s tears streaked her face, but Brookes stood rigid. Jaw clenched. As if he was daring himself not to break like his sister was breaking.

Jesse could relate. It was taking everything inside of him not to break, too. Seeing them made it all the more real, and he wondered if they felt the same way.

He tried to say something about how strong Cora was to them, how much she had loved them. But the words dried up in his throat. So instead of saying anything, he laid a hand on Brooke’s shoulders. It was awkward. Heavy. But it was something. The boy didn’t look at him. He couldn’t blame him for it, so he just continued to squeeze the boy’s shoulder anyway. If for no other comfort but his own.

He had gone through hell and back getting there.

He’d gotten to a train and headed out west, as far as he could go. And then he’d jumped on a wagon trail, then hired a stagecoach. It had been long. Tiring. And his nerves were getting the best of him.

“I’ll take you out to where she’s buried,” Weston said gracefully.

Jesse nodded.

“I’ll come, too,” Brookes added.

“I will, too,” Rose chimed in.

Jesse nodded, sadly, at both of them.

The road cut through the open prairie. They’d passed almost nothing but wild sage for a while. This was Cora’s world. The place where she had raised her family. The soil she and her husband had trusted with their lives.

Now… Jesse was set to keep it alive. None of it was his dream. It was Cora’s.

***

“Whoa there!” Weston hollered out as soon as they pulled into the front yard. A few chickens scattered as the wagon rumbled through and rattled to a halt.

They’d just left the place where she’d been buried, and no one had spoken since. Jesse wasn’t sure he could, but he knew he had to say something to them. He was the adult. He was the man.

He was supposed to be strong.

And he had to be strong for them.

Jesse drew a slow breath, then turned to Brookes and Rose. “You’ll be staying here. With me,” he managed, his voice low. “I’ll see to things now.” It didn’t seem like a long, drawn-out speech was in order. And even if it was, neither of them wanted to hear that.

Brookes shrugged and stared off toward the barn. “Guess it don’t matter none. Long as we eat.” His voice was slightly strained and gravelly, but Jesse wasn’t about to draw attention to it. Instead, he looked over to Rose, who glared at him, her eyes rimmed with redness.

“I want to be alone,” she snapped, before jumping down from the wagon.

He watched as she stalked toward the house, slamming the screen door behind her. He winced slightly, then let out a long, drawn-out breath. If he wasn’t so drained, he would have run after her, been hot to fight. Young men and women didn’t talk like that to their elders.

But the fight was drained out of him.

And he knew there was no use.

He felt the wagon’s weight shift as Brookes hopped down, too, setting off to the house after his sister. But slower. His head hung, shoulders drooped.

Weston clapped Jesse on the shoulder, startling him.

“They’re hurtin’ somethin’ fierce. Give ‘em time.”

Jesse only nodded, but his eyes were on that front door as Brookes went in. The creak that sounded, followed by the slam, was harsh on his ears. Maybe that was something he could fix.

That doggone door.

His heart was heavy all over again, thinking about touching anything in his sister’s house without her permission. How in God’s name was he supposed to fill Cora’s place? He could mend a fence, break a horse, and follow a trail across a ridge for days, but he wasn’t a nurturer.

He wasn’t the type of person that he ever thought could comfort two grieving children or keep a home tidy and together.

He had never learned how to do any of that.

Cora had practically raised him when he was a boy.

Now, how would he fill her shoes?

Chapter One

Helena, Montana

1871

“Good grief!” Elsie Granger barked as she tripped over the hem of her dress, her breath flying from her lips in furious gasps.

“Elsie!” Ivy’s shrill voice came from behind her.

Elsie shook her head and picked herself up, her slippered feet hitting each oak step with more force the further up the stairs she went.

“How dare you walk away from me like this?” Ivy continued, her own stomps coming from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you have any idea how childish you’re behaving?”

Childish.

Elsie’s fists tightened at her sides. God forbid, I do not want to marry a man older than my father was when he died! —not to mention a man who had stared at her like she was some sort of food to be devoured!

She shuddered to think of his ravenous eyes marking her like some sort of prey. It made her stomach pitch. She was going to be sick if she thought about it even for just one more second. Every day, she was reminded that she lived in this house without her father now. Every day, she was reminded how terrible her stepmother really was. She was trapped. Trapped with a woman who despised her. A woman who now expected her to sell herself into marriage with that leering old man, Mr. Wilcox.

When Elsie reached her bedroom door, she threw it open so hard it bounced against the wall. In a quick, angry motion, she stepped inside and slammed it shut again. Ignoring the brass latch that clattered when the door shut, she let her body slide down the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

Outside in the hall, Ivy’s voice carried on, muffled by the heavy walnut door. But Elsie didn’t care. Ivy was not her mother.

“You think you’re above your duty to this home?” Ivy shrieked on the other side of the door, her fists slamming into it. “You think your father left us so flush with money that you can just keep playing the role of a pampered little girl forever?”

Elsie shook her head, tears breaking through at last. She only ever cried when she was alone.

“I have shown you patience, beyond what any stepmother ought to be expected to!” Ivy went on. Elsie could hear her pacing, her feet hitting heavy on the floor. “But I will not stand by while you ruin both our lives with your stubborn pride.”

The door handle jiggled sharply, and all Elsie could do was thank God for the lock.

“You are behaving like a spoiled, selfish child! I won’t stand for it. Open this door at once!”

Go away!

“I’ll give you time to think!” Ivy huffed.

Elsie didn’t move. She just listened for Ivy to let out an exasperated snort. She opened her eyes again when she heard the woman pound away from her door, and merely stared across her room.

She missed her father in this room, with its reminders of him. It was large, impossibly elegant, which was nothing if not a testament to her late father’s pride in showing the world what she was worth to him. He had thought of everything, down to the smallest detail, when he’d had this room built for her. There was even cream wallpaper with gold filigree on top.

It screamed royalty.

Which is what he’d always said she was: his princess.

He had a massive rosewood wardrobe built for her that fit perfectly next to the window. She also had a desk that doubled as a vanity with all the hairbrushes and perfume he’d had imported—just for her.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat next to the door, her face in her hands, but she soon realized it was getting dark outside.

The heavy drapes were drawn, and that usually shut out most of the light already. But now all of it had gone away, even from the sides of the fabric, meaning that the sun had started its long descent. She sighed heavily, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her jaw aching from clenching her teeth so long.

Slowly, she picked herself up off the floor and traipsed over to her bed, sinking down on the edge of the mattress. Her hands twisted in the folds of her dress’s skirt. She didn’t want to cry. She hated crying. Especially over Ivy’s nonsense. But her chest felt tight, each breath scraping painfully through her throat. She had to admit, honestly, that she was worried.

Truth was, her father wasn’t there any longer to protect her from Ivy’s ideologies. She wasn’t wrong to want Elsie to get married. That was expected. She knew that.

But why did she have to be so cruel? Even as a little girl, Elsie had felt it. The cold, overly-appraising, slightly jealous looks Ivy would flash at her. The way her mouth turned down in disgust if Elsie laughed too boisterously, or—God forbid!—burped by accident. The way she would huff and puff if Elsie came in from riding with her hair a wild, tangled mess.

Ivy expected her to always be “just so”— always proper, and perfectly put together. A lady.

At first, Ivy wasn’t so bad. After Elsie’s mother died, her father had seemed so lonely. Ivy came along at a great time, and marrying her had looked like his second chance at happiness. Instead, it had become Elsie’s lifelong torment.

And now that her father was gone, too, thanks to lung disease, they had mounting debts that even Ivy’s sharp tongue couldn’t seem to talk them out of.

And any affection that Ivy had for Elsie, scant though it was, was also gone.

Elsie let out another trembling breath, slowly realizing that the room felt oppressively quiet. Too quiet. She stood up again and moved to the window, throwing back the drapes. A little light came in, but not much.

The sun was definitely going down in a display of orange hues and pinks. Her favorite time of day. She used to talk to her father about sunsets often. He always told her that nothing was as beautiful as she was—and she always told him that the sunsets surely were. He would just shake his head and tell her even they paled in comparison.

She shook her head as she looked out beyond the grounds. The flowerbeds that used to be so beautiful and large when her father lived there had gone brittle, like everything else felt these days. Brittle, and lost.

Dead.

Elsie pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane. “I hate her…” she whispered softly, her voice raw and painful against her aching throat. “Truly hate her.”

***

Elsie bolted upright, startled by the sharp knock rattling the door.

“It’s Mae!” a voice came.

She jerked her covers off, glancing outside. It was morning.

She bounced to her feet and ran over to the door, yanking it open. She was half-expecting Ivy to be holding Mae hostage as some sort of ruse to get her to open up. But it was just Mae Reed, her best friend. A bright, slender little whirlwind of a girl. Chestnut hair always piled up high and mischievous gray-blue eyes that seemed to always be up to something. Or slitted in laughter.

She grinned. “You look like death.” She giggled. “But then again, Mr. Wilcox’s carriage was outside for hours yesterday, which means you must have been pretty heated.” She sighed heavily, looking at Elsie. “How’d the afternoon go with that miserable old fogey, anyway?”

Elsie tried to respond but only managed a strangled sound. Suddenly, all the anger and horror of the day welled up at once. Her eyes stung. Before she could stop herself, a sob broke loose.

“Oh, Elsie.” Mae rushed forward, her skirt rustling, catching her by the hands. “Was it that ghastly?”

Elsie dropped down to the ground. Mae sank beside her, still hanging onto her hands.

“He’s—he’s… he’s absolutely disgusting, Mae,” she gasped out, tears coming freely now. “His teeth are yellow and his hands shake when he tries to take mine. And the way he looked at me, like he was some sort of a butcher eyeing a goose at the market. And all Ivy could do was stand there smiling at him like he was everything right with the world! Like she’d won some sort of prize!”

Mae’s expression darkened. “Well, she did,” she scoffed. “She has someone essentially writing off all of her debt.” She shook her head, squeezing Elsie’s hand gently. “I knew he was revolting. Seeing him outside the saloon all the time. Your stepmother… she’s beyond cruel to expect you to marry someone like that.”

At least someone sees it.

Elsie sniffed and swiped at her cheeks. “She says it’s my duty after everything my father did for me, and what little he was able to leave us. I owe it to the family to secure our future.”

“Her future, more like,” Mae scoffed bitterly. “She’s out of her mind if she thinks that’s love or family. It’s just greed.”

That startled a watery laugh out of Elsie. She honestly had to laugh to stop from crying. Mae squeezed her hands and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hushed, giddy whisper.

“What if you didn’t marry him? What if—hear me out here—you ran off and married someone entirely different?”

Elsie gaped at her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Mae’s grin widened. “A mail-order bride! I’ve seen the notices. Men all over Montana—and farther even—putting out ads for wives. Lonely miners, widowed farmers, probably a few ex-bank robbers, too, but men just hoping for a fresh start.”

“You’re joking.” Elsie groaned. The whole point was that she wanted to marry for love.

“I’m not joking at all! Imagine it! You pick a name out of the paper, write a letter, find out a little about him, and poof! You’re on a stagecoach to your freedom. You’d be hundreds of miles from Helena before Ivy could even finish screaming.”

Elsie let out a strangled giggle through the tears still drying on her face. “I would just end up being some tragic gossip around town—a rich man’s daughter running off and marrying some goat farmer.”

“Or a pig farmer,” Mae said, her eyes dancing. “Though you could do worse than pigs. They’re actually clean, you know. And certainly cleaner than that moldy old Mr. Wilcox.”

Elsie’s laughter spilled out fully then, bubbling up until her shoulders shook. Heavens, she’d needed this. Mae had been her friend her entire life, and the fact that she had her laughing showed exactly why.

“I should get back home. I have a lot of chores to do. But I’ll make sure to bring over some pastries from the bakery in the morning,” Mae said, standing up.

Elsie, still sitting on the floor, just nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

The only problem was, what was she going to do until tomorrow?

What was she going to do every other day of her life? Mae couldn’t exactly move in to be the only light in her life. She had her own life to grapple with. She had her own family to worry about. But as soon as the door shut behind Mae, Elsie couldn’t help but let her mind drift back to the mail-order bride thing.

It was a joke. Wasn’t it?

But even still, she wondered, would it be any worse than what she had to deal with here? She could at least have the chance of finding someone better, rather than being forced to marry a man she knew she didn’t like. Or even respect.

She’d seen him going in and out of that saloon in town more times than she could count. Saw him whistling at women in the streets.

It was embarrassing even being expected to marry a man like that.

But then again, what sort of desperate men sent off for a bride they didn’t know?

She shuddered, remembering the way Mr. Wilcox’s eyes had crawled over her, how his tongue had wet his lips when he looked at her. Her skin crawled just thinking about it. And the truth of the matter was, it didn’t matter to Ivy.

She would somehow make sure it happened one way or another—Elsie would marry him. She had already talked about a wedding at the church. Although Elsie believed that a man as bad as Mr. Wilcox might burst into flames as soon as he stepped foot in the church.

She shuddered thinking about the fact that she would have to not only wear a dress for that man but also kiss him. In a room full of people, no less.

Then where would she be?

Trapped for years in some drafty manor with a man who would take everything from her. Starting with her pride and freedom.

Getting an idea, Elsie rose from the floor and crossed the room over to her wardrobe, pulling the door open quickly. She’d just remembered—she had a newspaper! Last week’s Helena Daily Herald, to be exact. Flipping through the pages, she wondered if what Mae was talking about would be in there.

She skimmed past reports of mining strikes and cattle drives, right to the matrimonial opportunities. Her heart gave a strange little kick. The text was cramped, printed by some overworked typesetter who clearly didn’t care for romance.

28-year-old man seeks steady, industrious woman to assist in raising two children and maintaining household. Respectable offer, honest intentions. Write to J. Whitlock, Bozeman.

There were other notices, of course, but for some reason, a man raising two children stood out to her. A household.

Honest intentions.

Not love, no. But maybe something a little less disgusting than Mr. Wilcox. She brought the paper over to her small writing desk, the paper crinkling beneath her elbows.

Could she truly do it? It had been brought up as a joke. And now she was contemplating writing a man?

It would mean that she would have to leave everything she’d ever known and throw herself on the mercy of a stranger. A bitter laugh escaped her. What mercy would she find here if she stayed? At least this way, she would be choosing for herself. And honestly, who could be worse than that awful Mr. Wilcox?

Slowly, almost reverently, Elsie pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery and dipped her pen. Ink pooled on the nib, and then she traced along the page:

Dear Mr. Whitlock…