Chapter One

Taylorville, Illinois

1852

The sun hung low, painting the horizon in molten gold as Sheriff Weston Ridley and his deputy, Remy Cutter, rode side by side toward home, the day’s triumph still fresh in their minds.

“Today sure was a good day,” Weston said, feeling satisfied.

Sweat streaked the deputy’s brow beneath a battered cowboy hat. “That it was.” He grinned. “Bet old man Morton never expected to be worth five hundred dollars bounty If any of his gang’d known that, they’d have turned him in long ago.”

Weston’s laughter rang out, deep and pleased. He sat tall in the saddle, seeing not so much the well-worn trail, but the sweet smiling faces of his Theresa and baby girl Daphne when he arrived home.

I’m blessed to have such a wife, she’s one in a million.

“Good thing for us Morton’s gang didn’t find out about all those wanted posters, or we wouldn’t have the reward jingling in our pockets.” Weston patted the saddlebags where his share of the bounty reward rested. He grinned, imagining the joy in his wife’s beautiful brown eyes. “Maybe none of them ever learned to read.”

Remy nodded agreement.

The day had been long and grueling for both men and horses, tracking over hills, plunging into a valley, and finally, a wild chase after Morton Todd. They finally cornered the outlaw, standing brazenly beside the bar in the White Dog Saloon on the outskirts of Cyler City.

“I’m glad to have the money,” Weston went on thoughtfully. “Theresa’s been wanting to order a dress from a mail-order catalog. Said she’s never had a ready-made dress before. I promised her first extra bounty I made; she’d get her wish.”

Comanche, Weston’s bay stallion, lifted his head and shook his dark mane in the cooling breeze, as if sensing his rider’s joy.

“Not certain what I’m spending my money on,” Remy joked, nudging his appaloosa, Wildfire, forward. “although I can tell you sure, I’m not buying no ready-made dress.”

They laughed together, then went silent. As he often did, Weston thought of how far he’d come.

It had been a long, winding road from his childhood home in Indiana. Their family had lived just outside bustling Indianapolis, a city that, to a boy’s eyes, seemed to stretch forever. As the oldest of six, he often gazed beyond the shelves of Papa’s general store, yearning for a life more thrilling than dusting counters or hauling sacks of flour.

The West called to him, a land of promise and danger, where a man could carve out his own destiny. In a small town named Willow Springs, Weston learned how to be a lawman, under the stern gaze of a wise, older sheriff.

Years passed, and when his mentor finally hung up his badge, Weston was ready. A year later, he’d become Sheriff of Taylorville where he met and married Theresa, the sunshine in his life. That was where Daphne had been born as well. Not long after, Remy answered his ad for a deputy.

While not much crime happened in tiny Taylorsville, he and Remy had become successful at bounty hunting. They were able to help other lawmen, fatten their bank accounts, and best of all, put wanted men behind bars.

“Sure gives a fella a sense of satisfaction.” Weston nudged Comanche a little faster as they turned down the packed dirt road that was the main street of Taylorville.

Remy nodded. “I’m about ready to get out of these muddy clothes and grab me a beer at the saloon. You coming along?”

Weston shook his head. “No. Theresa will have supper cooking.”

Weston’s tiny cabin sat at the edge of town, past the jail, the livery, and a small bank. Usually the streets were quiet, maybe here or there a wagon loading at the feed store or mercantile. Children playing around the few homes or women, carrying market baskets, stopping to visit.

But this time, things were different.

He and the deputy paused. Never had there been a crowd like the one Weston spied when he rode Comanche around the schoolhouse.

“Looks like something’s going on,” Remy said quietly. “Something’s wrong.”

Weston didn’t need Remy to tell him that. He saw people rushing down the street, some running, voices excited, calling out. Bill O’Casey from the saloon, two women, friends of Theresa, their aprons twisted and mussed, hair coming undone, their faces showing shock. Mr. Paxley from the general store. Maybe a fire? Someone hurt?

Then he saw the direction they were all heading, and his heart nearly stopped.

“Hey,” Remy’s voice broke, “they’re heading toward your—Weston! Wait!”

Weston wasn’t listening. He was digging his heels into Comanche’s flanks, urging the stallion into a gallop, as the world blurred around him—faces, shouts, bodies scattering to avoid the thundering hooves.

“Sheriff!” Steven Brown, the livery owner, stepped into his path as Weston leapt from the saddle, breath ragged. “You shouldn’t go no further. You won’t wanna see.” Brown’s hands, usually steady and strong as sledgehammers, trembled.

“Theresa” Daphne?” Weston’s voice cracked.

From the porch, loud sobs pierced the air. Rosa, his sister-in-law, emerged, her face hidden behind a blood-stained apron. Weston shoved past her, ignoring the desperate clutch of her fingers on his arm, driven by terror.

No! No! No!

Inside, the parlor overflowed with neighbors, faces pale. Weston’s gaze darted wildly, searching for the familiar warmth of home: Theresa’s rocking chair, the gentle glow of the lamp, the sewing box spilled open on the floor. All should be normal. Except why was Doc there, draping a body with a sheet? And why did blood stain the wooden flooring? Where was Theresa?

“Sheriff.” Doc turned a mournful face toward him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save her. Maybe it’s better not to look.”

Weston shoved the man away, knelt, lifted the sheet. Theresa. His lovely wife, still and silenced. Forever. So much blood—the front of her pink calico stained with it. The wound. The long dark locks of her hair spread across the floor in disarray. Her cheeks pale and lifeless. Weston reached out a trembling hand to touch her, to brush a curl from her forehead.

“Daphne?” he whispered.

Doc shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Weston followed his glance to an overturned cradle. The baby’s tiny body lay under another sheet.

Weston could not bring himself to look at her.

“What happened?” he cried. “Who did this?” Whoever they are, they’ll die. Without mercy. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll track them to the end of the earth.

Rosa laid a delicate hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Weston. Someone came to rob you. I heard Theresa screaming she would give them nothing. They had guns and they shoot. When I got here, she was still alive. She told me she tried to fight, but they took everything you had in your cash box. I run for Doc and other men. Is too late.”

Wandering over to the rocking chair, Weston dropped down, head in his hands. While I was off trying to protect others by capturing Morton, someone came to kill Theresa and Daphne. Why? How could God allow this to happen?

He had no answer that day. Or that night.

Or in any of the difficult days and nights that came after it. When he buried a wife and child. When time seemed to stand still. When he moved into the jail, unsure what he’d do going forward. To his bones, Weston could feel only one thing.

My life is over.

Chapter Two

Hilliard, Iowa

Three years later

“Come on now, Tucker, we need to buy some supplies.” Hazel reached out a steadying hand to her three-year-old son as she helped him up the steps into the Lucas General Store. His short legs in faded, patched pants struggled to keep pace with her hurried stride.

“Tandy?” he asked, a hopeful smile in his chestnut-brown eyes, shining beneath a mop of unruly blond curls. Despite the worries crowding her own heart, Hazel had to smile at the sweet child. Tucker was her reason for enduring all the hardships and heartbreak that marked her life. Every troublesome day, every bruise or angry word, every sleepless night seemed worthwhile when Tucker gave her that impish grin.

“We’ll see,” she promised gently, although inside she knew every coin must go to feed him more nourishing food.

Her gaze lingered on the scar that marred Tucker’s right cheekbone, a cruel reminder of his father, Brody. The memory of that day, Brody’s drunken rage, and the sharp cry as he shoved Tucker into the corner of the table, still haunted her.

I should have stopped him before he hurt our baby.

She couldn’t help blaming herself, wondering if she could have, if she should have known better. The guilt was a constant refrain in her mind, gnawing away at her. Hazel knew she needed to forgive herself; she just wished she knew how. How was I to know he’d shove a two-year-old into the corner of the table? God knows I’d have prevented it if I could.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for Brody’s drunken, angry rages. But each time she looked at Tucker, saw the mark, it caused her more grief and regret.

No one had been able to tell her anything when the handsome Brody Kessler came courting. Not that she’d have listened. It’s my own fault—marrying him and the mess I’m living now.

But despite it all, she had Tucker. That was enough of a reward for putting up with her husband’s despicable ways. The little boy was her sunshine, a reason to get out of bed on even the darkest days.

Tucker stopped, as he often did, to look over the shiny pails, sturdy straw brooms, and bins filled with apples and potatoes. Mr. Lucas always did a fine job of showcasing his wares before the large glass windows, polished to a sheen, and hand painted with calligraphy announcing: Coffee, Hardware, and Dry Goods in gold lettering.

Hazel opened the door, heard the cheerful jingle of the bell, and smiled kindly at Mr. Lucas, the storekeeper. Inside the store smelled of fresh ground coffee, a vinegary tang from the pickle barrel, and even a whiff of fancy lady’s cologne. The shelves were lined with a variety of canned and bagged goods, and the pathways between counters were lined with a cracker barrel, pickle barrel, and just about every farm implement known to man. Tucker had been known to marvel at everything from seed spreaders to shovels on other days. This morning, his mind was on his favorite thing.

“Good morning, Mr. Lucas. Tucker and I have a long list of supplies we need today.”

“Tandy,” Tucker nodded his blond curls, his impish dimples making the man grin in return. He hurried over to the counter and the round glass jars filled with lemon drops, licorice, and other tempting treats. “Pease, Mama?”

“Here is our list.” Hazel pulled it out of her pocket and handed it over.

Mr. Lucas frowned, his bushy brows lowering, and a knot of fear formed in her stomach.

“Morning, Hazel. Mighty big list you’ve got here. I wondered if you planned to pay any of your bill today. Your credit’s grown quite high. You know how my wife fusses about people’s bills adding up. We have to order supplies brought in by freight, and shipping costs are going up too. Anything you got would help.”

“I don’t understand.” Hazel clenched Tucker’s hand, sweat prickling her brow and a familiar tightness filling her chest beneath the dark green bodice of her dress. Surely, surely … “Brody came into town this morning to pay off our debt here. I’ve earned enough sewing and mending, and he promised he would stop here first thing.”

From the sadness in Mr. Lucas’s grey eyes, she knew. He didn’t need to tell her. Once again, Brody had failed her and Tucker. Her hard-earned, carefully hoarded money had not gone to pay the grocery bill.

“He promised …” The words tasted bitter in her mouth.

“I’m sorry, your husband never made it here. Maybe he stopped off somewhere else first. If you’re certain he plans to pay, then I’d be glad to fill your order…if he’s going to pay something down later. The wife, you know …”

Hazel’s fury burned through the ache trying to lodge behind her temples. She knew Brody’s habits all too well. If he hadn’t kept his promise, he was surely holed up in Council Bluffs, twenty miles away, drowning her hopes in whiskey and squandering what little they had at the poker tables. How dare he?

How could he abandon them when their cupboards were bare, when Tucker’s small voice whined for food and she had nothing left to give him? Hazel knew the answer to that clear enough. Brody Kessler only cared about one person, himself.

Anger surged through her veins, memories of backbreaking days flashing through her mind—her fingers raw from sewing and mending, her arms aching from scrubbing strangers’ clothes just to earn a few coins. Tears welled up, stinging her eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of anyone. She straightened her spine, forcing a brittle smile on her face instead.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lucas. Perhaps I misunderstood when Brody planned to come pay our bill. I’ll come back another time.”

“Now, Hazel, you don’t have to wait.” Mr. Lucas’ voice held enough sympathy to make her stomach knot. “Not with the little one at home.”

Tucker, growing impatient about having Hazel hand him a licorice stick, started to whine. He tugged at the skirt of her dark green dress. “Tandy, Mama? Tandy?”

“Not right now, Tucker.” Hazel bent to pick him up. It was only as she bent over, she realized the sleeves of her dress pulled up enough to uncover the deep bruise on her forearm. The wound still ached, but she’d managed to put it out of her mind. There were plenty of other bruises and scars on her body, and Hazel had learned to ignore them even when the pain grew unbearable. It was the only way she could survive.

Brody had grabbed her and tossed her across the room last night, demanding money. When he was in such a state, Hazel knew enough to not give in. But this morning, sober, he’d said how sorry he was, and offered to pay their bill at the store.

I should have known he was lying. In all the years we’ve been married, I don’t think Brody has told me the truth even once.

Too late, she realized Mr. Lucas could see the black and blue marks on her arm. Mortified, Hazel pulled her sleeve down and shifted Tucker to her hip. He was slight for a three-year-old, but still too heavy to hold for long. The sympathy in the storekeeper’s eyes made her crimp her lips and struggle to hold in the tears.

“Hazel, listen, let me have that list. You’ve been a good customer for a long time, and maybe we can work something out. My wife might have need of a seamstress. Maybe you could pay down your bill that way, and we could keep it just between the three of us.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Lucas, I can’t allow you to do that.”

Brody will think this is charity. No matter how much sewing I do!

Hazel despised taking charity enough herself—but if Brody found out? He’d take his wrath out on her. She’d felt the back of his hand before when he learned others had helped her. Brody felt it made him look bad if others had to help his family.

Never mind that they, in fact, did.

“I insist.” Mr. Lucas pulled the limp slip of paper from her hand and began to set out the supplies. A small sack of flour, rice, cornmeal, salt pork, and a few other meager items she’d written down.

I should stop him. But what else was there to do? Tucker had to eat.

Tears of shame spilled onto her cheeks when Mr. Lucas made up a small brown paper twist of hard candy and handed it to Tucker. “Now, son, I’ll trust you not to eat all that candy at one time.”

“No, sir,” Tucker promised, eyes wide and serious.

With her market basket full, Hazel led Tucker outside, trying to compose herself. The sun had risen to its zenith. It would be a long, tiring walk back to the cabin, but Brody had taken their only horse when he left that morning.

“Come along, Tucker.” She nudged him forward, her feet already aching. At some point on the way home, she’d have to sit down and let Tucker rest. Three miles’ walking was easier on her legs than his.

Hazel carried the heavy market basket on one arm, holding Tucker’s hand with the other. She’d just reached the porch beside the whitewashed church when a stout, broad-shouldered man on a bay stallion approached.

“Mrs. Kessler?” The man leaned down from the saddle, a silver star glinting on the leather vest over his chest. “Are you Mrs. Hazel Kessler? A lady down the street pointed you out.”

During her marriage, Hazel had been approached by lawmen many times. Usually, the sheriff or deputy would tell her where Brody was in jail and how much money it would cost to bail him out. She’d lost count of the many jails she’d visited since saying, “I do.”

“Yes,” she said with a tired sigh.

The man dismounted, holding the horse’s reins in a strong, sunburnt hand. “Ma’am, I’m Sheriff Everly from over in Council Bluffs. Is a man named Brody Kessler your husband?”

“Yes.”

And where will I get the money to bail him out? He took everything I had this morning.

“I’m really sorry to have to tell you ma’am,” The sheriff’s dark blue eyes looked down at Tucker with a sad expression before he swallowed hard. “Your husband is dead. He was killed in a bar fight this afternoon.”

Hazel stood frozen, the words echoing in her mind. “Brody is dead?”

It didn’t seem possible. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt, the sunlight harsh and unforgiving. Tucker’s small hand felt fragile in hers.

A storm of emotions crashed through her: disbelief, relief, guilt, and a deep, aching sorrow. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to collapse at the enormity of her situation. What are we going to do now?

But then it occurred to her.

Maybe it was shameful to feel this so close on the heels of being told she’d just become a widow…but Hazel couldn’t help it. A faint stirring of hope, fragile and as elusive as dandelion fluff, had just floated into her mind. Her chest expanded as she took a deep breath, realizing it felt as if she’d been holding her breath for years.

She didn’t say a word of this new realization to the lawman, but her heart and mind spoke it immediately.

I’m free.

Which meant that maybe…just maybe…she and Tucker could begin again.

Chapter Three

Council Bluffs, Iowa

1855

“I sure don’t know how I’ll keep leading these wagon trains without you, Remy.”

Weston paused, his hands gripping the rough wood of a fifty-pound barrel, and felt splinters press into his palms. The air was thick with dust, sweat, and the clatter of preparations as they loaded another wagon for the journey west, but the weight of the beans was nothing compared to the heaviness in his chest.

Hard to believe this is the last time Remy and me will travel this road together. The last time we’ll load the supply wagon.

When he and Remy had first hung up their badges, it was Weston who came up with the idea to guide wagon trains out west. As good scouts, they’d followed enough trails in their bounty hunting days to be familiar with the landscape and any dangers that might lay ahead. Early on, Weston decided to limit his trains to just a few wagons. It made the trail easier to be responsible for less people, less livestock.

But this was going to be the end of the trail…for at least one of them.

“Seems like everything’s gone wrong this time,” Weston groused, “and we haven’t even left town yet. First, Charlie breaks his leg and can’t come along to cook. An’ then, I got to travel a thousand miles knowing you aren’t going to be riding back with me.”

Remy reached a hand to arch his back, then shoved a battered cowboy hat back on his head. “Aw, now, Weston, don’t make me feel worse than I do for running out on you after this trip. We been together a good long time. But you know how it is…I feel the same way for Margaret as you did once for Theresa.”

Just the mention of his wife’s name shot a painful fist to the pit of Weston’s stomach. He forced himself to keep moving, but his mind drifted back, tugged unwillingly to Taylorsville, to Daphne’s baby chuckles, the gentle touch of Theresa’s hand in his. Most days, he tried to bury those memories, to keep them locked away where they couldn’t hurt him. But whenever someone mentioned her name, the ache was still raw, three years later. He’d had to leave Taylorsville because it was too hard to go by the cemetery every day and be reminded.

“Yeah, I know,” he managed to answer. “I just wish you’d reconsider. I’m not sure how I’ll keep offering to guide folks out West without your help. We’ve made a pretty good team, Remy.”

Remy’s grin was tired but genuine as he hefted another barrel. “Sure, we have. And if not for our trips, I’d never have met Margaret. If we hadn’t taken that last train into Cutter’s Gap, I’d never have almost died of a fever and had her nurse me back to health. You know that.”

Weston nodded, remembering it well. Remy hadn’t been lucky to contract a fever, but the tender, loving care he’d gotten as a result? That kind of thing was lucky, and he knew it.

“As soon as we get there this time, we’re heading for the justice of the peace and tie the knot. I’m not letting any grass grow beneath my feet. Margaret and me plan to get married as soon as I get to California.” Remy eyes shone with anticipation. “And I hope you’ll stand up as my best man.”

Weston forced a lopsided grin. “You’d best not ask anybody else. Shove over another barrel of cornmeal.” The truth was, Remy was ready for a new life, but Weston…he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore.

I’ll just have to figure out what I want to do.

“You know…” Remy went on thoughtfully, as they lifted the heavy barrels into the chuck wagon and pushed them in place to balance the load. “You could settle down in California, too. I’ve been saving enough money to buy land, maybe a ranch. Why not stop leading these wagon trains and find yourself a little place? Maybe get married again. Theresa wouldn’t want you to be alone the rest of your life.”

“No.” Weston shook his head. He shifted a crate of cast iron skillets to another corner of the wagon bed and let his gaze drift to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to dip. The sunset painted the sky with purple, blue, and lingering rays of gold. The thought of settling down again both tempted and terrified him. “I need to keep moving in life. Look what happened the last time I tried to settle down. It sure went badly.”

“You gotta stop blaming yourself for Theresa and Daphne’s deaths.” Remy placed a reassuring hand on the arm of Weston’s blue plaid shirt. “There was nothing you could have done different that day.”

Weston’s jaw tightened. “I could have been home. Not off after a bounty.” If only…

Again, Remy shook his head. “Everybody makes choices in life, Weston. An’ sometimes the ones we make lead to good things—like me meeting Margaret. Other times, choices mean something bad happens. Not that we cause it to happen, but we aren’t near enough to stop it.”

“Well, this wagon won’t load itself.” Sighing, he glanced over the pile of provisions yet to go. “Back to work. Although I’m not sure who we’ll find to cook for us.”

Remy snorted. “Me, either. Sure was dumb of Charlie to break his leg on the last trip. Leaving him behind is going to put us a man short starting out.”

Weston had worried plenty about their third partner, Charles Woodley. A year ago, they’d hired Charles to cook and help with other chores. Of all the dumb moves, Charlie had tripped over a saddle and broken his leg at the end of the last trail ride. According to Doc, he’d be laid up another month or so.

“You know how to cook, Weston?” Remy asked. “Or did Theresa do it all?”

He snorted, hung a kerosene lamp on the rafters of the wagon, and looked around at the neatly stacked supplies. “You know durn well what I can and can’t cook. That’s why we hired Charlie.”

“Without Charlie, we’re gonna have to do all the cooking ourselves,” Remy finished. “Not sure how that’s going to work. By the end of the day, I’m worn out just scouting and keeping the wagons moving.”

“Reckon we can make do.” Weston climbed out of the chuck wagon, glad to have one more chore done so they could leave on time in the morning. “I can get by if I have to, but maybe I’ll ask around before we leave. Someone might be interested in the job.”

Remy swiped his forehead again. “Maybe.”

Again, Weston sighed. Remy’s last trip. No cook. What else could go wrong?