Prologue

Cotton Ridge, Nebraska, 1880

The stew was hot, the biscuits fresh, and for the first time in days, the baby had gone down without a fuss. Colton Hayes leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, watching his wife, Clara, move gracefully around their small kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed from the lamplight, a few wisps of hair curling at her temples.

He loved coming home after a long day. Home, his family… they were his sanctuary. The quiet in the storm.

“Sit down, woman. I won’t have you hovering like a sparrow all night,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

Clara rolled her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron and finally joined him. “You sound like an old codger.”

“I feel like one. Spent the morning hauling a drunk out of McCleary’s saloon and the afternoon listening to Mrs. Avery swear her neighbor’s dog is a demon from hell.”

Clara laughed softly, ladling stew into their bowls. “And yet, Sheriff Hayes still manages to make it home in time for supper. I must be a lucky woman.”

Colton reached across the table to touch her hand. “I’m the lucky one.”

He leaned back in his chair and watched Clara as she ladled another helping into his bowl. The soft lamplight caught the gold in her hair and the freckles across her nose. She looked tired—of course, she did—but there was joy behind her eyes, too. That quiet, settled kind that didn’t need fireworks or declarations.

He tilted his head. “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe you said yes to marrying me.”

She gave him a wry look. “You didn’t give me much choice, showing up all serious and brooding with that ridiculous hat and a bruised jaw from a bar fight.”

He chuckled. “That wasn’t a bar fight. That was Sheriff Lyman’s elbow.”

“Right,” she said with a grin, “because bar fights are beneath you.”

Colton leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What did you see in me, Clara? Honestly?”

She was quiet for a beat, watching the lantern flame flicker between them.

“You looked like a man who wanted to stay,” she said softly. “And I’d known too many who didn’t.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

“I didn’t have much to offer.”

“You had a name that meant something. And a silence I trusted.” She gave him a slow smile. “Besides, you offered to rebuild my chicken coop. That was worth more than flowers.”

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against hers. “You saved me.”

Clara shook her head. “We saved each other.”

A quiet moment passed between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the wood stove and the soft ticking of the mantle clock. Somewhere down the hall, little Annabelle let out a sleepy murmur, then settled again.

“She’s got your stubbornness, you know,” Clara said, breaking a biscuit in half.

“Heaven help us,” Colton muttered.

Just then, a knock came—hard and fast, like someone in a hurry. Colton tensed. Clara looked toward the door, her brow tightening.

He opened it to find a boy, barely twelve, panting from a dead run. “Sheriff Hayes! Mr. Dobbins sent me. Said to come quick. Says someone broke into the forge again!”

Colton frowned. “Again?”

“Yes, sir. He said it couldn’t wait.”

Colton hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. Clara stood from the table, worry already written on her face.

“Tell Dobbins I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Colton told the boy, who nodded and bolted into the dark.

He shut the door with a sigh. “It’s probably just some fool looking to swipe some horseshoes or tools. Could’ve waited till morning.”

Clara stepped close, adjusting the collar of his shirt with gentle fingers. “Then go and prove it’s nothing. You’ll sleep better.”

Colton kissed her forehead, lingering. “Don’t wait up.”

“I always do.”

“You need your rest.”

“You know I can’t sleep when your side of the bed is empty.”

Colton smiled.

“Don’t take too long, Sheriff,” Clara said softly.

She stood in the doorway as he shrugged on his coat and grabbed his rifle.

The night was unusually still. Stars hung low in the sky, and the wind whispered through the cottonwoods as he rode out beneath a silver moon.

The town of Cotton Ridge, named for its cottonwood trees, sat a mile and a half from his doorstep. It was a modest settlement nestled along the old cattle route between Preston and Cold Creek. It was just a scatter of buildings and lantern posts strung like pearls along the wagon-worn road. Colton’s horse, Buck, a large chestnut stallion, was steady along the darkened road, his hooves clopping steadily over frozen ruts, the only sound in an otherwise hushed prairie night. Overhead, stars glimmered like frost, and Colton’s breath clouded white as he exhaled through his neckerchief.

He passed the livery stable first—quiet, save for the occasional rustle of a restless horse. Then came the general store, its front shuttered tight, the sign swinging slightly in the breeze. Doc Harland’s office was dark, and even the saloon was quiet, its swinging doors still for once. Not many frequented the place on a Monday, especially since the owner had broken up a scuffle earlier and thrown everyone out.

When he reached the blacksmith’s forge, he pulled back on the reins.

The place looked… still. Too still.

The forge sat back from the road, half sheltered beneath a tin awning. A single lantern hung from a post, flickering in the wind but giving off just enough light to see the hammer and tongs laid out on the worktable. Nothing seemed out of place. No busted lock. No scattered tools. No Dobbins.

Colton dismounted and ran a gloved hand along the edge of the doorframe. The wood was cold, dry, and unmarked. He stepped inside.

It smelled of iron and soot, just as it always did. The fire pit in the center had long since gone cold, coals black and undisturbed. Tools hung in neat rows on the wall. The massive anvil stood where it always had, solid and unmoved. No broken glass. No boot prints in the coal dust.

No sign of a break-in.

“Dobbins?” Colton called out into the shadows. His voice echoed slightly in the open space, answered only by silence.

He stepped out again, eyes scanning the street.

Something wasn’t right.

Where was the boy? Where was Dobbins? Why would the blacksmith send for him at this hour, only to vanish?

He turned in a slow circle, listening. No distant hoofbeats. No hurried footsteps. Just the sighing wind threading through town like a ghost.

A ripple of dread moved through his chest, low and insistent.

He’d been a sheriff long enough to know when his gut was telling him something, and right now, it was screaming. This wasn’t a misunderstanding.

His breath caught as he swung up into the saddle, the urgency clawing at his ribs now. He kicked his horse hard, turning it back toward home.

The forge disappeared behind him as he rode hard into the blackness. He rode like hell was at his heels, wind burning his eyes and the horse’s hooves thundering over frozen earth. He knew, in his heart and gut, that being called to the forge wasn’t just some misunderstanding. It was a lure, and he’d taken the bait.

The lights of home flickered ahead—too many lights. A strange glow came from the barn. The front door stood wide open, swinging like a loose hinge.

Then he saw them.

Three riders. Dark shapes tearing away from his land like devils in flight.

One clutched a bundle tight to his chest. Another rider had a body draped across the saddle like dead weight.

Colton’s heart slammed against his ribs.

He didn’t think. He acted.

Drawing his rifle, he fired into the air. The crack split the night like rolling thunder.

The riders jolted, startled, panicked. One of them shouted something unintelligible. The one with the bundle lost his grip and tossed it into the dirt. Another turned in the saddle and, with brutal ease, shoved the slumped figure from his horse.

It landed hard on the ground.

“Clara!”

Colton dove from his mount before it had fully stopped, boots skidding in the frozen mud. He caught the bundle just before it hit the ground, wrapping both arms around it and pulling it close to his chest. It was small, squirming.

Then came the sound he didn’t know he’d been holding his breath for.

A cry.

High and sharp and alive.

“Annabelle…” he whispered, choking on the name.

She was crying, her fists curled into his collar, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. He held her tighter, pressing his lips to her head, tears already stinging his eyes.

Then he turned, and he saw Clara.

She lay crumpled on her side, skirts twisted, one arm flung out behind her like a broken wing. Even from twenty feet away, Colton knew.

There was no movement. No breath.

He staggered forward, still clutching his daughter, every step slower than the last. The warmth in her body didn’t ease the cold settling in his bones.

He knelt beside Clara and reached for her hand.

It was limp and cold.

“Clara…” His voice cracked. “No… no, please, no…”

He bent his head to her chest, praying for breath. For a heartbeat. For something. But the prairie wind blew quietly around them, the house behind him flickering with firelight, and no sign of life.

Colton dropped his head to her shoulder and wept silent, violent tears that rattled in his chest.

He’d left them.

And now… she was gone.

Chapter One

McRae Ranch, Holt County, Nebraska, 1883

The ledger creaked as Savannah McRae flipped it closed and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“For once,” she said, glancing across the desk, “we’re in the black.”

Delilah let out a low whistle. “Well, hallelujah, and pass the coffee.”

The two women grinned at each other across the scarred oak surface of the ranch office desk. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through the window behind them, casting a golden glow over the worn wooden walls and the shelves cluttered with horse tack, folded maps, and old ledgers.

Savannah leaned back in her father’s old chair, the leather worn soft from years of use. It still smelled faintly of saddle oil and pipe smoke. That smell comforted her more than she liked to admit.

The late afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the papers on the desk.

Her gaze drifted toward the window, and Savannah caught her own reflection in the glass.

The woman staring back at her wore the same clothes she always did—a simple cotton blouse, a leather vest, and a sturdy riding skirt that had seen more miles than most dresses had threads. Her blonde hair, cut blunt and short for practicality, curled slightly from the day’s heat, tucked behind one ear. A few strands had escaped entirely, falling across her brow in quiet rebellion.

Her wide brown eyes looked tired, ringed with faint shadows from too many sleepless nights and too many worries. A scatter of freckles dotted her cheeks, faded in winter but always visible in summer light. She’d once been told she had her mother’s smile, but it hadn’t found her face much lately.

She sat straighter, brushing the hair back from her eyes as she looked over at Delilah, her best friend, her confidante, and lately, her only sounding board. Delilah was perched on the edge of the desk, legs swinging, arms folded over her chest. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and her hands, resting on the desk, were calloused from years of working with horses and leather.

This same desk had once belonged to her father, a man whose voice could quiet a room and whose horses fetched top dollar from here to Kansas City. It still felt strange, sometimes, to be sitting in his chair. To pay and hire ranch hands. To be the one people looked to for answers.

Two years ago, she’d been her father’s daughter, his shadow in the barn, his extra pair of hands in the saddle. Now, she was his legacy.

“Sometimes, I still expect to hear his boots in the hallway,” she said softly. “Mama calling me in for supper. And Papa cussing at the stove because she’d made stew again.”

Delilah’s smile faded into something softer. “They’d be proud of you, you know.”

Savannah nodded but didn’t speak for a moment. Her gaze drifted to the portrait on the far shelf—her parents standing in front of the big barn, arms around each other, the vast Nebraska sky behind them.

Her smile faltered.

They’d died just six weeks apart. A fever for her mother, a fall from a horse for her father. The kind of grief that knocked the breath from a body and didn’t give it back.

And yet, the ranch hadn’t collapsed.

It had tested her hard, but it had survived. And so had she.

But it wasn’t just the land or the fences she was fighting for. It was the old oak tree her father planted by hand, the one with her childhood initials still carved into the bark. It was her mother’s rocking chair, faded by sun and time, creaking on the front porch like it still remembered the lullabies once sung there.

Losing the ranch would mean losing them—the last pieces of her parents that hadn’t been buried in the ground.

Savannah glanced out the study window. The wind had picked up, rustling the brittle grasses in the pasture and slapping one of the loose barn doors against its hinge with a hollow thud. From here, she could see the main paddock stretching east, the fence line dipping toward the creek bed beyond the ridge. Town lay nearly five miles south, past the cottonwoods and the dust-worn trail, far enough that a cry for help wouldn’t carry.

Though she couldn’t quite explain it, in that moment, the ranch felt still. Exposed. Like it was holding its breath.

Just then, a shadow moved past the window, and moments later, the front door burst open with the force of a storm.

Jedediah McRae swaggered into the study like he still belonged there.

Savannah froze. She hadn’t seen her cousin in nearly eight years. She blinked, her throat constricting.

Delilah stood slowly from the desk, eyes narrowing.

He looked different from the last time she had seen him—older, broader through the shoulders, the angles of his face sharper and meaner. His skin was tanned from too much sun, his jaw rough with untrimmed stubble. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over his eyes, but she could still see the gleam of cold recognition in them. His dark hair curled around the collar of his worn coat, and a jagged scar ran down the left side of his jaw.

Savannah’s stomach coiled. “What are you doing here, Jed?”

He gave that same smile he always did when he thought he was the smartest man in the room.

She knew better.

Her hand tightened on the edge of the desk as an old memory flickered. Jed, no more than sixteen, laughing as he let a skittish colt break free during training, just to watch the stable boy scramble and fall into the mud. He’d called it a joke. Her father hadn’t. He’d always gotten mean when he thought no one with power was watching.

“Didn’t think I’d be left out of my own uncle’s funeral,” Jedediah said, voice bitter and low. He kicked dust from his boots onto the parlor rug.

“You didn’t belong there,” Savannah said, standing her ground. “He didn’t want you here. He made that clear when he sent you away.”

Jedediah gave a cold laugh and walked farther into the room like he owned the place. “And you think just because you stuck around, this all belongs to you now?”

“It was never yours to begin with.”

“Oh, it was,” he said, voice tightening. “Until your daddy changed his mind. Thought his precious little girl could run things better. We’ll see how that pans out.” He looked around the room, jaw tightening. “This place should’ve been mine.”

He turned to face her fully then, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

“This ranch needs a man’s hand again, and you need protecting.”

Delilah let out a sharp breath like she’d been slapped.

Savannah stared at him, stunned. “What did you just say?”

Jedediah shrugged casually as if he were offering a business proposition. “Makes sense, don’t it? You’ve got the land, the name. I’ve got the blood. Together, we’d make it official. Legally married. And no court in Nebraska would argue against it.”

Her skin crawled. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m claiming my rightful place. Whether you like it or not.”

Savannah’s shoulders stiffened. She could see it already—his hands on the books, his cruelty turning the ranch cold and mean. Her father’s horses beaten into submission, her mother’s kitchen filled with silence. Everything they’d built, destroyed.

And then, like a spark in dry grass, she blurted it out. “I’m already married.”

Jedediah’s head snapped back. “You’re what?”

“Married.” Her voice was steady, but her heart was racing. “A few years ago.”

His eyes narrowed. “To whom?”

“He’s a… a rancher from down south. He’s buying stock near Kansas right now.”

Jed stared at her, suspicion plain on his face. “Funny. No one said a word. No announcements. No wedding in the papers.”

Savannah straightened her shoulders. “We kept it private. Didn’t want gossip. He’ll be back in two weeks.”

Two weeks? What am I saying?

The lie tasted like dust, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if Jedediah could hear the panic rising in her throat. But she held his gaze, willing herself not to blink.

Jedediah leaned in close, and Savannah had to fight the urge to recoil from the whiskey and dust on his breath.

“I’ll be back in two weeks, cousin,” he growled. “That gives you exactly fourteen days to produce this mysterious husband of yours. And if I don’t meet him, we’ll have ourselves a different kind of conversation.”

He turned and strode out the door without offering a goodbye, the door banging shut in his wake. Dust swirled behind him as he mounted his horse and rode off at a gallop.

Delilah turned to Savannah, eyes wide. “What did you just do?”

Savannah pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “I don’t know.”

She dropped into her father’s old chair, rubbing her temples. “This is insane.”

Delilah stood across from her, arms crossed and jaw set. “You’re right. It is insane.”

“I should’ve just told him to leave and called the sheriff.”

“We both know Jedediah’s not stupid,” Delilah said. “Violent, arrogant, sure, but not stupid. Even if you called the sheriff, Jed would find some dusty loophole to make the ranch his.”

She paused, then added, “Your daddy never changed the will after disowning him, remember? If Jed contests it, and there’s no legal husband in the picture, a judge might just see it his way. Especially if he claims you can’t run the ranch alone.”

Savannah let out a bitter laugh. “And who am I supposed to marry? Every eligible man in town is either married or twice my age. Or both.”

Delilah went quiet. And then her eyes lit up in that dangerous way they always did when she got an idea.

“What if we advertised for one in the paper?”

Savannah blinked. “An ad?”

Delilah straightened, hands on her hips now. “You know, like the ones women out east answer. Lonely widow seeking companionship. Sturdy farmer in need of a wife. People do it all the time.”

“That’s for marriage, Delilah. Real marriage. I need someone who’ll stand beside me and pretend for a few months. Not someone looking for a lifetime commitment.”

“So we’re honest about what we want,” Delilah said, already pacing with purpose. “We make it clear. Temporary arrangement. Must be respectable, good with a horse, and not prone to fainting under pressure.”

“Delilah—”

“You said it yourself, Savannah. We don’t have another option. And we don’t need forever—we need someone good enough to convince Jedediah.”

Savannah stood slowly, running her fingers along the edge of the desk. Her parents’ photograph stared back at her from the shelf, frozen in time.

“I can’t lose this place,” she whispered. “Not to him.”

Delilah softened. “You won’t.”

Savannah swallowed hard. “Put the ad in.”

Delilah grinned. “I thought you’d never agree.”