Chapter One

South Pass City, Wyoming Territory, 1865

The wind rattled the shutters like a restless spirit, but inside the nursery, warmth lingered in the hush of early evening. Rose Thorne sat cross-legged on the floor, her skirts tucked beneath her as little Lola giggled in her lap. The child’s curls bounced with every laugh, her plump fingers clutching at Rose’s sleeve.

“Again?” Rose smiled, her heart full despite the ever-growing ache beneath her ribs.

“‘Gain!” Lola chirped, eyes bright with joy.

Rose tickled her again, gentler this time, careful of the tender spot beneath her ribs from carrying her too far the day before. Lola wriggled like a puppy and squealed, falling against her sister’s chest in a tumble of warmth and tiny limbs. Rose held her close, breathing in the scent of milk, soap, and something sweeter she could never quite name.

“You’re getting so big,” she whispered against Lola’s hair. “Mother would’ve been so proud of you.”

Lola tugged playfully at the ribbon on Rose’s dress, oblivious to the tears threatening to gather in her sister’s eyes.

Then, faintly, Rose heard voices. They were muffled, but unmistakable, rising from the study just beneath them. One sharp, clipped, and low—her father’s. The other, deeper, unfamiliar.

Rose froze, her hand stilling in Lola’s curls.

Though she could not hear what they were saying, her stomach turned.

Throughout the years, Rose had grown up hearing her father’s voice in tones like that. It meant decisions were being made. Business was underway.

Zeke Thorne had always believed in control. He commanded it from rooms like that study, behind heavy doors and heavier silences. He wasn’t a cruel man in the way some were—he didn’t strike, didn’t scream. He didn’t have to. His punishments came in the form of unwavering decisions and quiet, merciless disappointment.

Affection had been foreign in their house. Rose had spent most of her childhood listening to her father talk about expansion, risk, and legacy—things he could measure, shape, and own. She had never fit into those equations. Not like a son would have.

And now, with her stepmother gone and only Lola left to protect, the weight of that long, brittle relationship pressed harder than ever.

She shook the thoughts away and kissed Lola’s head. But the murmur of voices below scraped at the edges of her calm.

Then came a knock on the bedroom door. Rose tensed. Lola blinked up at her, sensing something had shifted.

Martha, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway. She was a thin, angular woman in her early fifties, with a face carved by years of quiet endurance.

She shifted slightly, her face wearing an almost unreadable expression.

“What is it, Martha?” Rose asked.

The woman stepped into the room, her gray-streaked hair pinned back in its usual tight bun, her weathered hands clasped in front of her apron. Martha had worked in the Thorne household for over a decade—efficient, silent, unreadable. But Rose had always sensed something beneath that starch and stillness. A quiet loyalty, perhaps. Maybe even a heart that hadn’t been completely hardened by life under Zeke Thorne’s roof.

“Miss Rose, your father wants you in his study,” she said. “Directly.”

“Did he say why?”

Martha hesitated.

“No,” Martha replied.

Rose kissed Lola’s forehead and gently settled her among her toys. “Stay here, love. I’ll be right back.”

She crossed the hall in silence, the tap of her boots on the hardwood a grim drumbeat. The portraits on the wall stared down at her—generations of Thornes, captured in oil and arrogance, with hard mouths and proud eyes. There was Silas Thorne, her great-grandfather, who’d once shot a man over a disputed fence line and never lost a wink of sleep over it. Next, her grandfather Malcolm, known for building the Thorne ranch into an empire through ruthless deals and a temper that made ranch hands flinch at the sound of his boots.

None of them had ever been known for kindness.

At the far end hung the last two portraits. One was her mother’s and, beside it, Estelle’s, her stepmother.

Rose paused a beat as she passed.

Her mother’s portrait had faded somewhat with time, the colors softened, as though the memory itself was slipping away. She remembered some things, like the scent of lavender, a lullaby half-sung, the warmth of arms that disappeared too soon. It was Estelle who raised her after that, who braided her hair and brought her tea when the Wyoming winters clawed at the windows. Not perfect. But steady. And eventually, hers.

That, Rose knew, had made her different from the Thornes who came before.

The study door was already open.

Zeke Thorne stood behind his heavy desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand. His broad shoulders filled the space like a wall she could never climb. The room smelled of cigars and masculine pride.

“Father,” Rose said. “You wanted to see me?”

Her father did not answer right away, and Rose took in the stranger who stood across from him.

He was tall, dressed in a dark, tailored suit that didn’t quite hide the roughness beneath it. The cut was expensive, but the shoulders strained like they’d been tailored for a different man, one with less violence in him. His boots were mud-caked, as though he didn’t care where he stepped, or who noticed. His posture was too still. Too calculated.

And then there was the way he rolled a coin between his fingers.

A silver dollar, worn smooth at the edges, moved slow and steady across his knuckles with a hypnotic ease. He never looked at it. Just kept it moving, click, slide, catch, repeat, like a man with time, power, and no need to raise his voice to be heard.

Rose stopped at the threshold. “Who is this?”

Her father gestured with his glass. “This is Weston Wainwright. Owns land near Casper. Expanding west.”

Wainwright offered a curt nod. “Miss Thorne.”

His voice was even, polite. But his eyes lingered. They were cold and searching, wrong in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Her skin prickled.

She didn’t return the greeting.

Her father set the glass down with a soft thud. “You’re to marry him.”

The words landed like a gunshot, and for a moment, Rose was too stunned to speak.

Zeke leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “Wainwright’s putting money into the Red Valley rail spur. He’s got the land, and I’ve got the cattle. We seal this deal, and the freight contracts are ours. No more scrambling through droughts and lean years—this locks it in. For both of us.”

“No,” she said when she found her voice again. “Absolutely not.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Zeke replied, his gray eyes gleaming dangerously.

“I won’t leave Lola.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed. “She’s not your concern.”

“She’s two years old,” Rose insisted. “She needs me.”

“The staff will care for her. She won’t be your concern any longer.”

Fury flared in her chest. “She’s not a piece of luggage you hand off to strangers!”

Zeke’s tone turned glacial. “You’ll do your duty to this family.”

“My duty?” Her voice cracked. “You mean like Mother did? Silent and obedient until it killed her?”

She had been too young when her mother died, but she had heard the servants speak of her final days. Her mother sitting on the veranda in winter, too thin, coughing into a handkerchief already stained red. Zeke had refused to send for a doctor until spring, too proud to let outsiders think the Thorne household was anything less than perfect.

The silence after that was heavy. Even Wainwright’s mouth tightened.

Zeke stepped around the desk. “Enough. I’ve signed the agreement.”

Rose backed away. “You don’t even know this man.”

“I know he has power,” Zeke said plainly. “And vision. He’ll protect what matters.”

“He doesn’t even look at me like a person!”

She turned toward Weston Wainwright then, searching for some flicker of humanity. There was none. Only cold appraisal, as if she were land already surveyed.

“I’ll never marry you, Mr. Wainwright,” she said.

Weston didn’t flinch. He leaned in just slightly, his voice quiet, almost cordial. “That’s unfortunate. But people tend to reconsider—once they’re reminded what they stand to lose.”

He smiled, slow and practiced. “I’m very good at reminding.”

She stepped back again, her hands trembling. “This is a mistake.”

Zeke’s voice followed her as she turned to leave. “No, Rose. It’s your future.”

She didn’t look back as she fled her father’s office.

As she crossed the hall, she pressed a hand to her chest, forcing her breath to stay even.

Lola’s quiet babble drifted from the nursery.

Rose gripped the banister, steadying herself as the walls of the house closed in around her. Her father’s words still rang in her ears—cold, final, unyielding. A decision, not a discussion.

She stared blankly at the hall rug, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But there was no sense to be found in it. Only a gnawing, rising panic.

Marry Weston Wainwright.

The name itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She didn’t need to know him well to understand what kind of man he was. There had been something in his stillness, something calculating. The way he’d looked at her, not with admiration or warmth, but like she was property. An acquisition. Another box to check on the road to greater power.

Rose had seen men like him before. Her father entertained them often. Smiling on the outside, rotted thoroughly on the inside. And now she was meant to share a life with one? A bed?

The thought turned her stomach.

She imagined Lola growing up in that man’s house, under his roof, learning to hold her tongue, to fear the sound of his boots in the hall. Rose had lived that life once, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all the only person in the world she loved.

It wasn’t just dread that filled her now. It was fury.

She felt it in her chest, burning hot and sharp. How dare they? How dare her father trade her like a mare at auction? It was as if her wants meant nothing… as if her life were merely a tool to secure his next business deal.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

This wasn’t grief, not anymore. This was resolve. She couldn’t let this happen. She wouldn’t.

***

That night, the house was still.

No footsteps in the hallway. No murmured voices behind doors. Just the creak of aging wood and the faint rustle of wind through the chimney. Even the fire in her hearth had quieted to a low, pulsing glow.

But Rose couldn’t sleep.

She sat at the edge of her bed, still fully dressed, her hands curled into fists in the folds of her skirt. Her heart beat like a war drum, steady and loud, echoing in the silence.

Tomorrow, her father would begin preparations.

Tomorrow, Weston Wainwright would begin to claim her.

She rose and crossed the room, her steps soundless on the worn rug. At the window, she drew back the curtain and stared out into the dark. Snow still clung to the mountains in the distance, even as spring clawed its way into the valleys.

Her reflection hovered in the glass, pale against the night.

A young woman in a house that had never felt like home. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves. Freckles scattered across her nose, faded by winter but still visible beneath the firelight. Blue eyes, too wide, too wary for someone her age, stared back at her.

For a moment, she barely recognized herself.

She used to love dresses. Pretty things. Hair ribbons and lace gloves. She’d once imagined wearing them on walks with someone who spoke gently, who looked at her like she mattered. A husband chosen by love, not land deals. A life with laughter, children, sunlight, not silence and shadow.

But now the sight of her silk sleeves made her stomach twist. What good was beauty in a gilded cage?

Her throat tightened.

Marrying Weston would be worse than prison. It would be a slow, suffocating death. And Lola… sweet, innocent Lola would be left to this house and the man they called Father. Staff or not, Rose knew what neglect looked like. She’d lived in it her whole life, wrapped in luxury and loneliness.

After her mother died, when Rose was no older than seven, the house went quiet. Too quiet. Zeke had no idea what to do with a little girl. He didn’t try. For years, it was just the two of them, passing like shadows in the same halls, her world filled with nannies, governesses, and locked doors.

Then Estelle came. She brought warmth to the house. She noticed when Rose skipped meals. She made sure Rose had books, warm stockings, and tea in the afternoon when snow pressed against the windows. And then, when Estelle died giving birth to Lola, that warmth vanished too.

Now Zeke barely saw either of them. And Rose had no illusions about what life would look like for her sister if she left her behind.

She pressed her fingers to the cold windowpane.

She couldn’t let it happen.

Her mind raced, the weight of reality pressing in on all sides. She had no money. No friends she could trust with this. No help.

But there was a wagon train leaving next week, bound for Montana. She’d heard about it in passing, just yesterday at the general store. They were looking for travelers. Workers. Cooks.

She could do that.

Her cooking wasn’t refined, but she was sure she could stretch a sack of beans into a meal and learn to make biscuits over an open flame. That might be enough. Enough to buy a place on that train. Enough to get away.

Her gaze flicked back toward the small bed tucked in the corner of the room.

Lola slept there, her little chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of dreams. Her thumb was in her mouth, one chubby hand curled around the corner of a worn flannel blanket.

Rose’s heart clenched.

This wasn’t just for her.

It was for her sister. For a chance to live free. To build something better than the life their father had carved in stone and blood.

She took a slow, steady breath.

There was only one option left.

They would run, and she would never look back.

Chapter Two

South Pass City, Wyoming Territory

Three Days Later

Rose moved through the house like a ghost. She had to be careful. Invisible, when she could manage it.

By day, she was obedient. She nodded at her father’s gruff instructions. She let Martha braid her hair and kept Lola close to her skirts. But when no one was watching, she became something else entirely.

She became a thief in her own home.

Every time she slipped something into her satchel—a coil of rope, a silver brooch, a pouch of dried beans—a pang of guilt twisted beneath her ribs. Not because she thought it was wrong, but because some part of her still remembered what it meant to want her father’s approval.

Even now, after everything.

She’d spent years trying to be the daughter he might care for. Polite. Obedient. Grateful. And yet, here she was—stealing from his stores, planning her escape like a criminal in the night.

But this wasn’t a petty rebellion. It was survival. And if Zeke had truly cared, she wouldn’t have had to choose between loyalty and freedom.

She swallowed hard and pressed on, telling herself what she already knew.

A daughter who was only useful had no reason to stay.

Each day brought her closer to the deadline her father had set. The wedding was to be small but fast; less scandal, he said. Less chance for her to change her mind.

But it was much too late for that. She had already changed it. Now, all that remained was the escape.

In the quiet moments, while Martha was baking or the staff took their supper, Rose slipped through the house collecting what she could: flour wrapped in cloth sacks, salt, a small sack of dried apples she’d hidden behind old jars of preserves. She found lye soap, a length of cotton muslin that could serve as diapers or bandages, and a few pins from the sewing room.

The wagon would be the greatest risk. The old trail wagon that had been abandoned by a former ranch hand. It was sturdy and sun-bleached and hadn’t been used in years. But the frame was intact, the wheels still strong. She’d been oiling the axles with lamp oil and elbow grease under the cover of darkness, praying no one would ask questions.

It would creak. It would draw attention. But it was all she had.

And she knew the trail wouldn’t be kind.

There would be rivers to cross, rocky passes, and weeks of heat, thick with dust and biting flies. She’d heard the stories—broken wheels, snakebite, starvation. People buried beside the trail with no headstone, just a pile of rocks and a whispered name.

She didn’t know how to shoot. She didn’t know how to hunt. But she knew how to work. She knew how to keep moving when she was tired. And she knew how to watch.

If she could stay quiet and smart, and keep Lola safe, they just might make it.

She planned it all like a soldier. Move small, draw no attention, don’t take too much from any one place.

Still, there were close calls.

It happened that morning. Rose stood between the pantry’s narrow shelves packed with crockery and preserves. As she reached for a wrapped wedge of hard cheese, a shadow shifted behind her.

She froze.

“Martha,” she whispered.

The housekeeper stood in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her apron. Her pale eyes met Rose’s, unreadable.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Rose’s heart thumped in her ears. She straightened slowly, the cheese still clutched in her hand.

“I wasn’t stealing,” she said softly.

Martha’s gaze flicked to the sack half-filled with supplies in the corner. Then to Rose.

Rose waited for the reprimand. The report to her father. The betrayal. But Martha only stepped aside.

She said nothing. Not a nod. Not a warning.

Just that small, simple gesture: a doorway left open.

Rose blinked hard, her throat tight. She gave a barely perceptible nod—thank you—and slipped past in silence.

Later that night, after Lola had gone to sleep with her thumb in her mouth and her rag doll clutched to her chest, Rose opened the small cedar jewelry box on her vanity.

Inside, nestled on velvet, were the last pieces she had left of her mother.

A string of freshwater pearls, chipped in places but still elegant. A silver hair comb etched with faded flowers. A pair of earrings she’d only ever seen her mother wear to church, with pale blue stones set in delicate wire.

Rose lifted them slowly, letting them rest in her palm.

She remembered her mother fastening the earrings with a soft smile, the scent of lavender clinging to her skin. It had been a rare Sunday, sunlight pouring through the lace curtains, laughter at the breakfast table. Her mother’s hands had brushed over Rose’s braids before they left for church, warm and gentle.

She hadn’t worn those earrings often, only on days that mattered. Now Rose was packing them away, not for beauty, but to survive.

Her fingers trembled as she tucked them into the cloth pouch.

It felt like selling a piece of memory. But memory wouldn’t feed Lola. Memory wouldn’t buy passage west.

She couldn’t take much. Only what she could carry. But these might buy her and Lola a future. Bread. Shelter. A place to rest.

The thought of trying to sell them in town made her stomach turn. Too many eyes. Too many questions. But maybe on the trail, among strangers who didn’t know her name, they’d be worth something.

With trembling fingers, she wrapped each piece in a handkerchief and tucked it into the lining of her satchel.

She stared at the bag for a long time afterward.

It wasn’t just an escape plan now. It was real.

Soon, they would be gone, and there would be no turning back.

***

The next morning, just before dawn, Rose crept through the hallway, her arms aching with the weight of her sister and the satchel slung over her shoulder. Lola was bundled in wool blankets, her breath warm against Rose’s neck, her tiny fingers curled into sleep. Outside, the wind had died, but the silence was worse—too sharp, like glass beneath her feet.

Each floorboard threatened to betray her. She stepped carefully, heel to toe, remembering which planks creaked and which ones didn’t. Shadows stretched long across the walls from the dying embers in the hearth downstairs.

If her father woke up, there would be no second chance. He’d take Lola. He’d lock Rose away, call it hysteria, maybe send her to one of those places women never came back from. Or worse, he’d force the wedding immediately. Sign the papers himself and call it duty.

She swallowed hard, heart pounding like it might echo through the walls.

There’d be no pleading. No escaping. Just a life in Weston’s shadow, and Lola growing up under Zeke’s cold indifference.

She moved faster, gathering the child tighter to her chest.

Her breath hitched with every step, and the old house had never felt so large or so full of listening ghosts.

She reached the back door, the key already stolen from her father’s desk two nights ago. Her hands shook as she slipped it into the lock. It turned with a soft click. She eased the door open, letting in a breath of cold, damp air that clung to her cheeks and stung her lungs.

One step. Then another.

She moved slowly, Lola swaddled close, her blanket hood pulled low. The hem of Rose’s heavy skirt dragged through the frosted grass. Her boots, worn but sturdy, gripped the earth as she crossed the yard toward the storage barn where her father’s old wagon waited.

The plan was simple. Get out before anyone wakes. Use the horse she’d already readied quietly the night before. Ride toward the edge of town. By morning, she would be gone.

But then, a shape moved in the dark ahead.

Rose froze, her breath caught in her throat, and panic surged through her veins. Someone had seen her. It was over.

But the figure stepped forward, soft and slow. It was Martha.

The housekeeper was wrapped in her shawl, a small bundle in her arms. Her gray-streaked hair glinted faintly in the moonlight, her face pale and unreadable.

Rose’s lips parted, unsure what to say.

Martha offered the bundle without a word, and inside was warm bread wrapped in linen. Dried meat and a flask of water.

Then Rose noticed something else—coins, maybe five dollars, pressed into the bottom beneath the food.

“I didn’t know if you had any,” Martha said quietly. “Figured you’d need it.”

Rose stared at her, throat tight.

“I… thank you,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Don’t think,” Martha interrupted gently. “Just go.”

The older woman stepped closer, and her gaze softened as she looked at the child in Rose’s arms.

“You take care of her,” she murmured. “And yourself. You’re all she’s got now.”

Rose nodded, biting her lip to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She wanted to say more, to promise, to explain, to ask why Martha cared when so few ever had. But there wasn’t enough time.

Martha didn’t seem to expect anything in return.

She reached out and touched Lola’s cheek with a weathered fingertip. “Go carefully,” she said. “Don’t stop for anything.”

By the time Rose reached the edge of town, the horizon was just beginning to bruise with morning light.

The stars still hung above like cold witnesses, and the moon had dipped low behind the ridge. The trail wound north, leading toward Fort Laramie, the last known stop before the wagon train would head west toward Montana.

Rose tightened her arms around Lola, who stirred softly in her sleep, then fell quiet again.

The trail was nothing like the smooth dirt roads Rose had imagined.

She’d pictured open skies and gentle hills, wagons rolling in neat lines over firm ground, the journey hard but noble, something out of the stories she’d heard in drawing rooms or read in dime novels tucked behind parlor curtains.

She hadn’t pictured the jolt of every rut shaking her bones, or the way dust clung to her throat like sandpaper. She hadn’t imagined the biting flies, the aching heat, or the stink of livestock that never quite faded.

Back home, travel meant polished coaches and rest stops with linen-covered tables. Out here, there were no stops, just more distance, more sweat, more sore muscles she hadn’t known she owned.

Each mile stripped something away: her silk-soft illusions, her pride, the comfort of not knowing what true exhaustion felt like.

And still, she preferred this to the life she’d left behind.

The wagon jolted over rock and rutted earth, its wheels groaning like a tired beast beneath her. She gripped the reins with raw hands. Her fingers were blistered now, her palms red and sore from holding leather too long.

Lola had cried herself to sleep hours ago, nestled in a straw-lined crate beside her, wrapped in every blanket Rose had managed to bring. Rose checked her every few minutes with frantic glances, terrified the cold might slip in past the thick wool.

The early spring air was biting, and though the sun had begun to climb behind her, it gave no warmth—just pale light over endless hills. Sagebrush whipped past in gray-green blurs, and a lark called somewhere in the open. In the distance, a long line of white-topped wagons stood like waiting ships on a dusty sea.

The wagon train.

Relief rose in her chest, and then immediately curled into dread.

What if they said no?

She urged the horse on, careful not to push too hard. The gelding was old, slow, and unused to the strain. So was she. Her back ached. Her skirts were dusty, her boots soaked from crossing a shallow stream in the dark. But the wagons were there. People were there.

She could only pray they weren’t too late.

By the time she reached the camp’s edge, the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, and the first signs of life stirred among the canvas tops. Men stood by fires, stirring pots and tightening harnesses. Children peeked out from under wagon flaps. Dogs barked. Someone played a harmonica badly.

Rose paused, clutching Lola tighter.

These were the people who might decide her fate.

She saw faces—lined, weathered, curious—men with sunburned necks and women already moving briskly through morning chores. They didn’t know her. Didn’t know what she was running from. To them, she was just another traveler. But how long would that last?

Her heart thudded.

This camp could be salvation, a place to disappear, to start over. Or it could be something far worse. One slip, one wrong word, and she could lose everything.

She drew a slow breath, steeling herself.

Whatever they were, strangers or not, this was her only chance.

She pulled the wagon to a stop and jumped down, her knees buckling slightly from the impact. Lola stirred with a soft cry. Rose immediately soothed her, kissing her forehead before wrapping the blanket tighter around her and then gathering her into her arms.

People stared, and she felt them, the curious glances, some pitying, some suspicious. A few women murmured to one another. A man holding a coffee tin spat into the dirt.

A woman alone. With a child. Driving a half-broken wagon.

She lifted her chin anyway.

You can do this, Rose, she thought to herself. You’ve gotten this far already.

“Excuse me,” she called gently to a man nearby, an older fellow with a bent back and a kind face.

He paused from checking his ox yoke and squinted at her.

“I’m looking for the trail boss,” she said.

The man pointed toward the center of the wagon ring. “His name’s Oscar White. He’s the big fella by the supply wagon. Hat like he skinned a bear.”

“Thank you.”

Oscar White was exactly the kind of man her father would have called “a proper trail man.” Broad-chested, with a thick beard and hard eyes that had seen too much. His long coat was dusty and oil-stained, and a knife hung from his belt like a warning.

He didn’t look up as she approached.

“Mr. White, I need to speak with you,” she said. “If you have a moment.”

“Speak fast,” he grunted, tightening a strap on a harness. “Ain’t got time to waste.”

“I want to join your wagon train. I can work. Cook, clean… whatever’s needed.”

His eyes finally cut to her and immediately fell to the bundle in her arms.

“You’ve got a child,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

“You got a husband?”

“No.”

“Money?”