Prologue

Spearfish, South Dakota

April 1880

The study door clicked shut behind Silas Rourke in his tailor-made suit, and Willa Dane felt a chill in her stomach. She had been called to her father’s study, but it was not her father who entered. It was him. Her intended husband. The man she was set to marry tomorrow. He was handsome with dark hair and dimples in both cheeks, but his smile was almost mocking.

“Willa.” Silas’s voice flowed smoothly like fine whiskey. “We need to talk.” His cold, calculating eyes bored into her.

She stood behind her father’s large oak desk, thankful for the distance between them.

The room smelled of pipe tobacco and old leather, familiar scents that now felt unsettling. Through the tall windows, twilight offered a palette of gray and gold over the city.

“Where is my father?”

“Occupied.” Silas moved closer, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. “I wanted a moment alone with my bride.”

Bride. Tomorrow, she would stand in the parlor and promise to obey this man. He was the same man whose grip on her elbow at last week’s dinner had left bruises she had hidden beneath long sleeves.

“It’s not proper for us to be alone.” Willa inched sideways along the desk.

“Your mother is preparing for tomorrow’s festivities and won’t disturb us.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those scary eyes. Her father had seen through them—she was certain he had—but Silas Rourke’s political connections mattered more than his daughter’s safety. You will learn to love him, Willa,” her father had said. “Just give it time.”

“You’ve been avoiding me, Willa.”

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice turned harder. In two strides, he rounded the desk. “The postponements. The excuses. The way you flinch when I touch you.”

Willa backed toward the window, her heart racing.

“Silas, please—”

He grabbed her wrist, his fingers pressing in with controlled force. Not enough to make her shout, but just enough to hurt. The bruises from last week throbbed beneath his grip—he was holding her in the same spot.

“Tomorrow, you will smile,” he said quietly. “You will say your vows without hesitation. You will be the perfect, grateful bride your father promised me. Do you understand?”

She tried to pull away. His hold tightened, and pain shot up her forearm. Tears formed despite her attempt to hold them back.

She nodded.

“Good girl.”

He let go suddenly, and she stumbled.

“Your father and I have worked too hard on this alliance for you to ruin it with your childish fears.” He straightened his cuffs, regaining his composure as if nothing had happened. “I’ll see you at the altar, my dear.”

When the door closed behind him, Willa’s knees buckled. She sank to the floor, cradling her wrist. The bruises were already darkening. Tomorrow would bring more. And the day after that. And every day for the rest of her life. Unless she ran.

The thought struck her with terrifying clarity. She could leave. Tonight. Before dawn broke and she found herself standing next to a man she would fear throughout their marriage.

Her father would be furious. Her mother would cry. They would blame her—not Silas—for destroying their carefully constructed image. For ruining the family’s reputation and for throwing away the collaboration her father had worked so hard to secure.

But she would be free. Her heart raced at the thought of it. But what would he do if Silas caught her? She didn’t want to think of the consequences. There must be a better way somewhere in another town. Her breath hitched at the thought of it.

Outside, the lamplighters made their rounds. If she was ever going to leave, now would be the time. She couldn’t wait until daylight because someone would notice her. No, it had to be now. She approached her father’s desk. Her mother’s engagement ring slipped off her finger easily. She placed it carefully beside the ink stand.

Let them understand.

In her room, she worked with trembling hands. A dark servant’s cloak. Her sturdiest traveling dress. The small bag she had hidden under her bed for three days, filled with what little she dared take: a change of clothes, her mother’s silver hairbrush, and a few coins she had saved. Forty-three dollars. That was all she had. It would have to be enough.

The house settled into sleep around her. Willa waited as the grandfather clock struck midnight. She crept down the servants’ stairs. The kitchen door creaked softly as she opened it. Cool night air rushed over her face, bringing the scent of rain and opportunity. For a moment, she hesitated. Once she crossed this threshold, there would be no turning back. She’d be on her way to Deadwood, a town with enough people that she could blend in without being noticed, the terrifying unknown stretching before her.

Then she thought of Silas’s fingers pressing into her wrist. The icy promise in his eyes. The lifetime of fear that lay before her. Willa stepped into the darkness and pulled the door shut behind her.

Spearfish was no longer her home; her future waited at the end of the line.

Her feet ached. Her wrist throbbed. But she didn’t stop. By dawn, she was miles away following the road toward Deadwood. She’d be there soon. She’d studied the maps in her father’s library enough times to know the route, even if she had no real plan for what came after.

Under the vast sky, with the first light breaking over the horizon, she let herself imagine something beyond survival. A little bakery, perhaps. A place of her own where she could knead dough and create something beautiful with her own hands. Where the only person who controlled her life was herself. Where the scent of fresh bread and pastries would replace the smell of pipe tobacco and fear.

It was a foolish dream, maybe. But it was hers. And right now, that small hope was enough to keep her moving forward.

Deadwood. The mining town to the north—a place where fortunes were made and lost, where people came to start over.

A place where no one knew her name. Where a woman could vanish and start again. As she walked along, she thought of what life would be like in Deadwood. Would she be accepted there? Could she finally have her own business? She’d always wanted to own a pastry shop, and perhaps Deadwood would be exactly what she was looking for. But any place was better than staying in Spearfish and marrying Silas. Any place where she might finally be free.

Chapter One

Deadwood, South Dakota

May 1880

Willa had no intentions of waking. Ever.

The prairie whispered through the empty morning, the dawn wind chilling her. She clutched the thin shawl at her throat, the dry brush rustling in the breeze. Her body was numb, but her mind held onto one thought that had carried her this far: keep moving west. Now, she was too tired. If God were merciful, He’d let her sleep until she vanished into the prairie.

Instead, she heard voices. Women’s voices. They sounded close. The creak of leather boots shifted.

“Thought she was a bundle of rags.”

“She’s breathing!”

Willa’s eyes fluttered open to a blur of color and light. The sky stretched overhead, pale and harsh, so bright it made her eyes water. Two faces hovered above her, blocking the sun.

One woman had a round, weathered face and graying hair pulled back in a bun. Laugh lines creased her eyes. A flour-stained apron covered her faded dress.

The other woman was younger with a plain face and thick hands, her knuckles red and chapped from hard work. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows.

“Mercy, child,” the older woman said, waving her hand to scatter the black flies buzzing around Willa’s head. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Willa tried to sit, but her body refused. Every muscle felt heavy and immovable, like iron. Her hair—matted with prairie dust and sweat—stuck to her face and neck. When she tried to push it away, pain shot through her hands. In her haste to leave, she’d forgotten her gloves, and her hands were chapped and dry.

“Easy now.” The older woman crouched beside her, her knee joints popping. She studied Willa’s face with an intensity that made Willa want to look away.

“Martha, look at her,” she said in a gentle voice. “This girl wasn’t born to starve on a godforsaken prairie.”

Martha leaned closer, squinting in the bright morning sun. The smell of lye soap came from her. “There’s quality beneath all that dirt. Honey-blonde, real fine. And her hands—” She nodded at Willa’s chapped and dry hands. “Those weren’t made for scrubbing floors or hoeing fields.”

Martha straightened, brushing dust from her skirt. “My guess? She ran from something. Got herself in trouble and ran out of places to hide.”

The older woman shot her a sharp look that seemed to say, “Hush.”

But even half-dead and filthy, Willa knew what she looked like. Her dress, once a fine gray traveling gown, was torn. She was dirty and needed a bath. All proof of the life she’d abandoned in Spearfish.

“Child, when did you last eat?” the older woman asked.

“I don’t—” Willa’s voice cracked, dry as old paper. “I don’t remember.

“Where are you coming from?”

“East.” The lie came easily. Vague. Safe.

“East is a mighty big place. What town?”

Willa’s chest fluttered like a trapped bird. “I don’t remember anything except walking.”

“Walking? How far?”

“I don’t know.” She couldn’t stop now.

The women exchanged glances. The older one said, “I’m Lydia Briggs. You’re on the doorstep of my boarding house. Let’s get you inside before you faint again. Martha, help me.”

“Wait—I can’t pay.” Shame burned hotter than the sun beating down on her skull. “Not much, anyway. I don’t want charity—”

“Child, you’re in no position to refuse anything.” Lydia’s voice remained gentle, but her eyes held determination beneath the kindness. “We’ll sort out payment later. Right now, you need food and rest before you die on my doorstep and give this place a bad reputation.”

“I won’t be a burden,” Willa whispered. “I can work. I know how to cook and bake.”

“We’ll worry about that when you can stand on your own two feet.” Lydia slipped an arm around Willa’s waist. “Come on now. One foot in front of the other.”

They lifted her carefully, one woman on each side. Willa’s vision swam as they half-carried, half-dragged her. Her feet scraped against the ground.

She caught glimpses of the boarding house. It was a low wooden structure, the boards weathered gray by sun and wind. A wide front porch sagged slightly on one end. A rocking chair sat near the door, its seat worn smooth. Windows with yellowed lace curtains reflected the morning light. The blue door, paint peeling in long strips, creaked as Martha kicked it open.

Inside, the air felt different. Cooler. The smell hit her first—coffee, strong and bitter. Bacon grease. Woodsmoke from the stove. Beneath it all, the faint scent of lye soap and old wood.

Safety.

Or a trap.

The line blurred somewhere between home and here. All she knew was the weakness in her limbs and the hunger clawing at her belly like a starved animal. All she knew was the weakness in her limbs and the hunger clawing at her belly like a starved animal.

“Just a few more steps.”

They guided her through a narrow hallway—floorboards creaking underfoot—and into a kitchen. Willa collapsed into a wooden chair that scraped loudly against the floor. The table in front of her was scrubbed pine, worn smooth in the center from years of use. Flour dust still clung to one corner.

A cup appeared at her lips—tin, dented, still warm. Broth. The first sip nearly made her weep. The smell reminded her of home. A dented tin cup appeared at her lips, still warm, with broth inside. The first sip nearly made her weep as the warmth spread down her throat.

“Drink slowly now. You’ll make yourself sick if you gulp it.”

Restraint was impossible. She drained the cup.

“Martha, fetch some bread. And water—lots of water.”

“Should I get the doctor?”

“Not yet. No sense spending money if we don’t have to.”

Willa’s vision began to clear, the edges sharpening. The kitchen was small but well-kept. A black cast-iron stove dominated one wall, radiating heat despite the morning warmth outside. A kettle sat on top, steam hissing gently from its spout. Copper pots hung from hooks near the stove, the bottoms darkened from years of use. Bunches of dried herbs—sage, lavender, something she didn’t recognize—dangled from the rafters, their scent mixing with the bacon grease and coffee.

A window over the dry sink let in a square of bright light, illuminating floating dust motes. Outside, she could hear chickens clucking, the distant bray of a mule, and someone hammering down the street. Those were the sounds of a town waking up.

Everything in this kitchen spoke of order, routine, and permanence. Things she no longer had.

Lydia sat across from her at the table, hands folded, watching with kind but assessing eyes. “You’ve come a long way. Not by choice, I’d guess.”

Willa stayed silent. Words were risky. Words could give her away.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Lydia’s voice was soft but firm. “Whatever you’re running from—or running to—that’s your business. You’re safe here. For as long as you need.”

The words cracked something inside her. Safe. When was the last time she had felt safe? Maybe before the engagement announcement? Before Silas’s first visit? Or maybe even before she understood what kind of man her father had promised her to?

“Thank you,” Willa whispered

Martha returned with bread—thick slices, still warm—and a pitcher of water. Willa reached for the bread with shaky hands, forcing herself to take small bites despite every instinct screaming against it. One bite. Two. Her stomach cramped, protesting the sudden influx after so much deprivation.

“Easy does it,” Lydia cautioned. “Your belly’s forgotten what food is. Give it time to remember.”

Willa nodded, chewing slowly. The bread was better than good. It was simple and real. She washed it down with cool, clean water and felt something inside her begin to thaw.

“What’s your name, child?”

The question hung in the air. Willa hesitated, weighing risk against exhaustion. Names could be traced. Her father had connections throughout the region. Silas had money, influence, and determination. They would be looking for her. They would have hired men to search.

Making up another name felt impossible right now. Her lies were starting to blur together.

“Sarah,” she said, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. Then, because it seemed expected: “Sarah Mitchell.”

A necessary lie. Sarah Mitchell could disappear in a way that Willa Dane could not.

“Well, Sarah Mitchell, you’re welcome to stay here until you’re back on your feet.” Lydia wiped her hands on her apron. “We’ve got a room available. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and the bed’s comfortable. Two other guests right now—travelers from Denver, leaving the day after tomorrow. After that, it’ll be quiet.”

“I told you I can’t pay—”

“You can help with cooking, cleaning, whatever needs to be done. That’s payment enough.” Lydia’s tone was soft, understanding. “I won’t have you thinking you owe me. This is honest work for honest lodging. Understood?”

Relief washed over Willa. Someone was willing to see her as more than a problem to solve or a prize to win.

“Understood. Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary.” Lydia gestured toward the doorway. “Come on, then. Let’s get you settled before you fall.”

Lydia led her upstairs, one hand supporting Willa’s elbow as they climbed. Lydia led her upstairs, one hand supporting Willa’s elbow. Narrow hallways branched off in different directions. Voices and laughter drifted from behind closed doors.

At the turn, two young women stood in an open doorway. They wore traveling clothes, their hair pinned in loose curls. Their chatter stopped when they saw Willa.

Lydia kept walking. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet.

At the end of the corridor, Lydia opened a door, revealing a small room with a narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped basin, and a single window overlooking the street. Simple. Clean. Private.

“This is yours. There’s water in the pitcher. I’ll leave you some clothes in the hallway. Wash up and rest. There’s a lock on the door if it makes you feel safer.”

A lock. Privacy. Safety.

Willa’s throat tightened. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Lydia’s expression softened. “Well, sleep as long as you need.”

After Lydia left, Willa locked the door. She checked it twice. The bolt sliding into place made her shoulders sag with relief.

She walked over to the window and looked out. The street was quiet in the late morning sun. A few people moved about their business—a man leading a mule, two women with baskets, a child chasing a dog. No one was watching the boarding house. No one looked like the hired hunters Silas would have sent.

Finally, she was alone and unobserved.

Willa turned and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the washstand. She barely recognized the woman staring back. Eyes—once bright at parties and gatherings—looked lifeless now.

This was what running had done to her; what desperation had carved from the refined, educated daughter of Edward Dane, a very wealthy merchant.

Margaret Dane’s daughter was too fragile for this world. But Sarah Mitchell—she might stand a chance.

Willa stumbled to the bed. She collapsed onto the mattress.

The sheets smelled of lavender.

Then darkness took her, swift and merciful.

***

Willa woke to the smell of smoke.

At first, she thought it was just another nightmare, but the scent grew stronger.

She sat up. The room was dark except for the orange glow flickering outside her window. Everything about that light felt wrong.

Fire!

Willa stumbled to the window. Flames poured from the windows, licking up the wooden walls like living things with an insatiable hunger. People were running and shouting, their voices high with panic. A bucket brigade had formed. The blaze was spreading too fast. They couldn’t contain it.

Sparks were landing on the roof, and the crackle and roar of flames consumed everything. Willa yanked open the door. Smoke filled the hallway—dense gray clouds that stole the air from her lungs. Voices rose from below, sharp with panic.

“Everyone out! Get out now! Martha, help me with the girls!”

“The fire’s spreading!”

“Move faster! Go, go!”

Willa started down the stairs, one hand on the wall for guidance. The smoke thickened with every step. Her eyes streamed tears. Her lungs burned with each gasping breath.

“Lydia!” she tried to shout, but it came out as a rasp, lost in the chaos.

Behind her, something crashed. A beam collapsed, maybe. The walls groaned under the heat and flame.

Panic seized her throat. She had to move. But which way? The smoke had stolen all sense of direction. Was she still going down, or had she turned around somehow in the blind confusion?

Her foot caught on something. She stumbled and caught herself on the railing. The wood was dangerously hot.

“Help! Someone!” A woman’s voice, high and terrified. “We can’t find the door!”

The travelers she’d seen earlier. They were still up here somewhere, lost in the smoke just as she was.

Willa tried to move toward the voice, but her body refused to obey. Each breath pulled in more heat than air. Her vision was narrowing, dark spots dancing at the edges.

Not like this. Not after coming so far.

Her knees buckled.

The last thing she heard was a man’s voice cutting through the chaos.

“Stay down! I’m coming!”