Chapter One

Bozeman, Montana Territory, 1871

Clara Whitmore had never been so far from home, nor had she ever seen so much sky.

The wagon rocked side to side as two toiling mules dragged it over the rutted mountain path. Clara hadn’t enjoyed the many days of uncomfortable travel in a stagecoach from Corinne to Helena, but now she found herself nostalgic for the claustrophobic and crowded carriage that was so fraught with the scents of other passengers.

The train itself—which she’d left behind in Utah days ago—was only a happy memory of gently rocking berths, huffing engines, and regular meals.

It had been almost two weeks since Clara had left Boston. Every bit of her ached from the travails of her journey.

A wagon wheel found a rock on the winding path. The vehicle bucked, and Clara yelped, clutching at the rail beside the uncomfortable driver’s seat.

“You’re a’right,” the old man sitting beside her muttered.

Clara gaped at him. He was the strangest creature she’d ever met, so sun-beaten and wizened that he seemed more like a friendly brown gnome than a human being. The sun had bleached his shirt so severely that she couldn’t tell if it had once been blue or green. He had been chewing his tobacco with enthusiastic smacking sounds since they left the tiny, nondescript little town where the stagecoach’s route ended. Clara had been too tired to remember its name.

“Never been on the Bozeman Trail before?” the old man had muttered that morning when Clara let out her first alarmed yelp at the teetering road that led between snow-capped peaks.

“I’ve never been on any trail before,” Clara had confessed. “I didn’t know that trails like this existed until a few weeks ago.”

“Your first time in Montana Territory?”

“My first time anywhere in the West.”

Now, the wagon wheel scraped along a rocky cliff edge on one side. On the other hand, the mountain sloped away sharply, dropping into a tree-filled valley so far below that looking at it made her dizzy.

She averted her eyes from the appalling height and concentrated on the letter she clutched in her hand instead. Its ink had faded in the weeks since she’d received it, and the paper was soft and creased from constant folding, but she could still make out the words.

Dear Miss Whitmore,

It pleases me to offer you the position to which you applied via post. Your qualifications as a former teacher are excellent, and I appreciate the educated tone of your letter.

Not as much as the educated tone of this letter had surprised Clara. When she’d written to apply for a job on a ranch in the Wild West, she’d half expected to receive a response composed in pictures from whatever uncouth baboon lived out there.

My niece, Lily, deserves nothing but the best in a governess. She may be the daughter of ranchers and being raised by a rancher uncle, but she is a perfect little lady. The entire world should be open to her. I wish her education to reflect as much.

Clara didn’t pause to question why Lily’s uncle was raising her instead of her parents. Living in Boston, she’d seen firsthand the devastating effect of the war and the way it had torn families apart. Clara remembered the report of the cannons shaking her classroom when she was still a fresh young teacher of nineteen or twenty.

Many of her students’ families would never be the same again.

The time had been frightening in its way, but at least the world had made sense then. She had had a future then.

I have attached the necessary paperwork for your journey from Boston, as well as an allowance for emergencies. The salary will be as per the advertisement. Board is included. You will have a comfortable room in the large ranch house, near my housekeeper, Mrs. Evans.

You will find a messenger at the general store in Bozeman. I have arranged with the storekeeper for you to wait there for a brief time until I reach town with the wagon. We will expect you in the first week of June.

Yours sincerely,

Luke Carver

Wildflower Ridge

Bozeman

Montana Territory

When she’d first received the letter, Clara had wondered why Mr. Carver had been so vague about her arrival. Surely, he would know the date when she would reach Bozeman, if not the exact time?

She had since learned that the Bozeman Trail bowed to no man’s will. “You’ll get there when you get there, miss,” the first coachman had told her.

The wagon bumped again, teetering horribly toward the drop. Clara clung on for dear life, almost dropping the letter.

“You’re a’right,” said the old man again, then resumed his noisy chewing. Clara wondered if his vocabulary extended beyond those two words.

She rubbed her face, exhausted. Her night at the grimy little boarding house in the grimy little town had been like all of her nights since leaving the sanctuary of civilization: restless. The straw mattress crinkled every time she moved. Rowdy laughter came from downstairs, where rough men shouted in unfamiliar accents and drank whisky by the bottle instead of in classy, measured ounces like her father used to do.

Oh, Father. The thought of him still brought unbidden tears to her eyes all too easily.

Everything could have been so different if only Father had denied the allegations. Or if Nathaniel hadn’t gambled away his fortune. Or if she’d still had worth, any worth, in her parents’ eyes when her reputation crumbled.

She sniffed, trying to hold back tears, and cringed at the appalling display of bad manners. But the tobacco-smacking man didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he gave her an alarmed look.

“Now, now,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ to cry about, pretty lady. You ain’t gon’ fall down no cliff. Ruby and Diamond know what they’re about, they do. Them mules ain’t never taken a bad step on this trail an’ they live on it. One week we drive to Bozeman, then we go back to Corinne. Week in, week out. You’re in good hands, little lady.” He patted her knee with a gnarled old hand.

“Thank you,” said Clara, fighting to compose herself, but she wasn’t crying over the drop—terrifying though it was.

It was the sudden realization that frightened her: the knowledge that she was more than far from home.

That home, the way she’d once believed in it, no longer existed for her. Clara had no way to go back.

“Here we are,” said the old man with bracing cheerfulness. “Have a little looky, miss. Don’t let yourself get so spooked, now. Ain’t that just the prettiest view you’ve ever seen?”

He hadn’t touched the reins, but the two mules slowed as though they knew they always did here. The wagon rounded another sharp bend in the trail, and suddenly the whole world was thrown wide open before Clara.

She gasped as her hand rose to her mouth.

When had the world become so incredibly vast?

The mountain’s timber-covered slope met undulating ridges covered in vibrant green grass, their flanks traced by the feathery outlines of waterfalls. Beyond them, the landscape flattened into a sun-bathed valley, cloud shadows chasing one another across a plain of grass dusted with wildflowers. The twin ruts of the trail wound over the mountains and ridges and then cut straight across the plain to the tiny town that sunned itself in the middle of the valley. It was so small that Clara could almost have overlooked it: a cluster of buildings with a fort to one side, their lines sharp and man-made compared to the soft tones of the valley.

“Sure is pretty, ain’t it?” said the old man. “I never get tired of it.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Clara. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”

“They call it the Valley of Wildflowers, I hear tell. Sure ain’t easy to get here. I call this the Bozeman Trail, but the truth is, Red Cloud closed the trail a few years ago. Lucky we still have this li’l section to use, eh?”

“The Valley of Wildflowers,” Clara whispered. It sounded about right. “Is that a village on our way to Bozeman?”

The old man laughed heartily. “Bless your heart, little lady, that’s Bozeman itself.”

Clara’s heart swooped. Everyone she’d met along the way had known where Bozeman was, talking about the place as though it were somewhere noteworthy.

She’d been in parks bigger than the town.

The old man chirped to the two mules, and they plodded on, their necks thrown heartily against their harnesses.

Their route grew no less spectacular as the path wound down the mountainside and reached the series of ridges that surrounded this valley in all directions. Each one seemed to hide a new treasure: a crystalline mountain stream, a meadow of grass so deep the mules’ knees grew lost in it, and then a sweep of hillside absolutely covered in flowers so verdantly purple they hurt her eyes.

The old man leaned over and picked a few; their bushes were tall enough for him to reach from the driver’s seat. “Fireweed,” he told her. “They love these rocky parts. Careful, though. Often covered in bees.”

Clara took them. “Thank you.” Their scent was crisp, somewhere between herbs and citrus. Far fresher than any of the cloying tones Clara associated with the roses and jasmine grown in hothouses back in Boston.

The mules picked up speed when they reached the plain, which was to say that they managed a lumbering trot, still glacial compared with the reckless pace of the stagecoaches. Clara felt every bump and wobble in the road as the wagon bounced, jarring her bones with every step. She folded the letter delicately and hid it inside her lace-edged sleeve as they neared the town that was to be her new home.

One stone-and-brick building towered over the others. Almost every other home or business in town was wooden and whitewashed. The street was nothing but dirt, still churned into mud in places thanks to the traffic of covered wagons, riders, and pedestrians.

Clara stared in fascination at one of the horsemen. His horse was as short-legged and round as a barrel on sticks. An ugly brand marred its left hip. Father would have been horrified; he kept only a fine black saddle horse for himself with neither a mark nor a blemish anywhere, its mane always neatly thinned.

The wagon trundled to a halt before a wooden building, its hand-painted sign reading General Store.

“Here y’are, little lady,” said the old man. “Don’t you worry, now. The Warrens are nice folk. You’ll be safe here till your employer arrives.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.” Clara descended from the wagon.

The old man hopped out and stomped around to the back, where he retrieved Clara’s carpet bag. “God bless, miss.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

She didn’t know how to thank him for the fireweed and for his gruff reassurance, not that it mattered. The old man seemed to have forgotten about her already, anyhow. He tied the mules by a water trough and then marched off toward the saloon down the street.

Clara hovered on the boardwalk for a moment, hugging her carpet bag. It was covered in dust from the road. She couldn’t help comparing Bozeman to her hometown. Here, great sweeps of blue sky were visible between the buildings. She could catch glimpses of the green plain beyond them, and further still, the blue mountains that marched like castle walls around the valley.

She exhaled, trying to put Boston out of her mind. Somehow, she missed its smog and bustle and the close crowding of buildings that made her think she was at the center of a hub of human activity. Here, she couldn’t help being aware of the incredible emptiness stretching all around her.

A shudder ran through her, and suddenly she couldn’t wait to get inside the store.

She expected a bell to jingle as she entered, then realized that the store wasn’t busy enough to warrant such a thing. Barrels, notched and scratched from long journeys, stood in an upright row in front of a counter. Shelves to her left and right displayed glass jars, colorful boxes, and occasional bits of homeware—tin or enamel plates and cups. Behind the counter, small sacks stood on shelves to the left; to the right, a great heap of sacks reached almost to the ceiling.

The young woman behind the counter must have been close to Clara’s own age, but the sun had drawn lines around her eyes and mouth. She’d made no attempt to tame the mane of black curls cascading over her shoulders in unruly corkscrews. “Hello!” she said. “Another new face. That’s always nice to see.”

The friendliness in her tone loosened the knot in Clara’s chest.

“Good afternoon.” Clara shuffled to the counter. “I, ah, I’m meant to go to Wildflower Ridge Ranch.”

“Wildflower Ridge? Oh!” The woman clapped her hands. “That’s right. Luke told me all about you. You’re the new governess, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Fancy that. A governess in Bozeman.” The woman laughed. “Well, the Carvers always were a little fancy. They were high-up folk back East, at least, Luke’s ma came from a well-to-do family.”

That would explain the well-educated tone of his letter. Remembering it, Clara produced it from her sleeve. “He said I might find a messenger here?”

“Of course. My little brother loves nothing more than tearing around the world on that horse of his ever since Pa upgraded him from a mule.” The woman opened a nearby door. “Hey! Aaron! Luke’s governess is here. Ride up to the ranch and tell him to come and get her, would you?”

There was a happy affirmation from outside, followed by the thunder of hoofbeats.

“He’ll break his neck.” The woman shook her head. “Anyway, make yourself comfortable! It’s half an hour’s ride up to the ranch, and then Luke will need time to hitch the wagon and drive over here. Cup of coffee? Bite to eat?”

“That would be magnificent.” Clara pulled a few dollars from her purse.

The woman waved them away. “It’s been a slow day. You can pay me back with conversation. Sit, sit!”

She shooed Clara into a chair behind the counter and busied herself in a back room. Clara set the bag at her feet and enjoyed the sensation of sitting in a chair that wasn’t moving, even if it was something more comfortable than wood and rattan.

An armchair, perhaps. Her thoughts went to the armchair in the reading room back in Boston, arranged to catch the sunshine in summer, overlooking Mother’s rose garden. Sometimes Father would take the armchair opposite, and they would pass a few hours in companionable silence. She had believed then that he loved her.

Maybe he had, but only because she was an excellent bargaining chip, until Nathaniel ruined everything.

The woman bustled over with an enamel mug full of creamy coffee. She added a generous amount of sugar and held it out to Clara. “There you are. I’m Angelica, by the way—Angelica Warren. This is my pa’s store.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angelica.” Clara took the mug, wondering if she’d ever see fine china again. She seemed to have left the concept of ceramics behind with the train.

Angelica settled in the chair facing Clara’s and gave her an expectant look.

“Oh, I am sorry. Forgive my bad manners. I’m Clara Whitmore.”

“Nice to meet you!” Angelica raised her mug as if in a toast. “Have a cookie. Ma made ’em.”

Clara helped herself to one from a plate; they were chocolate chip and almost comically oversized, but full of buttery sweetness when she bit into one.

“Where you from, Clara?” Angelica asked.

“Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Wow. That’s about as far East as you can get. It must’ve been a long journey—and the old Bozeman Trail ain’t easy.”

“It was all right on the train. I won’t mind if I never have to see another stagecoach again, though I expect I will.”

Angelica chuckled. “Don’t be so sure. The railways are growin’ like worms across the West. Pa reckons it won’t be more than ten years before they get all the way out to Bozeman, especially if they find more gold in the mountains.” She tilted her head. “Anyway, you might find you never want to leave.”

“Never?”

“This valley has a way of gettin’ into the hearts of folk. I’ve seen plenty of people ‘just passin’ through’ who never left. It’s too beautiful out here.”

Clara thinly smiled. “It certainly is.”

“Besides.” Angelica winked. “Between you and me, there’s a shortage of women in this town, and an over-abundance of handsome young fellas.”

Clara felt her cheeks grow warm. “I’m afraid I’m not looking for a husband.”

“You’re not married though, are ya? I’m not seein’ a ring.”

“No, but I was engaged.”

“Was?”

Clara looked into her coffee mug. “He died.”

“Oh.” Angelica’s smile vanished. “I’m awful sorry, Clara. I shouldn’t have pried like that.”

“No, no. It’s all right.” It’s not as though he loved me anyway, Clara thought, but she didn’t say it.

A moment’s silence passed. Clara ate another cookie and finished her coffee. She normally took it black, but the creamy sweetness was good, especially after the cookie.

Angelica laid a hand on her knee. “You poor thing. You’re an awful long way from home, aren’t ya? Heartsore after losing your fiancé, comin’ all the way out here for a fresh start—that ain’t no easy road.”

Again, Clara’s eyes stung with tears, but she refused to let them free. She kept her voice steady. “Thank you, Angelica. That’s kind of you to say.” The words felt stilted; she hoped that the woman understood how much she meant them.

Angelica drained her coffee cup. “Did old Frank show you around town?”

“The wagon driver? He never told me his name. He parked the wagon and went off to the saloon.”

Angelica rolled her eyes. “Honestly, that Frank. Sweetest soul you ever saw, but he never met a drink he didn’t love. Come, let me show you more of Bozeman while you wait. Might as well get to know the place.”

Clara wished she could sit a little longer, but she obediently finished her coffee and followed Angelica outside.

The young woman walked fast on sturdy boots; Clara had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

“You’ve seen the saloon, thanks to Frank.” Angelica gestured at it. “That there, that big building, that’s Nelson Story’s. Flashy thing, ain’t it? Silly in a little town like this, but there we have it. He has a general store on the ground floor and rents out the rooms on the top. Going down this way, we’ve got a whole schoolhouse. A real one! One of the earliest in Montana.”

“A schoolhouse,” Clara noted eagerly. “I used to be a teacher.”

“Oh, that’s right. Luke said he’d found somebody real educated to be Lily’s governess.”

“Why hire a governess at all?” Clara wondered. “When there’s a school in town?”

“Maybe it’s the drive. Long way from the ranch down here. Or, like I said, Luke’s fancy ideas.” Angelica shrugged. “Could be because Lily ain’t got a mama, poor little thing, though I reckon old Martha—that’s the housekeeper—she’s everybody’s mama.”

“Either way, I’m grateful for the opportunity,” said Clara, though privately she wondered if she would have come all this way if she’d realized exactly how isolated Bozeman was.

Angelica chuckled. “You ain’t even seen Luke yet.”

Clara raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I know, I know. I shouldn’t talk that way, not with your heart still broken. Only I’m twenty-eight and still not married.” Angelica grimaced. “The talk of the town, of course. They say all sorts of things about me. Ain’t found a man who feels like somebody I want to spend the rest of my life with, that’s all. But if I was going on looks alone—well, Luke Carver wouldn’t be a bad bet.”

“He’s handsome?”

“Handsome! Bless you, Clara, he’s like them pictures of the statues they have in Europe. You know, the angels and things, all marble and stern. Pity he’s about as warm and welcoming as one of them things. Don’t be alarmed. I ain’t sayin’ he’s cruel. Nothin’ cruel or mean about him. Quiet, that’s all. Distant. Don’t talk much.”

Quiet and distant? Clara felt a pang of relief. That would suit her just fine.

They were halfway down the street from the general store when another covered wagon slowed beside them. A bewhiskered man in middle age drove it; this one was drawn by a pair of long-horned oxen.

Angelica stopped. “I only stepped out for a minute, Pa.”

The man wagged a playful finger. “I leave you in charge of my store and find you gallivanting with a pretty new friend!”

“I’m watchin’ the door,” said Angelica, grinning. “This’s Clara Whitmore—Luke’s governess.”

“Nice to meet ya, ma’am.” The man doffed his hat. “Doug Warren.”

“I sent Aaron to tell Luke she’s here,” said Angelica.

“No need for that. I’m headin’ up that way now to deliver some things to old Gretchen. Poor thing’s mule went lame, and she can hardly get to town. You can hitch a ride with me, Clara,” said Doug. “Saves Luke the trouble.”

“I’d be most grateful to you, sir,” said Clara.

“Aw, pity. I was havin’ fun.” Angelica laughed. “Let me run and get your bag.”

Before Clara could protest, Angelica dashed off.

“She’s a good girl, Angelica,” said Doug. “Come on up.”

Clara was thoroughly sick of covered wagons, but she told herself that this was the last leg of the journey. By the time she’d settled herself and arranged her skirts on the driver’s seat beside Doug, Angelica had arrived with her carpet bag.

“You’ve both been so very kind.” Clara took the bag. “Thank you.”

“We’ll see you around, Clara.” Angelica smiled. “Good luck with everything.”

“Thank you,” said Clara again.

Angelica headed back to the general store while Doug whistled to the oxen and tapped them with a long stick. They lowered their patient heads, horns swaying inches from each other, yet never touching, and plodded up the path leading out of Bozeman.

To Clara’s relief, Doug didn’t suffer from Angelica’s chattiness. He seemed content to sit in the afternoon sunshine, occasionally barking commands to the oxen, as they followed a path so little-used that grass had grown over most of it. It crossed the meadow and climbed one of the ridges, disturbing stands of fiery red flowers that stood watch. Bumblebees dipped low over the blooms, and occasionally herds of deer grazed in the deep grass. Clara had the impression that deer were so abundant here that many didn’t know how to avoid hunters.

The sunshine was so pleasant that she felt almost drowsy, but her tension rose when they crested the ridge, and Doug pointed.

“There y’are,” he said. “Wildflower Ridge. Nice, ain’t it?”

Clara sat upright, staring at her new home. Relief washed over her. After her first view of Bozeman, she’d feared she’d be living in some tiny log cabin tucked away in the woods, bathing in a stream, and sleeping on furs. But the white-painted house presiding over the stretch of meadow was beautiful, with a pillared porch, double stories, and vast windows letting in the sun.

“Quite somethin’, huh?” Doug laughed. “Gettin’ all that glass up here was a fool’s errand, I tell ya. Luke’s old man wouldn’t hear of having shutters like any ordinary family. Lucky he had his wife’s fortune. Reckon they spent it all on windows.” He chortled.

Clara couldn’t stop staring. A stretch of grass flowed from the front of the house, perfect for playing children, even without the Rocky Mountain maple whose lowest branch supported a swing. The barn to one side was larger than the house, with a wooden corral in which a glossy horse stood, its coat a patchwork of black and white. More horses grazed in the large pasture behind the house.

“He’s a horse rancher?” Clara asked.

“Cattle rancher. Them horses are the ones they use for the ranch. Cow ponies, wagon horses. Can’t have a ranch without horses.”

“Where are the cattle, then?”

“On the open range. Ain’t no point keepin’ cows close to home when you gotta whole plain for ’em to graze on, is there? They’re in the mountains now. Cowboys’ll bring them down to the plain for the winter.”

Doug halted the wagon near the barn. Clara spotted a man around her own age striding from the barn, a heavy saddle in his arms. He gave her a curious glance, then tossed the saddle onto the corral’s rails.

He was handsome, she supposed, but not as handsome as Angelica had said.

“That ain’t Luke,” said Doug. “He’ll be in the house, I bet. I’ll be goin’, if you don’t mind. Gotta get these supplies to old Gretchen.”

Clara scrambled off the driver’s seat, her legs wobbly from travel, and took her bag. “Thank you very much, Mr. Warren.”

“Luke’ll be expectin’ ya. That wild boy of mine must’ve been here and left again by now, galloping off along the mountain trails on that pony of his.”

Doug touched his hat and whistled to the oxen, who lumbered slowly up the ridge overlooking the ranch. Clara could see where this place earned its name. The entire ridge was carpeted in delicate, bright-yellow glacier lilies, making it look as if the whole world had been dusted with pollen.

She faced the beautiful house and squared her shoulders. Bozeman might be underwhelming, but she couldn’t deny that these surroundings were breathtaking, even if the broad sky made her feel dizzy.

Besides, Clara had no other options. She had to make the best of this.

She took a deep breath and strode up the wooden steps and across the broad front porch. Before she could knock, a crash echoed through the ranch house, and raised voices resounded from within.

Her stomach flipped over. What was awaiting her behind the beauty of this ranch?