Prologue

Wildrock, Utah

August 5th, 1865

The kitchen was dressed in blues, which felt fitting, considering how full of grief the house was.

Indigo curtains covered the windows, shutting sunlight out. Dishes from that morning were still stacked on the counter, and likely would stay there for the next few days. All Vera’s energy had been spent on the funeral, and she doubted that she’d recover any time soon.

Beside her, her friend Grace sat at the kitchen table, her hand resting on Vera’s. Grace’s hair was blonde, covered by a mourning bonnet, and she looked younger than Vera despite the fact that they were both nineteen. Something about Vera’s earthy hair and the lines around her eyes made her seem older—and now, she felt older as well, with the weight of grief sitting on her chest.

“Want some tea?” Grace asked softly. Vera did not lift her eyes from their spot on the table as she nodded, hearing the chair scrape behind her and Grace begin to rustle around in the kitchen. It felt so empty, being back inside her family home.

She had gone from the accident to the Wildrock doctor’s, and had stayed there until the funeral was arranged. She didn’t want to be here, not alone, not without her family. It felt so wrong. Her new normal was anything but, she did not feel as though it would ever truly feel like her life again.

They had been attacked on the road as they moved some supplies into town. Bandits, though the deputies said that they were likely inexperienced due to the carnage that was left behind. They ended up dead, crushed by their own horses, but so did Vera’s family: Her mother, father, even her little sister; they were found a short way from where Vera had fallen, but she was the only one to survive.

Vera could only remember flashes of it; holding her sister’s face as she cried, desperately trying to assure her that all would be well. The gunshots over head. Her father screaming, yanking the carriage around a bend, and Vera’s own wails as her sister was ripped from her arms. Thinking of it now made her palms sweat like she was still there. She could hear the carriage rumbling down the street, and her fingers clenched onto each other, like she was still trying to hold onto those wagon doors.

“You’re starin’ again,” she heard Grace say. Vera jumped, looking up to see Grace’s gentle smile and a cup of tea. Her teeth were perfect, and Vera pursed her lips closed to hide the gap between her own.

She had been holding letters, and now, she did not want to put them down. They were old letters, from her mother and father when they had first met. She had found them in her father’s study the day after they died, just laying there as if she had spent years overlooking them.

For every day leading up to the funeral, Vera flipped through them obsessively, boring holes with her eyes into the paper as if to memorize each signature on the page. It was what she had left of them, and now, even setting them aside to take the cup, it felt like she was letting them slip away.

The hot steam of tea woke her body. Vera had been thinking a lot today. She thought this morning, when she dressed in her black gown and lace. She thought on the wagon ride to the church, her hands gripping each other, sweat on her temple. And she thought during the funeral, when the bodies of her mother, father, and sister sank beneath the ground.

She felt Grace place a hand on her arm. “Talk to me,” she said, her voice gentle as a feather pillow.

“…I could have saved her, y’know.” Vera mumbled into her tea cup, hoping the liquid would make the words easier to bear. “Peg. She held onto me, but I didn’t think to grab her back. If I’d… If I just—“

A loud knock rattled the door. Vera looked at it blankly, but the windows beside it were shuttered at her own request. She would have to answer it. She had been solitary in her mourning, couldn’t bear the smile she had to put on. But she knew that she couldn’t ignore people forever.

Grace helped her stand, but she denied help walking to the door. Vera straightened herself, tucking her hair back into place and smoothing out her skirt, before opening the door just enough for the chain bolt to catch taut.

Two men stood outside, but only one of them rang familiar: Charley Sampson, her father’s ranch manager, with his round glasses balanced precariously on his nose. He offered Vera a small smile behind his beard and raised a hand, glancing past her to nod to her guest.

“Hello, Miss Vera. I know it ain’t the best time, but can we have a word with you?”

Vera’s nostrils flared, but she still creaked the door closed and unlatched the lock, opening it enough for the men to fit in. “Of course, Mr. Sampson.” She said, forcing a pleasant tone. “Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

She didn’t want to thank them, really. She was sick of condolences. She wanted her house empty, as empty as it felt to be in it, instead of filled with superfluous bodies. But, alas, she had to let the others get their mourning in, as well, regardless of how it made her feel.

“Thank ya.” Mr. Sampson entered with his hat on his chest, and the other man followed closely behind with a respectful bow. He was tall and broad, with blonde hair matching his beard, and he wore a suit Vera thought was both too casual and too formal at the same time. Vera shut the door, offering them the couch as she took the seat adjacent, and waved Grace in to join them. She did so, and scurried into the living room with a bright, strained smile.

“Would any of you like some tea?” She asked.

“No, thanks, Miss Grace,” Mr. Sampson said gruffly. “We don’t wanna take up too much of your time.” He turned to Vera. “I do hope you’re doin’ a little better, Miss Vera. I know it’s hard, but at least it’s all over, now.”

Vera just nodded. It wasn’t over, not in the slightest, but something on Mr. Sampson’s face told her that he wasn’t there for her grief. There was a distracted look in his eye that shifted from her to Grace and back again and did not leave even as he gestured over to the yellow-haired stranger at his side.

“Uh, Miss Vera, this is Clinton Hayden. He’s been workin’ on that railway we’ve heard about for a few years, now.”

Clinton smiled. “Nice to finally meet’cha.” He was tall, a proud-looking man, though he had to be a decade older than Vera herself. Smooth blonde hair and brown eyes that were aged but firm, and hands that were placed politely in his well-dressed lap. He wore business attire and had a nervous air to him as he fiddled with a folded-up piece of parchment in his hands. “Been lookin’ forward to it.”

“You… have?” Vera said. She had never heard of Clinton Hayden before, and the fact that he had heard of her made her hair stand on end. She cleared her throat, wringing the handkerchief to wrinkles. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think anyone’s told me about you, Mr. Hayden.”

“Call me Clinton.” His smile was sympathetic, almost simpering. “Yes, I know. I knew your father for some time, but I’m not surprised he didn’t speak of me much.” He sat up a little straighter in his chair. “He and I had a deal,” he said, “and while this is poor timing, I don’t think it can wait any longer. For lack of a better phrase, I’ve come to collect.”

Vera’s ears began to ring. She could feel the cold seeping in again as she stared at the two men before her, one confident, the other sinking in his seat.

“A deal?” She looked at Mr. Sampson, at how hard he seemed to be trying to melt into the chair. “What… what’s this about, exactly? What deal did my father make?”

“Now, you might wanna calm yourself, Miss Vera,” Mr. Sampson said, which only made her blood pump faster. “This may be a little hard to hear, but… well, I’ll put it simply. Mr. Clinton is a wealthy man, and sometimes he loans out his coin to folk who need it, long as they can pay him back.”

“Not too often,” Clinton added, chuckling, “but when it’s deserved, I’m happy to give. Your father came to me a few months ago with a similar kind of situation. Financial troubles, needed a leg-up to get through this next winter.”

“My father wasn’t in financial trouble.” Vera sat up, a fire starting to form in her belly. Her body felt so strange, burning and freezing at the same time, emotions cascading through her mind at the speed of a train. “We were doing just fine. We were on the way to sell our produce when we were attacked.”

“Your father made some bad calls, far as I could tell.” Clinton’s face became sorrowful as he slowly began to unfurl the parchment in his hand. “Told me that there wasn’t gonna be enough to go ‘round ‘cause some investments fell through. I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss Vera, but it’s the truth. I’m not sayin’ he was a bad man. Just made some mistakes and wanted to care for his family.”

Vera swallowed, feeling a conflicted anger towards Clinton and her father both. “So, you — you leant him the money, I take it?”

“Well…” Clinton sighed. “Yes, but there’s a little more to it. Here.”

The paper he had been holding was unfurled now. It looked old, well-used, but formal as he pressed it to Vera’s hands. She took it and felt herself begin to tremble as she read over the scrawl, the ink blurring with the drops of her tears.

The document was not long. Simple and to the point, she saw Clinton Hayden’s signature at the bottom, and right below it, she saw the familiar cursive name of her father, sealing the contract like the clank of a jail door.

Vera’s head began to spin. Her mouth, still agape, went dry. She looked up at the people around her, watching their eyes widen at her pallid state, and let the contract flutter to the floor.

Something hollow grew inside her. It didn’t empty the other feelings but pushed them aside, letting them run rampant inside of her while it told her of a truth she did not want to believe.

Betrayal.

“H-he… he’s making me marry you?”

Chapter One

Wildrock, Utah

August 12th, 1965

Clinton was… a nice man, Vera thought as she dismounted and tied her stallion to a post, staring up at the hillside manor.

That was the best that Vera could say. During the week they spent courting each other, the only thing that Vera seemed to like about him was that he was… nice. He was polite, sure, guiding her places and opening the door so she could walk in. He had a lot of ambitions about his railway and how to expand it. He was… nice.

And Vera felt nothing for him.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She did her best to ask him questions, get to know him personally, tried to see the person instead of just the man she was forced to marry. It wasn’t as though he was unattractive. But no matter what mindset she put herself in, every time she looked at him all she felt was resignation. It was a fate that she had accepted, but did not truly want.

A life of acceptance wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but to Vera, it was poisoned by the fact that she hadn’t been able to choose. She still felt the sting of tears whenever she thought of her father’s signature on that document, visual proof that she was worth less than she had thought.

She had found the letters from her parents again when she was searching the house for things they could use for decorations. She remembered staring at them with water in her eyes, her father’s name etched fiercely into her eyes that now glowed with hatred.

Vera had been alone, a rare occasion that Grace Olsen hadn’t been able to stay the night, and in a frenzy of grief she had taken every letter that she found and tossed them into the other trash that Clinton had instructed be dealt with. It filled her with vindication for but a day, and then, she was numb again. Not even erasing her father’s presence from her home could make her feel any better now.

Along with the wedding plans, she had taken the time to reflect on herself and realized that, though the death of her family had taken her mind to other places, there was a strong sense of disappointment in not being able to choose who she would marry. Her childhood was wonderful — or, she always thought it was — and her parents had been people strengthened by love, but this… this wasn’t the same. Clinton wouldn’t be a husband to her; he was a businessman. An owner. To him, this was just a transaction. And it disgusted her how much she had lost in just one week.

It was another thing she had to grieve. All she had loved had been taken from her, and now she had no prospect of ever finding something new. The wedding had taken over the majority of her time. Most of the time that they were “courting” was actually spent ironing out preparations.

The walk to Clinton’s large, brick home, though beautiful, had started to grow dull; her feet dragged with every step up the winding, flower-paved pathway. There was no stalling now, and with a sigh, she began to walk.

Vera made her way towards the front door, a wash of guilt coming over her as the red brick came into view. She dreaded the visits, but why? They were fine, really. His conversation was fine, and he always got her refreshments when she asked.

It all just felt so fake, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that it was fine, she would be alright, the situation was not as bad as she was making it out to be. And yet, as she climbed up the stairs to his front door, her finger hesitating over the doorbell, all she felt was dread.

People shifted by the windows. Vera ducked behind a pillar, her heart stuttering, and hid until they passed by. She didn’t want to be seen yet. She wasn’t ready to go in, wasn’t ready for the forced politeness and logistics of it all. Just a moment more with herself, with her feelings, and then she would go in and hide it all away.

She could hear talking from whoever was inside. Eavesdropping was impolite, so, instinctively, she tried to turn her focus elsewhere. Vera took deep breaths and ran her fingers over the ivy leaves growing on the brick, honing in on the sensation of her feet in her shoes, the warm air of the summer, and the long, long list of things she and Clinton were supposed to speak about soon.

“When is that Vera woman coming, anyway?”

A voice from inside had said it, louder than Vera had expected. She jumped and glanced gingerly from behind the safety of her pillar to see a suited man standing in front of the window. He blocked the view entirely, so Vera couldn’t see who he was speaking to, but she found out moments later as a second voice responded.

“Oh, in an hour or so. Talking about more preparations, or something. I can’t wait for this to be over already.”

It was Clinton. He sounded aggravated, a heavy sigh carrying his words. Vera felt a small bit of relief; she wasn’t alone in feeling like the arrangement was a chore.

“I don’t know why you two aren’t havin’ a porch wedding,” the first voice said, male and younger with a twinge of a drawl. “That’d be way faster.”

“’Cause it’s gotta look official, you idiot.” Vera was surprised to hear Clinton’s voice become venomous, and she could practically feel the other man flinch. “I’m a pillar in this community. You think people won’t find it suspicious that I rushed a wedding? She’s already in my debt, I don’t need them lookin’ into this further.”

“Right, boss, right. Sorry.”

Something tingled in Vera’s chest. As her fingers wrapped around the cold stone of the pillar, she dared to let her head peer around so she could see the window again. The man had moved a little, so she could see Clinton through a small sliver of space between his partner and the wall. He was watching the other man pace, looking much like a warden staring down inmates in his holding cell.

“We got the set up yet?” Clinton asked. The other man nodded, and Vera saw a shock of red hair wobble as he did.

“Yessir. Got you a new Winchester from Pat, and he’s fine if it gets traced back to him. He’s been on the run enough that he knows hiding spots like the back of his hand.”

“Got the horses?”

“They’ll take care’a that. Bring their own, I think.”

“Well, stop thinkin’ and make sure.” Clinton snapped. “We only got one chance of this, and I got too much on the line for Vera to come out of this alive.”

Vera’s blood went cold. She stood frozen as the younger man nodded again, mumbling more “yes, sir”s and “sorry, sir”s under his breath. “This is the last one, in it?”

“One of the last,” Clinton sighed. She could see a smile on his face now. “I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get it, but I gotta thank old Shep for givin’ me an easy way in. That plot’a land’s gonna look real nice when I get the iron on it.”

“Real good money, too.” The younger voice grew excited, stepping closer to Clint. “Folks were all excited about the tourist possibilities. I did get a few who were worried about the watering holes, but they got real quiet when I told ’em about the coin flow.”

“Prob’ly the same people whose land deeds I forged.” Clinton laughed and shook his head. “Stupid. Town’s self-sufficient, and we still managed to convince ’em a train would be a good idea. This is gonna be a real good investment, Francis. I just can’t wait for all this chatter to be gone.”

“And the girl, with it.”

The two broke into laughter as Vera pressed her back against the pillar, her breathing even shallower than before. It felt like she was in a whirlwind, rushing every way and a deafening rumble clogging her ears. Winchester? Forged? Land for the railway? Clinton was supposed to be respectable. A good man, venerated by the entirety of Wildrock.

Vera was not the worldliest of women, but she was not stupid. She knew danger when she heard it, and that was why, all of the sudden, she realized how truly naive she had been.

She hadn’t suspected a thing. Clinton was polite, well-liked, an honest sounding man. But it had all been an act, and Vera a witless victim. Something in her switched. Anger clawed at her stomach, but she pushed it aside enough to let her mind clear and forced herself to rush back down the manor stairs.

The Sheriff. She had to get to the Sheriff. He would take pity on her, most likely, sympathizing with the death of her family enough to look into her reports. They could look over the documents, find the forgeries. If she was lucky, they could bust Clinton’s operation to pieces.

She just had to get to the Sheriff.

Vera’s stallion waited patiently for her at the bottom of the hill, and when she climbed back on him, he was quick to break into a gallop at her command. Her heart beat with every thud of the hooves as she raced down the dry dirt roads. Like the rest of the ranches, Clinton’s home was a few hours out of town — an achingly, terrifyingly long way for Vera.

She glanced behind her, fearing someone may be following her. Most would be afraid in this circumstance, but for Vera, the fear was a minor feeling compared to what else was inside her. Confusion blanketed all of her thoughts and dropped question marks at the end of every statement. Anger still roared inside her like a beast in a cage. But there was something that was larger than any other feeling, and it was one that Vera had known well.

This was the second time in less than a month that someone had betrayed her trust. First her father, and now the man she was supposed to marry. She kept hearing the words in her head, the girl, get her gone, too much on the line for her to come out of this alive. Clinton was a crook and a conman, and her father had given her to him without her knowledge.

Had he been tricked? Fooled by Clinton’s charm like the rest of Wildrock? Fire burned at the back of her throat when she realized she might never get the answer until she, too, was dead. She would just have to live with the uncertainty, the hurt, that those she trusted had thrown her to the side.

She would survive, of course. But something told her that trust was a commodity that had suddenly become very, very scarce.

The open plains would have been freeing if Vera had not ridden with such a purpose. Usually she enjoyed the Utah landscape, with the tall, craggy rocks that glowed ruby under the sunlight. She remembered how her father would take her riding through them, surrounded by laughter and wide-open skies. She turned her head away, eyes stinging, teeth clenching until they ached.

And then, abruptly, her horse stopped.

Vera had been clutching the reins hard, so she knew she had not called for a halt when her horse’s hooves skidded in the dirt. She could hear its breathing huff and snort and watched its head shake wildly, and her stomach clenched when she saw it dancing in panic.

She looked over its head. On the ground before them she saw the long, slender figure of a rattler wrapped around a nearby rock, its head up and tail jittering in their direction. Vera felt her heart leap, a cold sweat dousing her body. Her horse was staggering, shrieking at the viper as it tried to back away.

Vera tugged on the reins, pulling to the side, hoping to drive the horse back to the rode, but it did not move. She clicked her tongue, whistled, called in her loud, clear voice, and yet the horse only moved when the viper jerked its head forward in a warning snap.

Vera’s stallion reared. She watched the blue sky fill her vision and felt her feet slip from the stirrups. She scrambled, screaming, grabbing for the reins, but it was like she was moving in molasses. They slipped from her grasp and she tumbled, back-first, off of her horse’s back.

There was a sharp, hot pain in the back of her head. Her body hit the ground; she could hear the thud echoing, but then everything went silent. The sky faded, and with one last gasp of air, Vera’s world went black.