Prologue

Fort Bridger, Wyoming Territory, 1873

An eighth of a mile isn’t far unless you’ve worked since before sunup. He scraped sawdust from his hair at the threshold, set a pot of beans Sarah had left on the stove, and ate standing. He hardly tasted them. Henderson’s barn timber was due by week’s end, and the Army wanted boards besides.

A hard knock rattled the door.

Calls this late were seldom good. He checked the small window and opened up. “Nolan. What are you doing here?”

The sheriff took off his hat. “Mind if I step in?”

“No—of course.”

“You should sit,” Nolan said, dragging a chair for himself.

Vernon’s heart stumbled. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Loretta,” Nolan said, wetting his lips. “Your sister—there was an accident. The team took fright at a rattler, and the wagon went over. She…didn’t make it.”

The words struck like a hammer. Air jammed in his throat. For a moment, he heard only the mill still thudding in his bones.

“Vernon?” Nolan said softly.

“Where are Karter and Elias?”

“With Paxton, the foreman. They’re safe. They weren’t with her when…” Nolan’s eyes shone. “Paxton found her. She was breathing when he reached her, but she passed before he could fetch the doctor. She asked him to tell the boys she loved them. You, too.”

He pictured his sister on the ground and had to swallow twice before breath would come at all.

Nolan waited while Vernon sat and let the news take its shape. Questions tumbled—How are the boys? Their pa died two winters ago. Who’d see to them now? What of the ranch?

“Vernon?” Nolan asked again.

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand over his face; sawdust drifted to the floor. “Sarah’s going to skin me for that mess.”

Nolan said nothing. He knew Vernon wasn’t thinking of floors.

“I’ll wash up,” Vernon said. “Can you carry the mill keys to Jake and tell him what’s happened? Ask him to run things for a while. He can hire Benny and James if he needs to.”

“I’ll see to it.” Nolan hesitated. “You plan to ride tonight? It’s near three hours in daylight. Slower—and meaner—after dark.”

“I need to get to the boys.”

“All right. What shall I tell the preacher and the undertaker?”

“We’ll bring in her dress first thing. If Father Brown can set the funeral for the day after tomorrow, that will do.”

“I’ll let them know.” Nolan rose. “Ride safe.”

Vernon gathered soap and a change of clothes, stepped to the river for a quick scrub, saddled Dusty, hung a lantern from the horn, and headed west.

Stars pricked an inky sky; the sliver of moon gave little help. September air bit. Winter would come early. He had been at the ranch a fortnight past—Loretta laughing at the boys, talking up the longhorns she’d bought and how she’d grow the place for Karter and Elias. It didn’t seem possible a day could split a life so clean.

“Easy,” he told Dusty when the gelding shied. Coyotes yipped far off. An owl called from the cottonwoods. He scarcely marked any of it. Karter, fifteen—tall, all elbows but strong. Elias, thirteen—smaller yet sturdy. Vernon knew the ache that sits under a boy’s ribs when a mother is taken.

He remembered his own ma dying of fever when he was nine, Loretta at eighteen stepping into a place no girl wanted. She made a wall of her back and kept him from their father’s temper and his own undoing. At eighteen, she’d married Ken and gone west to start the ranch while Vernon stayed in Missouri. After Ken died, she kept the place running with Paxton’s help and by all accounts made it pay. She was the strongest person he knew. And now she was gone.

By the time the ranch gate swung through the lantern’s arc, the night felt used up. He saw to Dusty, then knocked rather than startle anyone.

Paxton opened. “Figured you’d come tonight.”

The foreman’s salt-and-pepper hair stood any which way; shadows pooled under his eyes.

Vernon gripped his hand. “I had to.”

“I know.” Paxton’s voice roughened. “I’m sorry. Your sister was a fine woman.”

“How are the boys?”

“Hard to say. They haven’t spoken. Been by the fire, staring.” He tipped his chin toward the room beyond.

Vernon stepped into the parlor’s warm wash. Both nephews favored their pa, but they’d taken their mother’s soft brown eyes. Karter—lanky, bull-strong—sat rigid, gaze on the flames. Elias—shorter, compact—kept close, face gone white. They looked up at him and then back to the hearth, as if answers might be hiding there.

Seeing them hunched and hollow broke him fresh. He’d always been close to the boys, and there was nothing he could do to carry this weight for them.

***

At first light, he took Loretta’s best dress into town. The boys refused to go; he figured they feared the undertaker would force them to look upon her. He made the arrangements with the undertaker and Father Brown and rode back, turning over the hard arithmetic of the days ahead. He could not run the mill and this ranch both. Three people would not fit in his cabin. He would not walk away from the mill he built, and he would not walk away from the boys.

Maybe Jake could keep the mill steady and bring the papers out weekly. I don’t have to solve all of it today.

The boys worked their chores like penance. Vernon cooked supper; none of them ate. Paxton kept his own counsel; his grief for Loretta sat plain in his eyes.

By morning, they all saddled horses—the wagon splintered in the wreck. Paxton had a new one on order, but it would take time. They rode to town dressed in their best. They were early to the church; by the hour, the place was full. Loretta had been a friend to many.

“Let us pray,” Father Brown said. Heads bowed. “Dear Heavenly Father, we commend the soul of our sister Loretta to Your care and mercy…” He spoke of bread baked, wood split, sickbeds sat through the night; of sons raised to work hard and walk straight. Murmurs answered—“Amen,” “Praise the Lord.”

Elias’s shoulders shook; Vernon set an arm around him. At the graveside, Father Brown prayed again. A sound broke from Elias—a keen caught between sob and howl. Karter drew him close, tears running down his own face. Vernon bit his lip until it hurt as they lowered the pine box.

They rode back in silence. Elias shuddered now and again; Karter sat straight-backed, chin set like a man shouldering a load too soon.

At the house, townspeople had stacked the table with food. The room filled with well-meant phrases: She’s in a better place. We loved her so. If there’s anything we can do. His head throbbed. Holding his face steady for the mourners felt like punishment. He needed quiet, but the door never seemed to stop opening.

At last, the yard thinned. Only he, Paxton, and the boys remained—with food enough for a month and hearts rubbed raw.

“How am I meant to return these dishes?” he said, staring at the stack.

“Take them clean to the church on Sunday,” Paxton said. “The ladies will claim their own.”

After Paxton helped them clear up, he headed back to the bunkhouse.

Vernon looked at Karter and Elias and swallowed hard. Memory rose—how he felt after his mother’s burial—and how Loretta had stood between him and the worst of it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “When my ma died, I nearly came apart. Your ma held me together. I owe her more than I could ever pay. I’ll do right by you boys. I’ll stay. I’ll run this ranch and see to you as best I can.”

Karter shrugged and walked outside as if he hadn’t heard.

Elias studied him for a long moment. “I need to be alone.”

Vernon watched them go.

What in the world am I going to do? How can I take care of them?

Chapter One

Charleston, South Carolina, 1873

Jocelyn Whitmore set down her teacup as Mr. Ezra Morton laughed through cigar smoke about railroads that “grew money in their sleep.” Aunt Florence angled herself toward him, all polished courtesy.

“She is in mourning,” her aunt purred, “delicate, but obedient. Excellent family on both sides. She will be worth every penny it takes to set our household in order.”

Morton’s small blue eyes never left Jocelyn. He took another scone he did not need.

Stock to be judged, she thought, heat rising.

“Please excuse me,” Jocelyn said and fled the parlor.

On the landing, Aunt Florence’s voice drifted after her: “You must forgive her. They adored one another, she and her father.”

In her room, Jocelyn pressed a fist to her middle and breathed. Her father—gone within a week of the first chest pain—had left more debts than friends suspected. Until she turned eighteen—in six weeks—Aunt Florence was her guardian, and had already set about “putting things to rights.”

A sharp knock. “Open this instant.”

Jocelyn did not move.

“Stop this nonsense,” her aunt said through the door. “Your father’s creditors will be satisfied. Mr. Morton is willing—generously willing—if you marry him.”

“No,” Jocelyn said, steady as she could make it.

“You do not say no,” Aunt Florence returned. “You will be grateful. I have already accepted his proposal on your behalf.”

Jocelyn sprang from the bed. “If you like him so much, you marry him.” She shot the bolt.

“Open this door.” Knuckles rapped again. “Do not embarrass this family.”

“Go away,” Jocelyn said, though her heart thundered.

***

That evening, while her aunt was out, Kit Bradford called. Son of Jocelyn’s former governess and the oldest friend she had in the world, he read her face the moment she opened the door.

“What’s wrong?”

She told him. By the end, the handkerchief in her hands was a knot.

Kit grimaced. “Mr. Franklin—my employer—does business with Morton. The man could use a bath and a bib.”

“I will not marry him,” Jocelyn said. “But until my birthday, Aunt Florence will try to force it.”

“I could hide you at our house,” he offered.

“And ruin us both,” she said gently. “People would talk, and we’d be driven to marry. You can’t afford that, Kit.”

He rubbed his chin, trying for lightness. “What about a disguise—stable boy bound for Boston?”

She arched a brow. He lifted his hands. “All right. A worse idea, then. Truly, what else is there? Either you marry someone else, or you hide until you’re of age.”

He glanced at the newspaper on the table and lowered his voice. “Or you answer one of those notices.” When she stared, he added, “Some are widowers who need help with children. Out West, a woman’s work counts. Your aunt would never follow you to Wyoming.”

“Do you think I belong out West?”

“I think you belong where you’re not being sold,” he said simply.

After he left, Jocelyn sat by the cooling grate until the house settled. At last, she turned to the notices.

Most read like advertisements for free labor. One stopped her:

Ranch owner, twenty-seven, of modest means, seeks a sensible woman of good character, eighteen to twenty-five, in good health, willing to help care for my two teenage nephews. If interested, write to Vernon Lawson, Fort Bridger, Wyoming.

She read it twice more. If I am to be bought, let it be on my terms.

Before courage failed, she brought out the stationery her father had given her.

Dear Mr. Lawson,

I write in response to your notice. I am in good health and willing to keep a household and help with your nephews. I have experience with children, though none of my own. I understand life in the Wyoming Territory may be different, and I am willing to learn.

Respectfully,

Jocelyn Whitmore

General Delivery, Charleston, S.C.

She would sign replies with her mother’s maiden name, should it come to that—one small veil between herself and Aunt Florence.

Downstairs, she pressed the letter into Lena’s hand. “Post this, please—and watch for any reply to me.”

Lena nodded, eyes kind. Neither of them had much use for Aunt Florence.

Later, Jocelyn lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling. Frying pan or fire, she thought—and chose the road that at least led away.

Chapter Two

Vernon stood on the floor of the sawmill, watching the last log of the morning ride the carriage through the blade.

Jake stood beside him, arms crossed. He was only twenty, but mature, reliable, and he knew the machinery as well as Vernon. The men respected him.

“I’ll take care of everything. I’ll keep the mill up and running.”

Vernon clapped him on the back. “I know you will. What did your ma say about you staying at the cabin?”

“She said it was about time I moved out and gave her some space.” He laughed. “I think she’ll miss me, though.”

“I’m sure she will. I’ll keep paying her for the cabin work, so she’ll still be around.”

Jake grinned and nodded. “You want me to stop by the ranch next week with the invoices, payments, and other paperwork?”

Vernon glanced at the ledger in his hand. “Yes. If you come on Fridays, I can be sure you’ve coin enough to pay the men on Saturdays.”

“They’ll appreciate that.” Jake slapped his hat against his leg. “I’ll appreciate that. You know the men’ll miss you riding them.”

“Nah, they’ll be fine. You’ll be the one riding them, making sure everything is right,” Vernon said. “Just be sure you tell a man when he’s done well.”

“That’s your job with the monthly bonuses.”

Vernon laughed. “Money speaks loud. Let me know if there’s any trouble.”

He walked out of the mill without a backward glance. He’d made his decision—turn the place over to Jake so he could see to the ranch and the boys—and he wasn’t going to waver.

Karter sat on the bench of the new wagon delivered the day before. He didn’t move when Vernon stepped up to join him. The boy’s jaw was tight; he stared ahead without speaking.

Elias huddled in the back with his chin tucked into his jacket.

They rode in silence awhile; only birds overhead and the horses’ steady hooves sounded along the narrow lane between the mill and Fort Bridger. Vernon needed to fetch supplies before heading home.

Karter spoke when the fort came into sight. “You don’t have to stay at the ranch.”

Vernon kept his eyes forward. “Don’t start this again.”

Glaring, Karter growled in his throat. “I mean it. We don’t need you hanging over us. Elias and I can take care of ourselves—and the ranch.”

Vernon focused on the team. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” Karter punched his fist into his palm. “I’m almost sixteen. I can build and mend fence, handle the stock, and keep the books as well as you.”

“You’re going to finish your schooling.”

“Ma never made me go. She said it was my choice,” Karter shot back.

“No, she—”

“Shut up, Elias,” Karter snapped.

Vernon hid a smile. “After your pa died, your ma asked me to look after you if anything happened to her.”

Karter grunted, frustrated that the talk wasn’t going his way. “Well, you’ve done your duty, then. You showed up. Now go back to your mill. I’m not asking you to play our pa.”

Elias shifted but held his tongue. He’d been so quiet and withdrawn that Vernon hadn’t gotten much of a read on him.

The wagon skidded a hair as a wheel struck a rock that hadn’t been there on the last trip.

It wasn’t about asking. This was about their ma and the promise he’d made. Even without the promise, he wouldn’t walk away. “I’m staying,” he said at last. “That’s the end of it.”

Karter crossed his arms and pressed his lips together.

They pulled up at the fort and went to the general store. Vernon bought flour, salt, beans, and cornmeal for the house, and a list of equipment and feed Paxton had sent. Both boys helped load the wagon, though neither spoke.

Bert, who owned the store, raised his brows. “That good, huh?”

Vernon raked a hand through his hair. “They haven’t set their minds around Loretta’s passing, and they figure I’m here to take their pa’s place. They think they can take on the world alone.”

Bert chuckled. “Boys that age do. Remember sixteen, when you started feeling your oats?”

“I tried, but Loretta didn’t let me push too far.” Vernon sighed. “I don’t know how to make them understand I’m not trying to replace anyone. I want to help.”

Rubbing his chin, Bert shook his head. “You might have to wait ’til they’re grown for that to settle. I don’t reckon I understood a thing my folks did for me until I had a boy of my own.”

Vernon pressed his lips together. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Bert grinned. “That’s what I’m here for.”

They bought lunch from a woman selling fried buffalo sandwiches to the wagon train folk passing through, and then Vernon picked up the mail before heading home.

The ride back was as tense as he figured it would be. Neither boy said a word. They helped unload at the ranch, then went about their chores in silence.

He wondered what Elias was thinking. The boy rarely spoke unless pressed.

Later that evening, after the boys went to bed, Vernon sat in Loretta’s study staring at the mill ledger. Numbers were easier than figuring how to reach the boys.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache that had lived with him these last days. Loretta would have known what to say. People listened when she spoke.

Vernon was the opposite. He was a man of action—more apt to show what he felt than talk it.

“I wish you were here, Sis,” he murmured. “You could tell me what to do. Of course, if you were here, I wouldn’t be in this fix.”

He thought of the advertisement he’d placed for a wife. Once again, he wondered if he’d done right. Maybe no one suitable will answer.

***

The next morning was Saturday, so the boys didn’t have school.

Vernon set eggs and bacon on the table, with bread and butter. “Karter, I need your help mending the north pasture fence after you finish the milking.”

“I have my own work to do.”

“Helping fix fence is part of your work. If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who said you could mend as well as I can. Now you can show me.”

Karter glared and dropped his fork with a clatter. “Fine.” He shoved back his chair so hard it near tipped. “Come on, Elias.”

“Your brother can finish his breakfast,” Vernon said, voice like steel. Karter knew better than to test that tone.

Elias’s gaze flicked from Vernon to his brother, then dropped. He took another bite of eggs.

Vernon wished he could find the right words. He had no notion what to say. “Are you doing all right?”

Elias nodded without speaking.

Vernon studied his downcast face for any clue to the boy’s thoughts. He reminded him of Loretta; she grew quiet when she was wrestling with something.

“You know you can talk to me about anything,” Vernon said.

A small shrug. Another bite.

“I’m not much good at talking,” he added, “but I’m real good at listening.”

Elias gave the barest nod. Vernon felt as if he’d been talking to a door.

The boy finished, carried his plate, fork, and cup to the sink, and slipped outside without a word.

Vernon would find a way to reach him. He had to. Elias didn’t seem to hate that he was there; he was only hurt that his mother wasn’t.

***

After a long, tense day of mending fence—Karter speaking only when the work demanded it—Vernon went back to the house to fry ham steaks and potatoes while the boys finished their evening chores.

As usual, Paxton joined them for supper. He tried small talk; only Vernon answered.

The table felt so tight with silence that Paxton left the moment his plate was clean.

Karter and Elias finished together and washed up as asked.

Vernon went into Loretta’s—now his—study to open the mail he’d fetched the day before.

One letter lay on fine paper in a neat, feminine hand. Jocelyn Whitmore had written back.

Feeling he had little choice, he took up his pen and, after a moment’s hesitation, wrote her a reply. He’d take it to town to post on Monday when he took the boys to school.

I just hope that I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.