Prologue

Kansas City, Missouri

1880

“I have returned with the post!” Isabelle Smith announced, entering the house and placing the letters on the table by the front door.

Angelica Smith peered out from the doorway of the family’s study. A quick glance at Angelica and Isabelle would have been sufficient to raise questions about Isabelle’s parentage, for they did not look like mother and daughter. While Isabelle was fair-haired with large, brown eyes, Angelica’s hair was dark, and her eyes pale blue. Isabelle was slender and short, while Angelica was a large woman—tall and broad her entire life.

Such questions would have been merited, as the two were not blood-related. Isabelle had been left on the porch of Matthew and Angelica Smith as a baby, and they had taken her in.

“Are any of the letters especially urgent?” Angelica asked.

“I did not look.” Isabelle grabbed the letters, quickly reading over the names. “There is one from Mr. Charles Birch—”

He was Matthew’s most valued business associate.

“—another from your sister, and one from the reverend,” Isabelle concluded with a questioning look.

“Those can all wait,” Angelica said. “Can I trust that you also brought in everything I requested from town?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was fortunate that she had, because her arms and back already ached from the exertion of ferrying packages from town to the house all day long. She was a good, obedient young woman, and would’ve done anything her adoptive parents asked of her, but Isabelle wasn’t sure if she could manage carrying anything else to or from the house.

Matthew’s muffled voice emerged from the study, too quiet for Isabelle to make out what was being said. Angelica tilted her head, listening.

“And did you finish all of Matthew’s deliveries?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then, you can begin your chores,” Angelica said. “We are expecting company tonight, and I want everything to be beyond reproach.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We will use the silver and the good linens,” Angelica added. “Be sure they are all in good condition.”

Not all guests received silver and good linens. Usually, those trappings were reserved for Matthew’s business associates. Isabelle hid a grimace. Perhaps it was uncharitable of her, but she found it difficult to muster any enthusiasm for her father’s business associates. Most of them were middle-aged men whom Isabelle pretended not to notice as they leered at her when she served meals.

The worst of them was Richard Burbank. He gazed at her with a look that Isabelle could only describe as hungry. Burbank was also an ill-mannered man. Isabelle had always found it difficult to believe that he was a successful businessman when he was utterly lacking in charm.

“And try to be quick about it,” Angelica said. “It distresses me when you are inefficient. I worry that you will be unable to complete your chores, and an ill-kept house reflects poorly on us. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Angelica retreated into the study with Matthew, pulling the door closed behind her. Isabelle sighed deeply. She looked about the house, silently thinking of all the tasks that comprised cleaning. It was not as though she disliked working hard. Isabelle delighted in keeping herself busy.

Still, the house was large. Even when Isabelle had no other tasks to complete, something which seldom occurred, it still took an entire day to successfully clean most of the house. She had never managed to clean the place to Matthew and Angelica’s satisfaction in a single day.

But, as always, she would try.

Isabelle dusted all the furniture and shook the drapes. She swept the floors and replaced the wilted flowers that decorated the house with fresh ones. Isabelle brought out the new linens, relieved to see that they had not formed any noticeable creases even after being folded away for several months. She polished the silver until she could see her reflection in it and set the table in preparation for the guests. Doubtless, Isabelle would be expected to cook, too.

Isabelle was polishing the last of the silver when she spied Angelica’s face in the plate she had just finished.

“Matthew and I need to speak to you about something. At once.”

Isabelle placed the plate carefully on the dining table and removed her white cotton gloves. She followed Angelica into the study, Isabelle’s favorite room. It was warm and cozy, all the furniture made of polished rosewood. When the fireplace was lit, it glowed a faint orange-gold color. Isabelle’s eyes drifted, as always, to the shelves of books that ran the length of the far wall.

She never had time to read during the day, but when she was unable to sleep at night, she sometimes crept into the study and read by the flickering candlelight.

“Sit,” Matthew said.

Matthew was a tall, spindly man with a sharp face and dark, piercing eyes. When Isabelle was small, she had been a little frightened of him. Sometimes, she still was; there was something cruel in his features. At present, he sat behind his desk. Angelica moved to stand behind him, placing her hand on the back of his chair.

After a moment of hesitation, Isabelle took the empty seat across from him. Her heart thundered, like a songbird beating its wings against a cage. Nothing good ever happened when Matthew and Angelica were together like that.

“Angelica and I have been discussing your future,” Matthew said. “You are twenty-four years old, and it is long past time that you find something to do with your life.”

“Oh.” Isabelle blinked, taken aback.

Matthew and Angelica had never talked much about her future before. Occasionally, they threatened to cast her out if she did not complete her chores, but Matthew did not seem to mean that.

“A woman of your age ought to be married to a suitable man,” Angelica said.

Isabelle forced down that lump that rose in her throat. “A suitable man,” she echoed, sure that she must have misheard. “We—we have never discussed marriage before.”

“That is because you had no respectable offers before,” Matthew said. “Now, you do.”

Respectable offers? Isabelle’s chest tightened. Had Matthew and Angelica been trying to marry her off? The thought that they might have been courting offers for her hand in marriage without telling her made Isabelle’s eyes burn with the threat of tears.

“How long have I had respectable offers?” she asked dully.

“Since yesterday,” Matthew said. “I have found a man that desires an obedient woman, skilled at housework.”

Is that all? Isabelle wondered.

She was obedient, yes, and she was skilled at housework. Sometimes, Isabelle even took pride in her cleaning. There was little in the world that could match the satisfaction of doing a good job, in seeing mess and disorder brought into tidiness and order. It made her feel good, working hard and seeing the fruits of her labors. Still, hearing herself defined only by obedience and hard work was like having a bucket of cold water dumped over her head. That was not all she was.

“He will have enough money to ensure you live comfortably,” Angelica went on. “He has a good reputation, too.”

“And he is not a stranger,” Matthew said.

Isabelle’s heart sank. Her eyes darted from Matthew to Angelica in the futile hope that one of them might reveal that they were merely having a joke at her expense, that there was no husband for her, and they had only wanted to torment her a little.

But Isabelle found nothing but cold calculation in their expressions. She took a steadying breath, thinking back on all of Matthew’s business associates. They were the only unmarried men she’d ever been allowed to meet, so this mysterious suitor had to be one of them. None of them were particularly charming as acquaintances, much less as men that she wanted to marry, but there were some who were more tolerable than others. Which of those awful men was the least distressing choice for a husband?

“Marrying you will also guarantee that the business continues to thrive,” Matthew continued, as if that was meant to persuade Isabelle.

Instead, it made her face hot with indignation. Her adoptive father was treating her like an asset to be pawned to an associate in the name of the family business.

“I—I have not agreed,” Isabelle said.

Matthew laughed harshly.

“Ungrateful!” Angelica exclaimed. “Do you know how many women in this town would want to marry Mr. Burbank?”

“Mr. Burbank!” Isabelle could barely breathe. “He is old enough to be my father!”

“And?” Matthew asked, face reddening. “There are many benefits to marrying a mature man.”

Perhaps there were. Isabelle could find none in Mr. Burbank, however, and the thought of being wed to someone so discourteous and lecherous made her blood run cold. “Please,” she said.

“Please?” Angelica asked. “You should be expressing gratitude that we have found you such a man for a husband! Without us, you would have no suitors at all, much less one as capable of taking care of you as Mr. Burbank!”

Her breath became shallow, as much from Angelica’s cruel words as from the horrible future Isabelle now imagined for herself. She frantically shook her head, scrambling for words. She could not marry him. It would be a fate worse than death.

“I cannot marry him,” Isabelle said. “I will not.”

Angelica looked taken aback. Her jaw nearly dropped, as though Isabelle had just said something utterly unthinkable. “Excuse me?”

A lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. She tried to find some words to make Angelica understand, but everything inside her just wanted to wilt away. Her stomach lurched, and bile rose inside her throat. Isabelle feared she might vomit or faint—maybe both—right in front of her adoptive parents.

“You do not have a choice in the matter,” Matthew said sternly. “You will marry him. It has already been agreed to.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. How could this have happened? How could it have already been agreed to? She knew that her parents never expressed any gratitude for all that she did, but she would have never imagined that they would make a choice like this for her. She bit her lip and shook her head.

It was a feeble resistance and one that didn’t fit the circumstances, but it was all Isabelle could manage. She wanted to cry, but she knew that wouldn’t help her situation. Matthew became furious when she cried. He yelled and threw things.

Matthew pushed back his chair and slammed his palms against the surface of the desk. “You will marry him!”

Isabelle flinched at the sound of his voice, so loud in the small place. Her pulse jumped.

“Perhaps Isabelle just needs some time to think more about Mr. Burbank’s generous offer,” Angelica said, her voice sickly sweet.

Isabelle knew that tone of voice. It was the one that Angelica used when she knew that she had won. She expected that Isabelle would think it all over and realize that there was nothing she could do. While Matthew was always direct with his anger, Angelica was like a snake; her anger was sly and vicious. Sometimes, it even appeared as kindness until she struck.

Isabelle rose, stumbling over her chair. This couldn’t be happening.

No, this—

This had to be some terrible nightmare, and she would wake up any second.

Isabelle shook her head, tripping over her own shoe. Terror seized her heart like a vice. She knew what was coming. Isabelle didn’t want to be locked in the cellar, and she didn’t want to marry Mr. Burbank. She shivered, every fiber of her being aching to avoid the inevitable.

Her breath came in harsh, uneven gasps for air. “Please!” she exclaimed. “You can’t do this!”

Isabelle knew very well that they could. A small fire sparked to life inside her. She wanted to face them with defiance and fury, but she had never been angry like this before. Isabelle didn’t know what to do with all that aggression, so it boiled inside her, while she floundered and fought against it.

Matthew came around the desk and seized her upper arm with bruising force. “You will think about the marriage!” he snarled.

Isabelle pulled back, but Matthew was much larger and stronger than she was. He dragged her from the room, Angelica following close behind.

“I have thought about it!” Isabelle cried. “Please, don’t make me do this!”

Or maybe she meant don’t do this to me. Both requests jumbled together inside her mind. It didn’t really matter which she said. Neither Matthew nor Angelica had ever been swayed by Isabelle’s pleas.

“No,” said Angelica.

Matthew squeezed her arm tighter. “Perhaps, a night spent in the cellar will give you time to rethink your decision. And if you still refuse, then so be it! You will remain in the cellar until the wedding!”

Isabelle knew no amount of thinking would change how she felt about potentially marrying Mr. Burbank, but the thought of being locked in the cold cellar until the wedding, whenever that would be, filled her with a terror unlike any she had ever experienced before.

She stumbled over her own feet as Matthew forced her from the study. Isabelle’s mind whirled, panic drowning out every other thought. “You don’t need to do this!” she exclaimed.

He pulled her down the hall, and Isabelle fought to twist her wrist free of his grasp. If she succeeded, she didn’t know what she’d do next. Or worse, what he might do.

“Clearly, I do!” Matthew snapped. “You ungrateful girl! Don’t you realize how much we’ve done for you?”

“Of course, I do! You never stop reminding me of it!”

Those words didn’t sound like her. Years of docile agreement and yearning for their love made defiance feel like a stone on her tongue. Isabelle’s face grew hot, and she curled her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

“Clearly not enough!” Angelica exclaimed.

Matthew shoved Isabelle down the few steps into the cellar. The instant he released her, Isabelle whirled around. She lunged towards the door, but Matthew slammed it closed.

“No! Let me out!” Isabelle exclaimed.

The sound of the lock clicking was merciless. Isabelle futilely pulled at the doorknob, desperately trying to escape. Her efforts were for naught, as they always were. Isabelle took a step back, her body shaking.

She could not marry Mr. Burbank! He was a monstrous man and would make for a monstrous groom. But what other choice did she have?

Chapter One

Helena, Montana

1880

Timbers groaned, and flames crackled. Orange-gold flames danced through the haze of blackened wood and gray smoke. Caleb McRae tried to breathe, but his chest was tight. His eyes burned, his throat ached. There was not enough air as he crawled beneath broken timbers. Something sharp struck the palm of his hand, but he kept moving. Everything hurt.

Crying. He heard crying—

Sally! Caleb’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, his eyes burning as he met a cloud of white-gray smoke. A cough tore from his battered lungs, but he kept moving. Sally. He had to save Sally.

Caleb crawled along the floor, his nails clawing into the wooden planks as he forced himself to keep going, despite the pain and pressure building in his chest. Sally needed him.

He reached a cloud of smoke. His sister’s familiar bedroom was a wall of white, and Caleb still crawled forward. There was no air. No air! Panic seized him like a vice, his lungs burning.

He needed to reach Sally. He needed to breathe. Caleb inhaled—

He jolted awake. Sunlight streamed innocently through the window, and Caleb inhaled the clean air of morning. There was no smoke or flames, and his sister was not in danger. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

He lay in bed for a while longer, forcing his breathing to steady. It was just a nightmare; it could not hurt him. Then he rose and dressed, using the familiar movements to distract himself from the nightmare. Once dressed, he pulled on his boots and trudged into the kitchen. Sally was cooking eggs and bacon, the warm smells filling his nose. The kitchen smelled like home.

Sally turned to him and smiled. His sister was dark-haired like him and tall for a woman, though she did not compare to Caleb, who towered over everyone. Sally’s eyes were steel-blue, like their father’s had been. Caleb bore the peculiarity of having one blue eye and one brown eye, which his mother had always teased him about. She had said that he had one eye from his father and one eye from her. It had been a charming sentiment when Caleb was a child, but as he grew older, he found the observation less so. Sometimes, his own reflection reminded him too much of his parents and everything that he had lost.

“You had a rough night,” Sally observed, brow furrowing. “A nightmare?”

Caleb grunted.

Sally’s eyes narrowed. “It must’ve been a really bad one.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right.”

Caleb watched silently for a long moment as his sister finished preparing breakfast for them. Sally’s belly swelled, a sign that the baby was coming any day. Caleb would soon be an uncle, and he was of two minds about it. Proud at the prospect, afraid for Sally. Women died in childbirth, and his heart would break if anything happened to her.

“Nate says you’re going to buy a horse today,” Sally said.

Caleb raked a hand through his hair and lowered himself into a nearby chair. His sister had always handled mornings better than he did. Perhaps that was because she naturally woke so early. She always prepared breakfast for her husband, Nate, before coming to his house and making food for him as well. Caleb had told her that she did not need to cook for him, but his sister always dismissed that remark with a flippant wave and a laugh.

She came every morning. Caleb’s eyes dropped to his sister’s swelling belly, and he wondered if her visits would soon cease.

“We’ll see,” Caleb said as his sister placed the plate of bacon and eggs before him. “I’m a little wary of the seller. The advertisement sounded too good.”

“Too good?”

“It’s a suspiciously good deal,” Caleb explained. “When something seems too good to be true, it usually is, so I’m more than a little suspicious.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky?”

Caleb snorted. “Since when has that ever happened to me?” He took a large spoonful of eggs. “You never know,” Sally said in a sing-song voice. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Caleb’s mouth was full, so instead of answering, he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

Sally grinned. “We’ll see you for dinner, yes?”

Caleb swallowed. “I don’t like that look.”

Sally quickly adopted a look of mock, wide-eyed innocence that Caleb recognized all too well. “What look?”

“Like you’re planning something.”

His sister flashed him a fond smile. “Oh, ye of little faith! Best of luck with the advertisement.”

Sally squeezed his shoulder and left. He lowered his fork and squeezed his eyes closed. The flames were there, persistently at the edge of his memory.

They were always there, no matter how hard he tried to forget that night. He had saved his sister, but he and Sally had lost their parents that night. They had lost everything except each other.

Caleb opened his eyes and forced himself to keep eating. He was no stranger to nightmares, which was frustrating. Caleb was nearly thirty years old, and he remained haunted by something that had occurred when he was a child. Surely, he should have recovered already. He shouldn’t still be tormented by something that had occurred so long ago.

But he was. He finished his breakfast and inhaled the lingering scent of eggs and bacon. Caleb was safe, and Sally was safe.

That was all that mattered. They had survived, and he had a life that was good. Sustainable. What more could a man possibly ask for?

***

The horse was not the beauty that the ad had promised. In fact, the horse’s condition was worse than his own. He didn’t need a new horse yet; this one would still be able to work for a few years. Still, the deal had been good enough that he was willing to make a trip for one. He stormed into his sister’s house, blood boiling at the wasted day. A quick glance revealed that she was not in the sitting room. The warm smell of rosemary confirmed that she was in the kitchen.

He forced the tension from his shoulders, trying to find some silver lining to the generally wretched day. He was back in Helena and would soon have a wonderful meal with his sister and her husband, who was a good man. That was more than most men could ask for, and Caleb was determined to be grateful for what he had.

“Caleb!” Sally had been seated at the table, but she jolted upright as he entered the room. She swept a paper from the table and concealed it behind her back.

Caleb arched an eyebrow. “What are you writing?”

Her eyes brightened with mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Caleb crossed his arms. “There’s that look again, which means you’re probably up to no good.”

Sally laughed. “Or maybe I’m just pecking at you. You’re so easily flustered.”

“Always have been,” he admitted ruefully. “At least, when it comes to you. A good sister wouldn’t torment her brother the way you do me.”

“I bet she would. I am the best sister in the whole country, and you know it!”

Nathaniel Appleby entered the kitchen. Caleb’s brother-in-law was short for a man, with curly, red-blond hair. He made quite a contrast to Sally, who stood a good head taller than her husband. Once, the difference had been even starker. Nate had come to Helena with the fairest skin Caleb had ever seen in his life, and it’d been months before Nate had earned enough of a tan not to burn in the sun.

Sally abandoned her chair. She swept the letter into her pocket and went to the stove, where a stew was simmering.

“Caleb!” Nate exclaimed. “How was the horse?”

“Terrible,” Caleb said.

Nate frowned. His blue eyes swept to his wife before darting back to Caleb’s face.

“That’s unfortunate,” Nate replied, sounding as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

“No kidding.”

Caleb leaned against the wall, glancing at his sister. What had she been writing?

Sally stirred the pot, and Caleb’s mouth watered as the warm scent of meat and rosemary filled the air. He drifted closer and gave the stew—a mixture of beef, broth, potatoes, and carrots—an approving look.

“Is there cornbread?” he asked.

“There is,” she said, casting him a look of mock offense. “Who do you take me for?”

Caleb chuckled. “You are a Godsend.”

“Maybe you should find your own Godsend,” Sally said mischievously.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Caleb said. “I have you.”

Sally cast Nate a knowing look, and her husband sighed. A foreboding feeling swept over Caleb, and he had some inkling of where the conversation was about to turn.

“You’re a good man, Caleb,” Nate began.

“I know,” he said hastily, hoping to avoid the inevitable. “Thank you.”

“And it is downright unbelievable that you are not a married one yet,” Sally finished.

There it was. Caleb shrugged. “So I’m not.”