Prologue

Rawlings, Colorado, 1880

The dust hung heavy in the air as Rosa May busied herself with housework, the rich green rug beneath her feet dancing to the rhythm of her sweeping. Her heart was filled with a simple kind of contentment, born from the warm comfort of routine and familiarity. She swiped at a thin layer of grime that clung stubbornly to the sturdy oak kitchen table’s white tablecloth, her hands moving with the practical efficiency of a woman used to hard work.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted the quiet hum of the afternoon, an unwanted punctuation in the monotonous cadence of her chores. Rosa’s heart clenched with a sudden premonition, her hand freezing on the handle. It was the deputy’s steady gaze that greeted her, his hat held respectfully in his hands. The sight of him standing on the porch, his face etched with uncharacteristic grimness, sent a chill racing down her spine.

“Miss May,” he said, his normally firm voice unsteady. “There’s been a shootout…”

The world tilted around Rosa as the deputy’s words, slow and heavy like molten lead, seeped into her consciousness.

“If you’re lookin’ for Pa, he’s at the station already…” she trailed off, watching as the man’s expression fell. He knew her father wasn’t home. He hadn’t come looking for Sheriff May at their home. He had come looking for her. And even before he spoke again, Rosa knew deep in her heart why.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “Boy, am I ever sorry. But your pa’s been shot.”

Rosa’s breath rushed out of her with the power of a small twister. She didn’t want to believe the man’s eyes, so she asked the question they were already answering.

“Is he all right?” she asked.

The man shook his head slowly, removing his hat and staring down at it in his hands with morose focus.

“No, Miss May,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

Rosa felt her knees buckle, her heart pounding as if it wanted to break free from her chest. The room spun as she gripped the brown-trimmed doorframe for support, her mind refusing to comprehend the deputy’s words.

“No… it can’t be,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

The deputy lifted a weak hand, raising it toward her. But it fell limply to his side before it reached her.

“I’m so sorry, Miss May,” he said.

Rosa nodded, then shook her head, moving through no conscious effort of her own. Her father couldn’t be dead. He was the sheriff of Rawlings, Colorado; had been all twenty-one years of her life. And in all that time, he had only been grazed by a bullet once, and that was only because a drunk man in the saloon accidentally fired his gun in the midst of an inebriated rant while he was brandishing it around the room.

No one could shoot faster, or dodge a bullet more adeptly, than her father. And yet, as she looked into the sad, burdened green eyes of the young deputy, she knew it was true.

“Thank you, Deputy,” she whispered, shaking her head again. “I… um… is there anything I need to do?”

The deputy shook his own head, offering her a grimace that she thought must have been meant as a small smile.

“No, Miss May,” he said. “We called the doctor to pronounce him. We’ll take care of the body from there. When would you like to have the funeral?”

Rosa sighed, her body growing heavier with grief with each passing moment.

“As soon as possible, I suppose,” she said.

The deputy nodded.

“Do you need anything?” he asked hesitantly.

Rosa shook her head one final time, blinking back tears that desperately tried to escape her brown eyes.

“No, Deputy,” she said. “I think I just need time to process this.”

The deputy nodded again, putting his hat back on his head and heading back out the doorway.

“Again, I’m really sorry, Miss May,” he said. “You let us know down at the station if there’s anything we can do for you.”

Rosa’s lips twitched, but she imagined it looked as much like a smile as the deputy’s had.

“I will,” she said. “Thank you again.” But unless you can bring my pa back, there ain’t nothin’ any of you can do…

***

The next days passed in a blur. Despite the numerous pieces of shiny oak furniture, the wreaths of flowers that occupied every wall, the vases filled with fresh flowers, and the sleek black sofa and recliner, the house seemed too big, too empty without her father’s robust laughter echoing through the rooms.

His large, comforting presence was missing from every corner, making her home feel as silent as the grave. She moved through her tasks in a daze, the weight of grief pressing down on her like a leaden blanket. And when that blanket was too heavy, she would crawl back into bed and cry until she fell into a restless sleep.

Her father’s funeral was a sea of black clothing and somber faces. The townsfolk came in droves, men doffing their hats and women holding back tears, all expressing their condolences. It was a testament to her father’s character and the love the town held for him. The whole town loved him because he was a fair, if sometimes stern, sheriff. And it showed as Rosa watched everyone who came to say goodbye to her father.

The town’s pastor stood at the head of the grave, his words filled with sympathy and assurances of a peaceful rest in heaven. But Rosa could only stand there, staring blankly at the polished wooden casket, her hands clenched tightly around the black lace handkerchief her father had gifted her on her sixteenth birthday.

She was aware of the sympathetic glances, the whispers of “poor child,” and “she was so close to her pa.” But she felt oddly disconnected from it all, as if she was standing outside the circle of her own grief, watching the spectacle unfold.

“Miss May, I’m so sorry…” someone would say, and she would nod, her lips stretching into a pale imitation of a smile.

“Thank you,” she’d reply, her voice a hollow echo in her own ears. Her father was gone. The words echoed in her mind like a mournful dirge, their finality filling her with an indescribable emptiness.

But worst of all were the hushed whispers which, in the quiet church, weren’t hushed enough.

“And her without one of her legs,” she heard one woman whisper.

“A girl shouldn’t have been chopping wood so young,” said another.

Rosa had ignored those whispers. But they took her back to the terrible day she had lost her leg. Yes, she had only been eight years old. And perhaps, most other young girls wouldn’t have been chopping wood so young, or at all. But it had been just her father and her since her mother ran off and left them.

She had had to take on extra responsibilities as a result, such as tending to the yard and garden, as well as chopping wood, while her father was at work. As the sheriff, he often worked until well after dark. It was up to her to help him with the tasks that he didn’t have time to do.

She had, just barely, resisted the urge to defend her father. He was dead and couldn’t speak for himself. But she also understood, despite her grief, that the women meant no harm with their words. They hadn’t lived the life that Rosa and her father had.

They didn’t understand how things had been for the two of them. So, instead, she had simply pretended that she hadn’t heard a word of their conversation, continuing to accept the condolences offered by the other townspeople, and prayed for the day to end.

That night, as the candles burned low and the house was filled with ever-present, aching silence, Rosa sat on her father’s old rocking chair, the scent of his pipe tobacco still faintly clinging to the worn-out fabric.

She allowed the tears to fall then, the dam of her emotions finally breaking under the weight of her loss. Her sobs echoed in the empty house, her heart crying out for the man who had been her rock, her mentor, her father. She knew life would never be the same again.

The stark reality of her solitude set in the morning after the funeral. The sun rose, as indifferent as ever, washing the small town in its golden glow. Rosa stood in front of the mirror, her reflection an echo of the woman she once was. Now, she was an orphan. A daughter with no father, a family reduced to one.

Shaking off the cloak of melancholy threatening to drown her, Rosa pulled on her best pink silk dress, fastened her bonnet securely, and headed toward the town bank. With each step, she mentally steeled herself for the task ahead. She had never been a stranger to hardship, but facing it head on without her father’s guiding hand seemed a mountain too steep to climb.

The bank was a testament to the growing prosperity of the town, its imposing structure out of place amidst the row of simple wooden buildings. Taking a deep breath, Rosa pushed the door open, the bell overhead chiming her arrival.

Inside, behind a tall oak counter, Mr. Wilkins, the town’s bank manager, offered her a thin, sympathetic smile.

“Miss May, how may I assist you today?” he asked.

Rosa took a deep breath, her gloved hands gripping the worn edge of the counter.

“I need to know about my father’s savings, Mr. Wilkins,” she said, offering him the same almost-smile she had given to the attendees of her father’s funeral.

Mr. Wilkins’ brow creased with pity as he leafed through the large ledger before him.

“I’m afraid, Miss May,” he began, hesitation creeping into his voice, “there’s not much left in your father’s account.”

His words hung heavy in the air. The room felt smaller, as if the walls were closing in, the air thinner, harder to breathe. But Rosa didn’t flinch, didn’t let the panic that threatened to consume her show on her face. That news meant that she would soon be in serious trouble. However, she would not disgrace her family name by making a scene.

“I understand, Mr. Wilkins,” she managed to say, her voice steady, her father’s strength shining through her. “Thank you.”

Mr. Wilkins gave her a sheepish look, holding up his hand as she started to turn away.

“We’d be happy to give you some credit,” he said. “Under such circumstances, I’m sure we’d have no trouble getting five hundred dollars. Might even be able to help you get one thousand…”

“No,” Rosa said, more firmly than she intended. She mimicked the banker’s sheepish expression, shaking her head gently. “I mean, I appreciate it and all. But without Pa here, and with me unemployed as of now, there’s no way I could be sure I could ever pay that back.”

The banker nodded, giving her another sympathetic smile.

“I understand, Miss May,” he said. “That’s very responsible of you. But if your circumstances change, or you change your mind, come see me. I’d be happy to help you.”

Rosa nodded.

“I will,” she said, knowing she had no intention of doing so. “May I withdraw the amount that is left in Pa’s account?”

The banker nodded again.

“Sure thing,” he said.

It only took him a minute or so to count out the two hundred and forty-nine dollars left in her father’s savings. She winced as she took the money, trying not to think about how little the amount truly was. She knew she should have expected such a small amount, what with no salary coming in since her father died and having spent some of it on the funeral.

She supposed she had been hoping she was wrong about how much her father might have had in the bank. Even with no income coming in, she could stretch that amount over a period of months, especially since she was now on her own. But if there was any kind of emergency, or if extra supplies were needed, it could drastically shorten that length of time.

Still, she offered one final, weak smile.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Wilkins,” she said.

The banker tipped his bowler hat and nodded.

“Pleasure to serve you, Miss May,” he said.

Rosa left the bank with her father’s scant savings and a heart filled with grim determination. There were no more tears to shed, no more time for self-pity. Survival was the name of the game now, and Rosa was not a woman to be defeated easily.

She spent the rest of the day making inquiries for employment, knocking on every door that might offer her a job. She was met with a mixture of sympathy, refusal, and veiled curiosity. Being the only woman seeking employment in a town where women’s roles were often confined to the household was not a path laden with opportunities. But she was undeterred.

That evening, as the sun set on a day filled with harsh realities, Rosa sat alone in her father’s study. The dim light from the solitary lamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The vibrant oak desk beneath her arms, where she rested them, felt cold and unwelcoming. The picture of her mother, which her father kept on his desk, despite what she had done to them, stared at her, looking almost smug in the dim candlelight. Hurt and angry, she reached out and knocked the picture onto its face. Then, she turned to the portrait of her father, which hung on the side wall, giving him a small smile.

“I can do this,” she whispered into the quiet room, her voice resolute. “For you, Pa. I’ll make you proud.”

Rosa’s resolve was like tempered steel, unbending and resolute. She knew the road ahead was fraught with challenges. She was alone in a town that thrived on community, a woman in a man’s world. And a woman who was missing her leg, at that. But she was her father’s daughter, and she was determined to hold her ground, to carve a life out of the chaos that threatened to consume her.

However, now that night had come, in the privacy of her small, lavishly decorated pink and white room, her disability took on a new, sinister form. It wasn’t just a limp anymore. It was a vulnerability, a harsh reminder of her physical limitations.

The nightly sounds of the desert—the hooting of the owls, the rustling of the underbrush, even the creaking of the wooden house—seemed to mock her helplessness. She pulled the thick, white woolen blanket over her body, shivering despite the warmth it provided. She closed her eyes, praying for sleep to wash over her, to save her from the gnawing fear that twisted her insides.

What if there was trouble? What if the Wild West chose to rear its ugly head and she was alone, unable to defend herself? The thoughts buzzed in her mind like a swarm of relentless wasps, stinging and pricking at her peace. Rosa opened her eyes, staring at the wooden ceiling as if it held the answers. What choice did she have? She couldn’t run away, couldn’t hide from the life that had been thrust upon her. She had to face it, fight it.

In the stillness of the night, Rosa allowed her fears to run rampant for a moment, to acknowledge the terrifying reality of her situation. Then, she took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing the fear away. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She was stronger than her disability, stronger than her fear.

“Yes, I’m scared,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in the still room. “But I’m also Rosa May, and I won’t be beaten by fear.”

Clasping her hands together, she sent up a prayer, not for safety, but for strength. Strength to endure, to persevere, to defy her limitations. As the moon bathed her room in a soft, silver light, Rosa closed her eyes, her heart beating in rhythm with her newfound resolve.

Each night would be a battle, a war waged against her own fears. But every morning that she woke up, every dawn that she greeted, was a victory. Rosa May was alone, yes, but she was also a survivor, a fighter. And she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

Chapter One

Rosa sat on the porch of her father’s old cabin, gazing at the setting sun as it cast a shimmering golden light across the barren plains. A dusty breeze rustled the dried grass and tickled her face, carrying with it a sorrowful reminder of her father’s passing only four months ago. The cabin, once a symbol of comfort and security, was now just a shell housing echoes of past laughter, shared stories, and whispered secrets.

She missed her father, his strong presence, his gruff but caring voice. He had always seen her, not as a cripple, but as his strong-willed daughter, capable and fierce. He had raised her to be that way after the accident claimed her leg.

He never saw her as weak or helpless. And he had seen to it that she hadn’t, either. It was an image Rosa desperately clung to, in spite of her own doubts, the prejudice of the town, and the stump of crudely shaped wood where a real, strong leg used to be.

Life had been challenging enough after the woodchopping accident took her leg as a girl. She had adapted, grown resilient, refusing to be defined by her disability. But her father’s death had left her in a vulnerable position in the months following the funeral. In that era, a woman alone was disadvantaged. A woman alone with a disability was virtually disregarded. The world saw her as the exact opposite of what her father raised her to be. She had never felt more frustrated, or more alone, in her entire life.

The townsfolk respected her father, the honest, hardworking sheriff. But they found it easier to offer their condolences than a helping hand. Rosa had applied to every store and business in town, insisting she could work, insisting she was able. Their sympathetic eyes and shake of their heads were all the answer she received. With every rejection came another week where she had to budget more and more. She was down to her last fifty dollars, and she knew she was in real trouble.

A bitter tear rolled down her cheek, disappearing into the folds of her worn-out dress. She clenched her fist, anger simmering in her chest. She wasn’t asking for charity, just a chance. A chance to prove that she was more than her disability, that she could contribute, survive, and maybe, even thrive.

“Darned fools,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible above the wind’s low howl. “If Pa were here, he’d tell me to show them, not tell them.”

With a sigh, she brushed the dust off her skirts and pushed herself up using her cane. She rarely used her cane anymore, since she had learned to navigate her childhood home and property very well with her wooden leg. But it offered her a source of comfort since her father died, and it prevented any falling accidents, which was important since she now lived alone.

She took a moment to steady herself, looking out at the sunbeams dancing on the plains in the distance. She and her father had watched many sunsets from that very stoop. Now, after just a few months, it felt to her as though she had watched three times as many alone.

“Oh, who am I foolin’?” she muttered, wiping tears that she hadn’t even felt fill her eyes from her cheeks. “How can I show people who choose to be blind anything at all?”

She looked up at the sky wistfully, watching the stark white tufts that dotted the sky as they mocked the dark cloud that hung over her heart.

“How am I supposed to get along, Pa?” she asked, knowing there would never be any answer. “How can I manage without you?”

When the expected silence followed her question, Rosa sighed heavily. The sun was still resting just above the horizon, casting the first shadows of evening over her father’s property. But she couldn’t bear another second of facing her worries and sadness for the day. So, she finally turned and went inside the cabin, carefully making her way upstairs and to her room. She collapsed onto her bed, not bothering to crawl beneath the covers. As her eyelids fluttered closed, the question haunted her again: how would she ever manage without her father?

She was awakened the next morning by knocking on the front door. She stiffly pulled herself out of bed, not bothering to smooth her wrinkled, blue cotton dress, which she had fallen asleep in, as she made her way slowly down the stairs. When she reached the front door, she was prepared to send the visitor away. But when she opened it, a ghost of a smile flickered on her face.

“Laura,” she said, a little of her months-long grief temporarily melting away.

Laura Riddle, her longtime dear friend, had been smiling when Rosa opened the door. But as she took in Rosa’s countenance, the smile quickly wilted.

“Oh, Rosa, sweetheart,” she said, embracing Rosa tightly. “Forgive me, honey, but you look like you feel awful.”

Rosa tried to laugh, but to her chagrin, it came out as a sob.

“I’ve never felt worse, Laura,” she said.