Prologue

Sinclair Estate, Stevensville, Montana Territory, 1890

The corridors of the Sinclair estate were cold, the house quieter than usual, but it was not the kind of peaceful quiet that came with a gentle evening or the hush of a soft snowfall. Rather, it was the kind that pressed against Mary Sinclair’s chest like a heavy weight.

A waiting silence.

An expectant stillness.

She had felt it all day, lingering in the air, wrapping itself around her like a tightening thread.

Something was wrong.

Mary sat in the dim parlor, staring at the embroidery in her lap, the needle pinched between her fingers, mid-stitch. She couldn’t concentrate and hadn’t made a single stich in some time. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it did nothing to chase away the chill creeping beneath her skin.

It’s nothing, she told herself. You’re being silly.

But the feeling wouldn’t go away. The back of her neck prickled but whenever she turned to look, there was nobody there. It left her on-edge.

A low murmur drifted from down the hall, barely audible over the ticking of the grandfather clock. Her father’s voice, followed by a second voice—deeper, smoother, laced with a confidence that made her skin crawl.

Mary tensed. She knew that voice. George Blackwell.

Her fingers curled tightly around the embroidery hoop as she turned her focus toward the hallway. She hadn’t known he was coming tonight. Her father hadn’t said a word about it. But then, that wasn’t surprising—he rarely included her in his business dealings.

Still, a strange unease twisted in her stomach.

Lately, her father had been restless. Distracted. The usual order of their lives had started to fray around the edges. She had noticed the way the servants whispered more than usual, the way the ledgers had been locked away in his desk rather than left out like they used to be.

Then there was the way he looked at her sometimes, with an unreadable expression—one that made her feel like a chess piece rather than a daughter.

A soft gust of wind rattled the windowpane.

She swallowed hard.

For months now, her future had felt uncertain, as if she were standing at the edge of something she couldn’t quite see. And now, listening to the hushed voices in her father’s study, she knew—this is it.

Mary rose to her feet, moving carefully, her slippers making no sound against the polished wood floor. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the dim hallway, drawn toward the study like a moth to flame.

As Mary walked toward the study, the evening air thick with the scent of polished mahogany and fading candle smoke, the chill in her bones had little to do with the temperature.

The low murmur of voices drifted through the half-open study door, carrying words Mary Sinclair wasn’t meant to hear.

She froze in the dim hallway, her hand tightening around the polished banister. The lingering scent of furniture polish mixed with the faint tang of cigar smoke, making the air thick and stifling.

From her hidden vantage point, she could see George Blackwell seated across from her father, his tall frame sprawled with an air of casual arrogance.

The amber glow of the gaslight gleamed off the sharp angles of his face.

“You need to face reality, Sinclair,” George said, his tone sharp and businesslike. “The estate is crumbling. You’re drowning in debt, and every month you wait to act makes it worse.”

There was a heavy pause, broken only by the faint clink of a glass being set down. When her father finally spoke, his voice was low and resigned.

“I’ve managed so far,” Mr. Sinclair muttered, though the edge of desperation betrayed him. “There are assets we can sell. Some of the paintings, perhaps. The silverware—”

“And leave yourself with nothing but empty walls and bare tables?” George interrupted, his laugh cold. “That’s not managing, Sinclair. That’s grasping at straws.”

Mary’s stomach twisted as her father let out a heavy sigh.

“It wasn’t always like this, you know. The Sinclair name meant something once. The land, the house, the business—my father and grandfather worked their lives to build it.”

Mary knew it was true—the grandeur of the Sinclair estate had always been a source of pride for her father, but she’d long understood that it was more façade than fortune, especially in the most recent years. The polished mahogany, the crystal chandeliers, the priceless antiques—they were all relics of a time when the Sinclair family had been wealthy and powerful.

Now, it was little more than smoke and mirrors. A crumbling foundation propped up by appearances. The carpets were frayed at the edges, the once-vibrant wallpaper faded. Rooms that had once been bustling with servants were now silent, and the grounds were tended by just one overworked gardener.

Even the meals had grown simpler over the years, though her father insisted it was by choice rather than necessity.

Mary’s mother had often said that the estate was as much a burden as it was a legacy, but her father had clung to it with desperate tenacity. It was the only thing he had left, and Mary knew it was slipping through his fingers.

“And now it’s falling apart under your watch,” George said bluntly. “You’ve lost the tenants who used to lease your fields. The staff is down to a skeleton crew. Even your creditors are running out of patience.”

Her father’s voice wavered. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every morning with the weight of it pressing on my chest?”

“What you need is someone who can salvage what’s left and make it thrive again. Someone with the resources and the will to do it.”

There was a long silence, and Mary’s heart pounded in her chest as she leaned closer.

“And I suppose you are that someone?”

“I can provide everything the estate needs,” George said. “I’ll pay off the debts, secure new investments, and ensure the Sinclair name remains one of respect and power.” He paused for effect, his voice dropping to a persuasive murmur. “But I need something in return.”

Her father hesitated. “You mean Mary.”

George gave a slow, satisfied nod.

“Precisely. A union between the Sinclair and Blackwell families would benefit us both. Your debts erased. My influence expanded. And Mary would have everything a woman could ever need—wealth, security, status.”

Mary’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her ears. She could barely process the words, her mind spinning.

The Sinclair and Blackwell families had been in the Montana Territories for generations. Mary’s great-grandfather, along with old man Blackwell, founded the town of Stevenson. Everyone knew them, their names carrying great respect. However, in recent years, the Sinclairs had fallen on hard times, even if Mary’s father would never admit it. Meanwhile, Blackwell was wealthier and more powerful than ever before.

“It’s a simple arrangement, Sinclair,” George continued. “You need me, and I… well, I’ve always been partial to Mary’s charm.”

“She won’t agree to it.” Her father’s voice was low, almost inaudible.

“She doesn’t have to,” George said coolly. “She is twenty years old, ready for marriage and you’re her father. You’ll make her understand.”

Her heart clenched painfully as the meaning behind George’s words sunk in. Her father, always so consumed by the family name, would never defy someone like George Blackwell. He would see this proposal as the only solution, no matter what it cost her.

Silence hung in the room. Mary’s breath quickened, her chest tightening.

“Alright,” her father said after a long pause. “I accept your offer.”

Mary’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp, and she stepped back, her fingers trembling.

“Good,” George replied, standing and adjusting his jacket. “Well, now, we have that settled.”

Her father spoke again, but the words were a blur as her pulse roared in her ears.

She turned and fled down the hall, her footsteps muted against the thick carpet runner, skirts brushing against her legs as she hurried to her room.

They were speaking of her like she was cattle to be sold, her future nothing more than a line item in their financial transactions.

In her room, the familiar scent of lavender sachets and aged wood greeted her. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the coals casting faint orange light across the modest furnishings—a small writing desk, a neatly made bed draped in an embroidered coverlet. Her mother’s locket sat on the vanity, a bittersweet relic of a woman she barely remembered.

Mary slammed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as tears stung her eyes. Her world, already constricted by her father’s rules and expectations, now felt suffocating. Her chest heaved as her gaze darted around the room, her sanctuary now seeming like a gilded cage.

Suddenly she felt as though she couldn’t breathe, as if the air had thickened to molasses. Her corset bit into her ribs, each breath a shallow, panicked effort. She pressed a trembling hand to her throat, willing herself to calm down, but the walls seemed to close in with every second.

Desperate for relief, she rushed across the room to the window. Her slippers whispered against the plush rug as she fumbled with the latch, finally wrenching it open. A gust of cool, night air poured in, brushing over her flushed skin and loosening the suffocating grip of her fear.

As the lace curtain fluttered in the breeze, her gaze caught on the faint reflection in the glass. A young woman stared back at her, hazel eyes, wide and glistening, betrayed the turmoil within. Her auburn hair was loose and wild from the hurried escape down the hall, the soft waves catching the light of the fire behind her. In this light, her pale complexion seemed even more delicate. With high cheekbones that looked more sunken than elegant, she barely recognized the girl in the reflection, a portrait of vulnerability and fury combined.

Mary tore her eyes away, gripping the windowsill as she leaned out slightly. The Sinclair estate stretched before her, serene and orderly in the moonlight. The manicured gardens, with their carefully trimmed hedges and neatly arranged flower beds, seemed almost mocking in their perfection. The wrought-iron gates stood like sentinels in the distance, a physical barrier between her and the freedom she craved.

She closed her eyes, the breeze cooling the heat on her cheeks, but her mind offered no solace. She longed to run—to leave behind the suffocating walls of her father’s house and the dark shadows of betrayal lingering in the parlor below. But where could she go? Alone, penniless, and without support, what hope did she have of escaping George’s grasp?

“What am I going to do?” she whispered to herself.

But the wind carried no answers and after a moment she turned away, sinking onto the edge of her bed.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, weak and resigned as he conceded her future to George.

The man who should have fought for her, who should have protected her, had given in without a struggle. He was always like this—pathetic and pliable when it mattered most. The image of him sitting across from George, eyes downcast, hands trembling, made her stomach churn.

Mary clenched her fists in her lap. Her father’s failures had shaped her entire life—his inability to stand firm after her mother’s death, his obsession with preserving the Sinclair name no matter the cost, and now this.

Her mind drifted back to those earlier years.

The days were long and lonely. Mary spent her childhood wandering the halls, her footsteps echoing against the marble floors.

She had no siblings to share her burdens or joys. Other children from nearby estates were rare visitors, their short, polite playdates stiff and formal. Books became her only companions, their pages filled with adventures and distant lands that made her feel alive in ways the real world never did.

Her father, when he did speak to her, was a distant figure, always preoccupied, always distracted. His affections were measured in stern instructions, his rare compliments tied to her behavior at social events. If she spoke too much, laughed too loudly, or expressed an opinion, she was reminded of her place. She quickly learned to guard her thoughts, her emotions, and, eventually, her dreams.

There were moments when Mary yearned for connection, for someone to sit beside her and ask how she was feeling. Instead, her grief and loneliness hardened into resolve. By the time she was an adolescent, she had stopped seeking her father’s attention. She learned to rely on herself, to bury her pain and replace it with a quiet independence.

Now, as her father conspired to trade her future for a lifeline to salvage the estate, Mary realized just how much that independence would need to carry her. The lessons of her childhood were clear—no one would save her. She would have to save herself.

Just then, her gaze drifted to her mother’s locket on the vanity, its delicate chain catching the glow of the dying fire. Her mother had been strong, or so Mary had been told—a woman of determination and grace. What would she think if she could see her daughter now, caged and desperate?

Mary’s throat tightened. She wouldn’t let them take her life from her, not like this. But what could she do? She had no money, no family she could turn to, no place to go.

How could she escape the life that was being laid out for her?

Just then, a soft knock at the door startled her. She spun around, her heart pounding as her father entered, his hand still on the doorknob. His shoulders were stooped, his face pale beneath the flicker of the hallway’s gaslight.

For a moment, she dared to hope that he had changed his mind, that he had come to tell her she had misunderstood.

“Mary,” he began, his voice heavy. He closed the door behind him, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding hers. “We need to talk.”

Her stomach dropped. “I already know,” she said, her voice trembling. “I heard you and George in the parlor.”

Her father froze, his lips parting as if to deny it, but then he sighed and crossed the room to stand by the window.

“Then you know this is for the best.”

“For the best?” she repeated, incredulous. “How could you say that? He doesn’t care about me—he only wants the estate!”

Her father flinched but didn’t turn to face her. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the gardens outside.

“It’s not that simple, Mary. This family—our name—means something. I’ve done what I can, but the debts… they’ve strangled us. George can save us.”

Mary’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “At what cost? You’re willing to sell me off to save your name?”

He turned sharply then, his face lined with frustration and guilt. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Because it certainly isn’t love or concern for my future. You’re trading me for money, Father!”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of shame. But it passed as quickly as it came, replaced by the rigid mask of authority she had grown up under.

“You’re my daughter,” he said firmly. “And you will do as I ask.”

Mary shook her head, disbelief and despair rising like a tide.

“You’re asking me to give up my life to marry a man I don’t love. A man I don’t even like! How can you expect me to accept that?”

“I’m not asking,” he told her, his voice colder now. “This is the way it must be.”

His words struck her like a blow, and her legs felt suddenly weak. “You’re condemning me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“I’m saving you,” he snapped. “You think you can survive on your own, Mary? In a world that would swallow you whole? George can protect you. He can provide for you.”

“I don’t need his protection!” she cried. “I need you to see me as more than just another piece of this estate to barter away!”

Her father’s face softened for a fleeting moment, but the burden of the years and debts dragged his shoulders down.

“You’ll understand someday,” he murmured. Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the door.

He paused, his hand on the knob, as though considering saying something more. But he only closed it softly behind him, leaving Mary alone.

The sound of the latch clicking shut was the final blow. Mary’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, the cold wood pressing against her palms. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable. She pressed her hands to her face, muffling the sobs that tore through her.

Chapter One

Sinclair Estate, Stevensville, Montana Territory, 1890

A week later, Mary sat in the Sinclair sitting room. The heavy brocade curtains draped the tall windows, the room dimly light despite the polished brass lamps.

A Persian rug in muted greens and golds muffled her every step, and the faint scent of furniture polish mingled with the dusty undertone of books that sat unread in the glass-doored cabinets.

Mary perched on the edge of the faded floral settee, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Across from her, Myrtle Blackwell lounged in one of the high-backed chairs, all confidence and cheer.

“Oh, Mary,” Myrtle gushed, leaning forward to clasp her gloved hands together.

The ostrich feather on her wide-brimmed hat bobbed with the motion.

“You must be over the moon. George is such a catch—a man of vision, wealth, and refinement. Why, there isn’t a single woman in Stevensville who wouldn’t envy you.”

Mary forced a tight smile, her fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt. Myrtle’s voice was high and breathy, with a hint of self-importance that made every word feel rehearsed. She was a petite woman, her blonde curls pinned meticulously beneath her hat, and her dress—a garish pink satin trimmed with excessive lace—clashed painfully with the subdued elegance of the room.

“I’m sure he is,” Mary said evenly, though her voice felt hollow.

Myrtle didn’t seem to notice. She kept prattling on, lost in praising her brother. “And just think of all the wonderful things he’ll provide for you! His estate, his connections—George always takes care of what’s his. And, of course, once you’re married, you’ll be part of our family.”

She leaned back with a satisfied sigh, her corset creaking slightly.

The knots in May’s stomach tightened uncomfortably. The way Myrtle spoke, it was as though she were already property—George’s to care for, control, and show off.

Her carefully constructed smile faltered, and she longed for an excuse to leave.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Maggie, the housekeeper, entered with the tea tray, her movements practiced and precise. Her dark gray dress, neatly pressed, hung simply on her sturdy frame, and her white apron was starched to perfection.

Her weathered hands, calloused from years of work, handled the porcelain teapot with care as she placed it on the small table between them.

“Tea is served,” Maggie said, her tone as polite and restrained as always.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Mary said quietly.

Maggie’s gaze flicked to Mary, and for a moment, their eyes met. A faint but knowing sympathy glimmered in the housekeeper’s brown eyes, lines at the corners deepening with concern. It was a look Mary had grown familiar with over the years—a quiet understanding that spoke of Maggie’s ability to read her moods even when Mary tried to hide them.

Mary felt an ache in her chest as she watched Maggie straighten the tea tray with meticulous care. While the other servants had always kept their distance, treating her with the polite formality expected of their roles, Maggie had been the one constant in her life. The housekeeper had been there when Mary was a little girl, wiping her tears with a corner of her apron after her mother’s death. She’d offered gentle words of encouragement when Mary’s father’s indifference weighed heavily on her young heart, though she’d never spoken ill of him.

For all her years of service, Maggie had never overstepped, never crossed the boundaries between servant and family. And yet, her quiet presence had always felt maternal, filling the void left by Mary’s mother in subtle but vital ways.

“Oh, Mary,” Myrtle began, pulling her from her thoughts. “George has such plans for the Sinclair estate. He’s told me all about them—the debts, the improvements he’ll make. You’re so lucky he’s stepping in to save it. Why, most men wouldn’t bother!”

Mary’s chest tightened, and the tea in her cup sloshed slightly as her grip wavered. “I’m sure George is… very capable,” she said, her voice strained.

“Oh, indeed,” Myrtle chirped.

She took a sip of tea, her pinky raised.

“And of course, you’ll want to do your part as his wife. George believes in tradition—a wife who supports her husband’s ambitions, who runs the household with grace and efficiency. I just know you’ll make him proud.”

Mary’s hand tensed around her teacup, the heat of the porcelain seeping into her palm. The words felt suffocating, like a noose tightening around her neck.

Maggie cleared her throat softly, drawing Myrtle’s attention for a moment.

Then, as Myrtle turned back to her tea, Maggie stepped to Mary’s side and adjusted the tray ever so slightly, her voice low enough for only Mary to hear.

“Steady, Miss Mary,” she murmured. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Mary glanced up at her, startled. Maggie’s expression was composed, her lips pressed in a neutral line, but the quiet strength in her gaze gave Mary the smallest glimmer of reassurance.

Myrtle, oblivious to the exchange, set her teacup down with a clatter.

“Well,” she said brightly, rising from her chair and smoothing her skirt. “I must be off. I promised George I’d check on the preparations for your engagement dinner tonight. Oh, I do hope you’ll wear something stunning. This evening will mark the beginning of a wonderful new chapter for you both!”

Mary forced another smile as she rose to see Myrtle out. “Of course,” she said faintly.

As the door clicked shut behind Myrtle, Mary let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The oppressive silence of the sitting room returned, but her heart still raced.

She turned back to the tea tray, Maggie’s words replaying in her mind.

You’re stronger than you think. But was she?

The clink of china echoed in the room as Mary set down her untouched tea. She wasn’t sure if Maggie’s words were enough to carry her through the night ahead.

***

The heavy scent of furniture polish and dying roses filled Mary’s room as she sat before her vanity, staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror. She adjusted the pearl comb in her hair, her fingers trembling slightly.

Behind her, Maggie moved about the room, folding fresh linens with quick, practiced movements. Mary could feel the older woman’s eyes on her, the weight of her silence speaking louder than words.

Finally, Maggie exhaled and set the linens down. “You’ve been quiet all afternoon,” she observed.

Mary forced a small smile. “I suppose I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Maggie let out a knowing hum, stepping closer.

Mary turned slightly in her chair. “Maggie… do you think it’s possible to feel like a guest in your own home?”

Maggie’s expression softened. “Oh, Miss Mary.”

Mary lowered her gaze. “I don’t belong here anymore. I feel it more and more each day and now with this marriage….”

The housekeeper’s warm hand settled on her shoulder, grounding her. Mary swallowed hard. “How could he do this to me?”

Maggie’s lips thinned. “That man is blind if he can’t see what this is doing,” she said. “And I know your sweet mama would be turning over in her grave if she knew.”

Mary turned back to the mirror, her reflection suddenly unfamiliar. “Maybe I don’t belong anywhere,” she sighed.

Maggie knelt slightly, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Now, that’s not true. You just haven’t found your place yet.”

Mary exhaled, but before she could respond, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. A sharp, hollow sound.

Maggie squeezed her shoulder before rising. “You’d best not keep them waiting.”

Mary nodded but didn’t move right away. Instead, she reached up and clasped Maggie’s hand for a brief moment.

Maggie gave a small, reassuring squeeze. “It will all work out, Miss Mary.”

Mary wished she believed that. Then, with a deep breath, she rose to her feet and headed downstairs.