Prologue

Caldwell Ranch, Bighorn Basin, Wyoming, Fall 1869

“You’re working yourself ragged, Dazy.”

Clara’s voice cut through the crisp morning air, her words carrying both concern and familiarity. Twenty-two-year-old Dazy Caldwell adjusted her grip on the heavy bucket of water she had hauled from the well, her fingers stiff from the cold.

“Someone’s got to,” Dazy replied, setting the bucket beside the trough.

The cattle, restless from the autumn chill, gathered near, their warm breath clouding in the early morning light. She reached up to adjust her hat, pushing away a few stray auburn strands that had come loose from her braid.

Clara Hayes crossed her arms, her honey-brown eyes narrowing, the familiar mix of exasperation and affection playing across her freckled face. She was taller than most women in town, with a sturdy build from years of working her family’s land. Her chestnut-brown hair was tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat, though a few loose strands curled stubbornly at her temples. Unlike Dazy, who favored practicality, Clara always found a way to add a touch of femininity to her work attire—today, a blue ribbon tied neatly around her braid.

She had been Dazy’s closest friend for as long as she could remember. They had grown up side by side, sneaking out to the river on hot summer days, whispering secrets in the hayloft, and dreaming about the futures they’d carve out for themselves.

“Your father wouldn’t want you running yourself into the ground, you know.”

Dazy stiffened at the mention of her father. The ache of his absence was a dull, constant weight in her chest, one she had learned to carry like an old wound. She could still hear his voice in her head—Take care of the land, and never give up. And she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. This ranch was all she had left of him.

“I made a promise,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And I aim to keep it.”

Clara sighed, clearly knowing better than to argue. “At least come for supper tonight. You can’t live on biscuits and coffee forever.”

Dazy let out a breath of amusement. “Watch me.”

“Ma’s worried about you,” Clara said. “We all are.”

“I am fine, Clara,” Dazy assured her. “I have it all under control.”

Clara rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as she turned toward her horse.

“Stubborn as a mule,” she muttered before mounting her horse. “Come for dinner.”

“Another time,” Dazy promised.

Clara rolled her eyes as she turned her horse. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Daisy called over her shoulder.

She appreciated Clara’s insistence—she really did—but right now, she wasn’t ready for company, for conversation. Not when her thoughts were still tangled, her chest still heavy from the weight of the day.

She had too much to think about.

And no matter how much Clara pushed, some things Dazy had to figure out on her own.

As the rhythmic beat of hooves faded into the wind, she exhaled, looking around at the ranch.

It looked the same as it always had—wide stretches of golden grassland stretching toward the distant mountains, the old wooden house standing stubborn against the wind, the barn and corral just beyond it. But it felt emptier.

Because it was.

Get a grip, Dazy, she told herself. There is work to be done.

Dazy walked to the barn and grabbed some rope, securing it over her shoulder. She then walked over to the corral and got to work on one of the posts that had come loose. If her father were still alive, he’d have handled this kind of thing before breakfast. But he wasn’t. And she had no one left to depend on but herself.

He’d died only three months ago, and since then, she had tried—really, had she tried—to keep everything running as it was. But the money had thinned out faster than she expected. The ranch hands who had worked for her father, men who had been like family, had to be let go one by one until she was the only one left. She would never forget the look in old Hank Parker’s eyes when she told him she couldn’t pay him anymore. He’d been working on the ranch since she was a girl. What was worse was that he hadn’t been angry—just sad. Sad for her, sad for what the ranch had become.

Even as she looked around now at the broken fence posts, rusty tools, and peeling paint, her chest ached with all there was to do, and it took every ounce of courage she had not to rush inside the house and hide under the covers.

She tightened the rope around the post, yanking hard, as if the force alone could hold it together.

Then there was the attitude of the other ranchers.

They had barely waited for the dirt to settle over her father’s grave before making their opinions known. A woman running a ranch? It was laughable to them. They had been polite about it at first, offering her kind suggestions.

Sell the land, Dazy. It’ll be easier for you.

Maybe a nice widow’s boarding house would suit you better.

A ranch is no place for a woman alone.

But when they realized she wasn’t selling, when she refused to back down, their kindness turned to quiet dismissal. Some simply refused to work with her at all.

“Nothing personal,” Jim Halloway had said with a shrug when he turned her away from the cattle auction last spring. “But men don’t take well to signing contracts with a woman. You understand.”

No, she didn’t understand. And she never would.

She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve and grabbed a hammer to reinforce the post. She wouldn’t let this land go, not after everything her father built.

But no matter how stubborn she was, facts were facts.

She needed help, but she couldn’t afford to pay anyone. At least not a livable wage.

There was so much to be done. The roof needed patching before winter set in. The fencing in the south pasture needed to be mended before the cattle wandered too far. And then there was the late-night calving season. All of it now fell on her narrow shoulders.

Dazy pulled off her gloves and glanced toward the sky. The sun was hanging lower, dipping into the horizon, setting the land ablaze in hues of gold and crimson.

Her father had raised her to be strong. To stand on her own two feet.

But even the strongest foundations cracked under the weight of time.

And, whether she liked it or not, hers was beginning to crumble.

***

It was early evening by the time Dazy returned to the house. The wind had picked up, rustling the tall grass beyond the barn, carrying the faint scent of impending rain. The wooden porch creaked beneath her boots as she stepped inside.

The ranch house was small but sturdy, filled with the familiar scents of pinewood and aged leather. The walls bore the marks of a home well-lived—a set of spurs hung by the door, her father’s rifle resting on its rack above the hearth, and a half-sewn quilt draped over the back of a chair, abandoned from last night’s attempt at mending it.

Dazy set about preparing supper. She walked to the pantry, pulled the wooden door open with a creak, and surveyed the shelves. Her stomach clenched.

Bare.

A half-empty jar of preserves. A sack of flour she had been stretching for weeks. A dwindling tin of coffee. A small wedge of cheese, hard as a rock.

She pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the frustration bubbling inside her. The money she had left was already spoken for—supplies for the ranch, winter feed for the cattle, repairs she couldn’t keep putting off. Food for herself? That came last.

She grabbed the flour and set about making biscuits. They wouldn’t be soft or fresh—not with how little lard she had left—but they’d be enough to quiet her hunger.

As the biscuits baked, she poured herself a cup of coffee, watching as the dark liquid swirled in the tin cup. No sugar, no cream. Just bitter and strong, the way she needed to be.

She took a sip, catching sight of her reflection in the kitchen window. Her thin face was pale from too many late nights, her green eyes shadowed with exhaustion. A smudge of dirt streaked across her cheek, and her freckles, once softened by childhood innocence, now seemed etched into her skin like battle scars. She looked exactly as she felt—worn but standing.

Dazy turned away, placing the cup down on the table as she opened the oven to check on the biscuits.

A short while later, she took a seat at the table, staring down at her meager meal. The house was too quiet. Too still.

She exhaled, forcing herself to take a bite, chewing slowly.

Once, this ranch had always been full—full of voices, full of warmth, full of life.

Now, it was just her. And the silence was heavier than any burden she carried.

Dazy got up, carrying her plate and cup to the sink. But as she was about to wash them she heard something.

A cry.

Faint at first, carried by the wind.

At first, she thought it was a coyote, but then she heard it again. Louder. Desperate.

Dazy’s blood ran cold.

She grabbed her father’s rifle from the wall and moved cautiously to the door, pushing it open with slow, measured movements. The wind had shifted, howling through the valley, making the old oak by the barn groan under its weight.

Then she saw it.

A small bundle on the porch.

Her breath hitched. She lowered the rifle and stepped forward, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The bundle moved—tiny limbs flailing beneath a worn wool blanket. Another cry, piercing and raw, sent a jolt through her.

She kneeled, hands trembling as she peeled back the fabric. Wide, teary eyes met hers, red and puffy from crying. A baby, no older than a year, wrapped in nothing but a thin swaddle against the cold.

Dazy’s heart pounded against her chest, blood rushing in her ears.

A folded piece of paper was tucked against the blanket. She reached for it, unfolding the crumpled page with unsteady fingers.

Take care of Dylan.

That was it. No explanation. No signature.

Just four words that would change everything.

Chapter One

Caldwell Ranch, Bighorn Basin, Wyoming, Spring 1870

Six months.

Half a year since she’d stepped onto her porch and found a wailing bundle wrapped in a thin wool blanket. Half a year of sleepless nights, endless worries, and more exhaustion than she ever thought possible.

Dazy rocked back on her heels, wiping sweat from her brow as she finished repairing the chicken coop, her muscles aching from the day’s work. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the land, but she barely had time to appreciate it. Inside the house, a high-pitched giggle rang out, followed immediately by a crash.

Her stomach tightened. What now?

Dazy dusted her hands off on her trousers and hurried toward the house, pushing open the door just in time to see Dylan sitting proudly in the middle of a mess of overturned pots and wooden spoons.

Her kitchen, once neat despite its worn-down appearance, now looked as if a twister had spun through it. Flour dusted the floor in uneven patches, and one of the chairs had been pushed over, likely from Dylan’s latest attempt at climbing.

He grinned up at her, two tiny teeth peeking from his lower gum, his chubby hands slapping against the wooden floor in delight. His once-thin frame had filled out over the months—his cheeks rounder, his arms sturdier. He was still small for his age, but he was strong.

Too strong for his own good, considering how often he manages to crawl into trouble, she thought.

Dazy watched him, a warmth unfurling in her chest—one she hadn’t expected, one she hadn’t asked for, but there it was.

He was growing before her eyes, changing every day. And with every milestone—the first smile, the first laugh, the first wobbly attempt to stand—Dazy felt the grip on her heart tighten.

“Dylan,” she sighed, exasperated but unable to keep the fondness from her voice.

A slow, deliberate clapping came from the doorway behind her.

“Well, would you look at that?” Georgina drawled, leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “Boy’s gonna be a little baker.”

Dazy spun, narrowing her eyes at the teenage girl.

“Georgina. You were supposed to be watching him,” Dazy said, motioning toward the mess.

The girl’s lips curled up in a smirk, her blonde braid draped over one shoulder as she chewed a piece of straw between her teeth. At sixteen, Georgina Campbell had perfected the art of looking completely unimpressed with the world around her.

Georgina shrugged. “I was watching him.” She gestured lazily. “He was having fun.”

Dazy pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a steadying breath. “You were supposed to keep him out of trouble.”

“He ain’t hurt, is he?” Georgina said, pushing off the doorframe and plucking the straw from her mouth.

Dazy’s fingers twitched at her sides. If Georgina weren’t the daughter of her neighbor, whose mother had kindly offered her help, Dazy would’ve sent her packing weeks ago. The girl was more of a thorn in her side than anything else, finding any excuse to avoid work and acting as if watching Dylan was an inconvenience rather than the only thing she’d been asked to do.

But Dazy didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

“You can go,” she said tightly, hoisting Dylan up on her hip.

Georgina arched a brow. “You sure? I was thinking I’d stay and help with supper.”

Dazy leveled her with a flat look.

Georgina grinned. “All right, all right, I’m goin’.” She grabbed her hat from the peg by the door and sauntered toward the exit, pausing at the threshold. “See ya tomorrow, boss.”

With that, she was gone, boots kicking up dust as she strolled toward the road, carefree as ever.

Dazy let out a slow breath, shaking her head before glancing down at Dylan. He blinked up at her, grinning as he banged his wooden spoon against the floor.

“Guess it’s just us again,” she murmured.

He giggled, drool running down his chin. His dark curls, thick and unruly, were damp with sweat, and his big brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

“You’re more work than a whole herd of cattle, you know that?” she murmured, stepping over the mess and scooping him up. He wriggled, kicking his legs, babbling a string of nonsense that was equal parts adorable and incomprehensible.

She held him close, inhaling the faint scent of milk and sunshine clinging to his soft skin, and looked down at his hands. Dylan had grown so much in six months—his tiny fists, once barely strong enough to hold on to her finger, now gripped the fabric of her shirt with determination. He was crawling everywhere, pulling himself up on furniture, trying to walk.

And through it all, she had done her best to care for him, although it had not been easy.

She thought back to those first few days after she’d found him. Dazy had gone to every house in town, asking if anyone knew where he came from. No one did—or if they did, they weren’t saying. The church, kind but overburdened, had told her they had no room for another child. The orphanage in Cheyenne had sent word that they were at capacity but promised to contact her if a spot opened.

But six months had passed, and no letter had come.

And part of her felt relieved.

Because, as hard as it was raising him alone, as exhausting and overwhelming as every single day had been, she couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t get attached. That she was only looking after him until something more permanent came along.

But then there were moments like this, when he nestled his face into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. When his tiny fingers tangled in her braid. When he woke in the middle of the night crying and the only thing that soothed him was her touch.

He needed her.

And yet another part of her knew that he was not hers.

***

That night, the house was quiet save for the soft crackling of the lantern’s flame and the rhythmic suckling of Dylan against his bottle. The dim glow cast flickering shadows along the wooden walls, and Dazy rocked slowly in the creaking chair, exhaustion weighing down on her like a lead blanket.

Outside, the Wyoming night stretched vast and cold. The wind had died down hours ago, leaving behind an eerie stillness. It should have been peaceful.

But then—

A sound.

Faint at first. The distant, unmistakable thunder of hooves against dry earth.

Dazy’s body stiffened, her breath catching in her throat.

Then came the shouts. Low, gruff voices carried on the wind, indistinct but urgent.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Bandits.

She had heard about the raids—how outlaws had been moving through the valley, preying on ranchers, taking what they pleased. Most men had guns, ranch hands, or family to help protect what was theirs.

But she was alone.

Dylan whimpered against her chest, sensing the tension in her body. She quickly pulled the bottle from his mouth and pressed a finger to his lips, whispering.

“Shh, baby. We gotta be quiet now.”

She stood, moving swiftly to blow out the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. Dylan stirred in her arms, but she tightened her hold on him, stepping carefully across the creaky wooden floor.

The sounds outside grew louder. The thudding hooves slowed. Voices came clearer now.

“Check the barn.”

“Make it quick.”

“We ain’t got all night.”

Dazy’s breath hitched. She backed into the small pantry, clutching Dylan tight. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it was the best she had. Through a narrow gap in the door, she could just make out the window across the room.

Shadows passed in front of it.

Then—shouting. A loud clang as something was knocked over outside.

Dazy squeezed her eyes shut.

She heard whinnying.

The horses.

The bandits were after them.

She could hear them moving toward the corral, their boots crunching over the dry earth, the jangle of spurs echoing in the night. Then came the sharp crack of a gunshot—one, two—and the frantic neighing.

“Get ’em movin’!” a man barked.

The pounding of hooves erupted again, this time frantic, hurried—her horses, driven from the corral, stolen right out from under her nose.

She bit her lip hard, forcing back the helpless rage swelling in her chest.

She had no rifle in her hands. No hired men to chase them down. Nothing but the small, trembling boy clutched against her, his breath warm against her neck.

The sounds of destruction continued—barrels overturned, wood splintering. A crash near the barn. Then, silence.

Dazy stayed frozen, hardly daring to breathe.

Long minutes passed before she finally moved, her body stiff with tension. She listened. Nothing.

She crept toward the window, careful to keep her body low, and peered outside. The corral gate stood wide open. The barn doors were ajar. The horses—gone.

Her stomach twisted.

Those horses were everything. She needed them for work, for travel—she had been relying on them to get her through the winter. And now…

She swallowed hard, rubbing Dylan’s back in slow circles as he squirmed sleepily in her arms.

For the first time in months, she felt truly helpless.

Morning would come soon enough, revealing whatever wreckage had been left behind. But she already knew.

Everything was about to get a whole lot harder.

***

Morning came with a cruel sort of clarity.

The rising sun bathed the land in golden light, as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn’t shifted under Dazy’s feet the night before. But as she stepped out onto the porch, the truth was plain as day.

The corral gate swung open, barely hanging on its hinges. Dazy’s stomach dropped.

The ground was torn up with deep hoof prints, the packed dirt churned into chaos from the stolen horses’ frantic departure. A broken fence post lay splintered on the ground, jagged like an old wound. Inside the barn, overturned barrels, scattered tools, and an abandoned saddle made it clear just how quickly the thieves had worked.

For a long moment, Dazy just stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her like a boulder.

The horses were gone.

Gone.

Her breath came shallow and sharp, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Weeks—months—of hard work, of careful breeding and training, stolen in one night. She could already hear the whispers in town, the murmurs that a woman couldn’t hold on to her own ranch.

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed hard against the rising anger, the frustration curling hot and sharp in her chest.

Work now. Get mad later.

She forced herself to move, to step forward and assess the damage, but her legs felt like lead, her heart pounding with a sick mix of rage and helplessness.

Because no matter how strong she was, no matter how hard she fought—

It was never enough.

She grabbed a rake and set to work smoothing out the worst of the mess, if only to keep herself busy. Dylan sat on a blanket nearby, playing with a wooden block, blissfully unaware of the hardship pressing in around them.

She had barely started clearing the wreckage when the sound of a horse’s hooves broke the morning stillness. She turned just as Clara reined in her mare, her expression shifting from concern to horror the moment she took in the state of the ranch.

“Sweet mercy, Dazy,” Clara breathed, sliding down from the saddle. “What happened?”

Her gaze swept over the corral and the barn and then landed on Dazy herself—her dirt-streaked clothes, the exhaustion lining her face.

“Bandits,” Dazy said simply, wiping sweat from her brow. “They took the horses.”

Clara’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Well, that’s that then, you can’t stay out here alone,” she said, her voice rising. “Not with bandits creeping around at night, knowing you’re easy pickings, and especially not with the baby here.”

Dazy’s chest tightened. “I know it’s dangerous, Clara. But this is my home. If I leave now, what’s stopping them from coming back and taking whatever’s left?”

Clara let out an aggravated sigh, rubbing her temples. “Just come stay at our place for a few days—just until we figure something out.”

Dazy shook her head. “I won’t leave the ranch.”

Clara stared at her for a long moment, then blew out a breath. “Fine. But you need to at least go into town and speak to the sheriff. You can’t let this slide, Dazy.”

Dazy hesitated, glancing at Dylan, who was playing in the back garden behind the house. She didn’t want to leave him, not with Georgina. The girl meant well, but she had no real sense of responsibility.

Clara seemed to read her mind. “I’ll stay here,” she said, voice gentler now. “I’ll keep an eye on things, do the chores, make sure Georgina doesn’t let Dylan set the house on fire.”

Dazy huffed a dry laugh, then nodded.

“All right,” she muttered. “I’ll go.”