Prologue

Nashville, Tennessee, Spring 1875

It can’t be true, she told herself. It can’t be.

Lilly Prescott exhaled shakily as she stepped into the dimly lit corridor of Grant’s townhouse. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer filled the silence, a steady drumbeat to the storm raging in her chest.

She had heard the whispers at the general store, the pitiful glances from the women who hadn’t the courage to tell her outright: Grant Davis was seen with another woman. Lilly had laughed at first, waving off the cashier’s hesitant words as nonsense. Grant was an upstanding businessman, a man of his word, the man she was to marry in a month’s time. He wouldn’t betray her. He couldn’t.

For nearly two years, Grant had courted her with patience and charm. He had been the perfect gentleman, offering her his arm on Sunday walks through town, sending her small gifts wrapped in ribbon, speaking to her mother with the utmost respect. He was well-mannered, well-bred, and well-liked by everyone in Nashville. He made promises of a stable future, of a life filled with comfort, of a fine home where she would never have to worry about money or hardship.

And Lilly had believed him.

She had fallen for the dream he painted so vividly, believing that, finally, she had found the security and love she had longed for. Grant had been her safe harbor, the promise of something permanent in a life that had been filled with too much uncertainty.

But now, as she stood at the threshold of his study, she felt as if that dream was about to unravel before her eyes.

She reached for the brass handle and pushed open the door. The scent of jasmine perfume—one that did not belong to her—hung thick in the air, mingling with the heat of the crackling fireplace. Candles flickered against the walls, casting a golden glow on the couple inside. Grant sat in his leather chair, his vest undone, his lips tracing the bare shoulder of a woman perched in his lap. She giggled, fingers tangled in his dark hair, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that they had an audience.

The woman was beautiful in the way that always caught men’s attention—tall and curvaceous, with rich auburn hair cascading over her shoulders in perfect ringlets. Her skin was pale and flawless, her lips painted a bold shade of red. She wore an emerald-green gown, the bodice cut scandalously low, revealing far more than a respectable lady would ever dare. She leaned into Grant, tilting her head to whisper something in his ear, her dark-lashed eyes filled with mischief and satisfaction.

A sharp gasp tore from Lilly’s lips before she could stop it. Grant’s head snapped up, his blue eyes widening in alarm. For a brief, foolish moment, she wanted him to tell her it was a mistake, that she was imagining things. But there was no mistaking the flush on his face, the disheveled state of his clothes, or the guilty way he rose to his feet.

“Lilly, I—”

She didn’t stay to hear the excuses.

Her stomach twisted as she turned on her heel, lifting her skirts and rushing down the hall. The suffocating grandeur of Grant’s home blurred past her—the expensive rug underfoot, the oil paintings lining the walls, the elegant crystal chandelier overhead—all things he had once promised would be theirs when they married. Now, they were nothing more than reminders of the life she had so foolishly believed in.

Outside, the chilly spring air bit at her cheeks, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Nashville’s streets bustled with life, but Lilly barely noticed. She moved through the town in a daze, her boots clicking against the wooden sidewalk.

Gas lamps flickered along the street, their soft glow barely keeping back the encroaching night. Carriages rattled past, their wheels kicking up dust and the occasional pile of horse droppings. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the nearby bakery, mingling with the sharper smell of coal smoke from the blacksmith’s forge.

Lilly walked past storefronts that had once felt familiar and welcoming—the dress shop where she and Ava had admired bolts of fine calico, the bookstore where Grant had purchased her a leather-bound copy of Jane Eyre. Now, those places felt foreign, tainted by the knowledge that the man she loved had never truly been hers.

As she passed the saloon, raucous laughter spilled out onto the street, mingling with the off-key twang of a fiddle. Men leaned against the railing outside, cigar smoke curling around them as they swapped stories and eyed the working girls drifting through the crowd. In that moment, she felt a kinship with those women—used, discarded, left to fend for themselves.

“All right, darlin’?” one of the men slurred. “Fancy a drink?”

Lilly dropped her head, her fingers clenched around the folds of her skirt as she hurried past.

By the time she reached Ava’s boarding house, her breath was unsteady, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs.

The house stood at the edge of the town’s quieter streets, where the noise of rowdy saloons and hammering blacksmiths faded into a stillness that always felt like a refuge. The two-story building was modest but well-kept, its white clapboard siding freshly painted, its front porch lined with sturdy wooden columns. The warm glow of a single oil lamp shone through the front window, casting flickering shadows across the lace curtains. The scent of baking bread and lavender wafted from inside, a comforting contrast to the bitter betrayal still clinging to Lilly’s skin.

The boarding house had always felt like a home to her, more so than any place she’d ever lived. It wasn’t grand like the townhouses in the wealthier part of town, but it was warm. The porch had rocking chairs that creaked when the wind blew just right. A weathered welcome mat lay at the front door, slightly askew, as if guests came and went often. The flower beds along the walkway were neatly tended, the first buds of spring pushing through the rich soil, a testament to Ava’s patient care.

She barely had to knock before the door swung open.

Ava McAllister was as familiar to her as family. Slightly taller than Lilly, with a sturdy, confident posture, Ava carried herself with an air of quiet strength. Her dark, tightly coiled hair was pinned back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping at her temples. A dusting of freckles crossed her honey-colored skin, and her expressive eyes—deep brown and always filled with understanding—studied Lilly carefully.

“Lilly?” Ava’s warm brown eyes widened in concern. “What happened?”

Lilly pushed inside, unable to hold it in any longer. “The rumors were true,” she choked out. “I saw them—Grant and some woman—” Her voice broke, the words thick with betrayal.

Ava’s face darkened. “That lying, two-faced—”

Lilly shook her head, gripping the back of a wooden chair for support. “I can’t stay here, Ava. I can’t walk through this town with everyone knowing. The whispers, the looks—I won’t be some tragic figure in a gossip circle.”

Ava exhaled, her expression softening as she took in Lilly’s trembling frame. “Come with me,” she said gently, placing a steadying hand on her arm. “Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

Lilly let herself be guided down the hall, her steps heavy as exhaustion threatened to overtake her. Ava’s boarding house was warm, the air carrying the faint scent of lavender and baking bread. Oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the wallpapered walls, their soft glow far more welcoming than the harsh candlelight that had illuminated Grant’s betrayal.

Ava pushed open a door to the right, leading Lilly into the small, cozy study where she often did her bookkeeping. It was a modest room, but every inch of it was steeped in warmth. A mahogany writing desk sat beneath the window, stacked neatly with ledgers and ink bottles. A tall bookshelf lined the wall, filled with well-worn novels and history books, their spines cracked from use. A thick braided rug covered the wooden floor, its deep reds and browns muted by time but no less inviting.

In the corner, a cast-iron stove radiated a comfortable heat, the faint scent of chamomile drifting from a kettle resting on top. A cushioned armchair sat beside it, a crocheted blanket draped over the back. Ava gestured for Lilly to sit as she busied herself with the kettle.

“You sit right there,” Ava said, pouring hot water into a porcelain teacup. “I’ll get you some tea, and then you’re going to tell me everything.”

Lilly sank into the chair, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The moment she stopped moving, the weight of the night settled on her chest.

Ava returned with the steaming cup, placing it gently in Lilly’s hands before settling into the chair across from her. “Now,” she said, voice softer, more coaxing. “Tell me what happened.”

Lilly stared down at the amber liquid, watching the delicate ripples as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I went to Grant’s house,” she finally said, her voice hollow. “I wasn’t even going to. I didn’t believe the rumors—I didn’t want to believe them. But then… I walked in, and I saw him. I saw them.”

Ava’s brows knit together. “Who was she?”

“I don’t know,” Lilly whispered, swallowing hard. “She was beautiful—tall, with auburn hair and the kind of curves men take notice of. She had on this green gown, cut so low that it left little to the imagination. She was sitting in his lap, laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.”

Ava muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly unladylike. “And Grant?”

Lilly forced herself to meet Ava’s gaze. “He looked guilty,” she admitted. “He tried to say something, but I didn’t stay to hear it.” She let out a bitter laugh. “What could he have possibly said? That it wasn’t what it looked like? That she had tripped and fallen into his lap?”

Ava scoffed. “I would have slapped him right across that lying mouth of his.”

Lilly let out a breath, a small, humorless smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “I was too stunned to do anything. I just… ran.”

Ava’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a warm hand over Lilly’s. “Oh, honey,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

The kindness in her voice nearly broke Lilly. Her throat tightened as she fought back the threatening tears. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry over Grant—not here, not now.

Ava squeezed her hand. “You deserve better than this, Lilly. Better than him. And you don’t have to stay here, not if you don’t want to. You have options.”

Lilly swallowed hard, shaking her head. “What am I going to do, Ava? I am twenty-four years old. Nearly too old for marriage, and now? Now the whole town will know that Grant discarded me. I can’t stay. I can’t bear the thought of walking through town and having to endure the stares, the pity.”

Ava hesitated, then crossed the room to a small writing desk. She rifled through a stack of papers before pulling out a folded newspaper. “Then don’t,” she said softly. “Start over somewhere new.” She handed Lilly the paper, pointing to an ad circled in ink.

GOVERNESS WANTED

Shreve, Ohio

A respectable family seeks a governess for a young child. Must be of good moral standing, educated, and willing to relocate.

Lilly traced the words with trembling fingers. Ohio. A place she had never been, far from the memories that now suffocated her. She could leave behind the humiliation, the hurt, and start fresh, just as Ava said.

“But Ava,” Lilly said. “I am not a governess. I have never cared for children.”

“This is just one child,” Ava replied. “And you are well-educated, and you have the right temperament for it.”

Lilly said nothing for a moment. The truth was she had never worked, not really. Her aunt had made sure she was educated and taught her to keep a house. But in the past few months, Grant had taken care of all her needs.

Was she really capable of being a governess?

Ava leaned forward and put her hand on Lilly’s knee.

“Lil,” she said. “I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think you were capable. Stop doubting yourself and do something for you for a change.”

Lilly looked down at the advertisement again. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and met Ava’s gaze. “I’ll do it.”

And with that, she made her choice.

She would leave Nashville, leave him, and never look back.

Chapter One

Shreve, Ohio, Spring 1875

“I don’t want porridge! I want Mama!”

Six-year-old Sophie’s screams cut through the early morning stillness like a blade, shrill and filled with a sorrow that dug straight into Howard’s chest.

Howard Avery clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the worn wooden counter as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Keep calm, keep steady. It was too early for this.

“Sophie,” he said, turning to face his daughter, “I told you—we don’t have anything else. You need to eat.”

His words were met with another round of foot-stomping, her little fists balled up at her sides, cheeks red with frustration. “I don’t want it!” Her voice quivered. “Mama used to make me biscuits.”

Howard’s throat tightened. Mama used to. The words hit him square in the chest.

“I know,” he said, softer now. “I know, sweetheart.”

The truth was, if he could conjure up his late wife’s biscuits by sheer will alone, he would. But he couldn’t. Claire had taken her warmth, her patience, her way with Sophie when she died, and no matter how hard Howard tried, he wasn’t enough. Not for his little girl.

The heavy scent of smoke from the hearth mingled with the morning chill, wrapping around them as the weak light of dawn crept through the windows. The house still carried the lingering smell of last night’s stew, now cold in the pot by the fire. But the kitchen itself was in shambles—dishes stacked haphazardly in the basin, the remnants of spilled flour dusting the countertop, a forgotten tin cup knocked over near Sophie’s chair.

Howard ran a hand through his disheveled hair and sighed.

“I’ll make biscuits next time,” he muttered, already dreading the attempt. “For now, you eat what’s in front of you.”

Sophie crossed her arms, her blue eyes—the same shade as her mother’s—shimmering with unshed tears. “I miss her.”

Howard’s heart twisted.

“Me too, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough. “Me too.”

She sniffled, and for a moment, he thought she might relent. Instead, she turned on her heel, sending her chair scraping loudly across the floor as she bolted from the kitchen.

“Sophie!” he called after her, but her little feet had already disappeared up the stairs.

Howard exhaled sharply, staring after her. His shoulders slumped as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Darn it all,” he grumbled.

He turned back to the mess in the kitchen, his patience worn thin. The house was never like this before—not when Claire was alive. There had been order. A rhythm to things. Now, it was just chaos. A slow, creeping disorder that he couldn’t seem to rein in, no matter how hard he tried.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the wooden floors, its warmth doing little to ease the cold gnawing at his gut. The wind outside whistled through the cracks in the cabin walls, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and the promise of spring rain.

Howard moved to the counter, rolling up his sleeves. He needed to clean up. Needed to do something.

The knock at the door came just as Howard was rolling his sleeves back down.

Amelia Smith stood on his porch, arms crossed over her chest, auburn hair pinned back beneath a simple bonnet. The damp morning air made loose strands curl at her temples, and the ever-present worry in her green eyes softened the moment she saw him.

“I’ve told you a hundred times you don’t have to knock.”

“Old habits,” she said.

“Come in,” Howard said, setting aside.

“Where’s Sophie?” she asked without preamble, stepping past him and into the cabin.

“Upstairs,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he shut the door behind her. “She’s in a mood this morning.”

“She’s six, Howard. She’s allowed to be in a mood.”

He let out a weary sigh. “She was askin’ for Claire again.”

Amelia’s features softened. She set down the basket she had been carrying and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “That’s not going to stop anytime soon,” she said quietly. “And it shouldn’t. You can’t expect her to stop missing her mother just because it makes things hard.”

Howard clenched his jaw. “I know that, Amelia.”

She sighed, stepping away to assess the kitchen. Her sharp eyes took in the cluttered dishes, the spilled flour, the forgotten pot by the hearth. She shook her head. “You’re running yourself ragged,” she muttered. “This place is a disaster.”

He scowled. “I didn’t ask for a housekeeper.”

“No, you didn’t,” Amelia shot back, rolling up her sleeves. “But lucky for you, I’m here anyway.”

That was Amelia—practical, stubborn, and unwilling to let him wallow in his misery for too long. She had been his best friend Caleb’s wife, but after Caleb’s death, she and Howard had formed an unspoken bond of shared grief. She had lost her husband, and he had lost his best friend. They leaned on each other, not in the way of lovers, but as two people struggling to find their footing in the wreckage of their old lives.

“Go,” she said, waving him off toward the hallway. “I’ll handle things here.”

He hesitated, but Amelia had already grabbed the basin and was scrubbing the first dish with brisk efficiency. With a grunt of thanks, he turned and made his way to his study.

The moment he stepped inside, the familiar scent of old leather and ink filled his nose. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers, manuals on ranching, and a few dusty novels Claire had once insisted made the space feel more like a home.

His desk, however, was in as much disarray as the kitchen. Stacks of papers littered the surface, ink stains blotting the wood. He sank into his chair, rubbing his temples before pulling the latest ledger toward him.

He already knew what he would find.

Another month of losses. Another bill he couldn’t pay.

Howard scrubbed a hand over his face as he ran the numbers again, hoping they would change. They didn’t. He was bleeding money faster than he could make it. The ranch wasn’t bringing in enough—too few cattle, not enough hands, and too many expenses piling up.

And then there was him.

Mason Crowe.

Howard’s grip tightened around the ledger. The man had already bought up the land west of his ranch, forcing out the smaller homesteaders who couldn’t hold on. And now, he had his sights set on Howard’s land, circling like a vulture waiting for him to fail.

Not yet.

Howard gritted his teeth, slamming the ledger shut. He wouldn’t let Crowe take what was his. He had already taken too much. But if he didn’t figure something out soon, he wouldn’t have a choice.

There was one option left: the cattle drives.

They paid well enough, if you could get hired on as a hand. Howard knew the trails, knew the work. He could gather some of his own cattle, take them to market, and get paid for the drive. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The trip would take a few days, but it was the only way.

He exhaled, pushing back from the desk. He hated leaving Sophie behind, but he was running out of choices.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, Amelia was stirring a fresh pot of porridge over the fire. The space already looked better—dishes washed, the counters wiped clean, the floor swept of last night’s mess.

She glanced up as he entered, arching a brow. “You look like a man about to say something I won’t like.”

Howard let out a short, humorless laugh. “Might be.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I need to leave for a few days. There’s a cattle drive leaving out of town, and I need the money.”

Amelia frowned, setting the wooden spoon aside. “And Sophie?”

“I was hoping you’d watch her,” he admitted. “Just for a few days. The governess is supposed to arrive at the end of the week.”

Amelia sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “Howard, you know I’ll do it, but—”

“But what?”

She hesitated. “She needs you. Not me. Not someone to keep her fed and entertained. She needs her father.”

His jaw tensed. “And I need to make sure she has a future. That means keeping this ranch. And that means money.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the weight of unspoken arguments hanging between them.

Finally, Amelia sighed. “All right,” she said. “I’ll watch her.”

Howard nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“You know she’s going to hate it,” she warned.

“I know.”

“And she’s going to be angry at you.”

He exhaled. “I know that, too.”

Amelia studied him for a moment before shaking her head. “Well, go on then. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back.”

Howard didn’t waste any more time.

There was work to be done before he could even think about leaving.

The cattle needed sorting, the strongest ones picked for the drive, and the strays herded back toward the main pasture. It wasn’t a big herd—nothing like what the larger ranchers had—but it was all he had, and right now, it was his only hope of keeping his land.

Stepping into the barn, he grabbed his saddle and slung it over his horse, Buck—a sturdy bay gelding with a streak of white running down his nose. Buck flicked an ear back, snorting as Howard tightened the cinch.

“Not gonna be an easy ride,” Howard muttered, giving the horse’s neck a firm pat. “But we don’t have a choice.”

With his lasso looped over the saddle horn, he swung up and rode out toward the open pasture where his cattle grazed under the moonlight. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh grass, but the quiet didn’t fool him. The work ahead would be anything but peaceful.

As he approached the grazing herd, he whistled sharp and clear, the sound cutting through the night. His old cattle dog, Rusty, perked up from where he’d been lying in the grass, his black-and-tan form barely visible in the low light.

“Come on, boy,” Howard called. “We got work to do.”

Rusty sprang to his feet, ears alert, tail wagging as he loped toward the cattle, already anticipating his job.

Howard pressed his heels into Buck’s sides, guiding him along the outskirts of the herd. The cattle, a mix of red and black longhorns, lifted their heads at the movement, some flicking their tails, others merely chewing cud.

“Let’s go,” Howard murmured, whistling again.

Rusty dashed forward, weaving through the herd with practiced ease, nipping at the heels of a few slower-moving cows. The cattle bellowed in protest, but they started to shift, their heavy bodies moving toward the corral in a slow, reluctant march.

Howard rode alongside them, steering the stragglers back in line with a few well-aimed swings of his lasso. One particularly stubborn steer tried to break away, bolting toward the open field.

“Not tonight, you don’t,” Howard growled, spurring Buck forward.

He flicked the rope in a tight circle above his head before letting it fly. The loop landed clean around the steer’s thick horns, and with a firm yank, Howard reined him back in. The animal fought for a second, snorting and tossing its head, but Howard held steady, guiding it back toward the others.

One by one, the cattle were herded into the corral, their hooves kicking up dust as they shuffled inside. Howard swung off his horse and shut the gate behind them, leaning his weight against the heavy wooden planks for a moment.

His muscles ached, his shirt clung to his back with sweat, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his mind. But the hardest part was done. The cattle were ready.

***

The evening air was crisp as he saddled his horse. The wind carried the distant howl of a coyote, a lonesome sound that matched the hollow ache in his chest.

Sophie was still asleep, curled up in her bed, blissfully unaware that by the time she woke, he would be gone.

As Howard secured his saddlebag, he felt the familiar weight of doubt settle over him.

A lump settled in his throat, but he forced it down.

This was for her.

With one last glance toward the cabin, Howard swung into the saddle. He nudged his horse forward, the sound of hooves crunching over dirt the only farewell he allowed himself.

And then, he rode into the darkness.