Prologue

Helena, Montana

1886

Margaret was distinctly aware that her updo had lost a considerable amount of tension. The roots of her hair no longer tugged at her scalp as firmly as they had that morning, and she could feel a thick strand trying to splay itself across her forehead. With a delicate brush of her gloved finger, she tucked the blonde tuft behind her ear, and felt the slight dampness from sweat that had begun to form beneath the summer sun hanging directly overhead.

“Apologies, Father,” she began softly. “I had thought to bring a parasol but left it back at your office.”

As expected, the headstone had nothing to say in reply.

Margaret subtly shifted the hem of her skirt, catching a whirl of dry air that did very little to cool her body. Dark eyes scrutinized the mess of wrinkles she’d consequently made, and she did her best to smooth them over.

“What a state I find myself in. Not exactly becoming of your legacy, mm?”

Again, the headstone said nothing.

Margaret sighed lightly, glancing at the graveyard without any particular purpose in mind. The priest, the other mourners, they had all long since left her behind, going about their business as if it were any other day. And, in truth, Margaret knew she should follow suit. Eventually. But something about their absence kept her in place, taken in now not by the well wishes of her father’s companions and cohorts, but her own thoughts on the matter. Her own feelings, which even now felt heavy against the silence of the graveyard.

“I suppose that’s for the best,” Margaret said aloud. “Suppose I found myself in an anguish of tears, amidst all the work we still need to get done?” She paused, her expression stiffening slightly. “Ah. It’s…work I still need to get done, now.”

It felt real, once she said it aloud. Margaret found her shoulders trembling from the realization.

“I’m not afraid,” she assured the headstone. “Nothing has truly changed, after all. The transfer of power is sudden, but…” Again, Margaret paused. “But your work remains unchanged, Father. I’ll see to it personally that the Hawthorne legacy shall endure.”

As expected, the headstone remained as silent as before.

With a curt nod, Margaret turned away from her father’s final resting place and made her way back toward the entrance. The wrought-iron gate creaked horribly as she pressed her palm against it, opening it fully toward the rest of Helena proper. A handful of men stood patiently at its entrance, their dress nowhere near as put-together as the well-to-do who’d cordially attended the funeral. But clear effort had been given to their appearance, their well-worn shirts tucked into dust-beaten slacks and wiry facial hair slicked down with the visible shine of animal grease. Each eyed her with an unspoken anxiety, some going as far as to remove their hats out of respect.

‘Seems not everyone returned to their lives,’ Margaret noted, offering another nod their way. “Can I help you gentlemen with something?”

The oldest of the group stepped forward, his salt-and-pepper beard curling beneath a nervous grimace. He held a wilting bouquet of wildflowers in his hands–likely picked and bound together during their trip into Helena–and the pious look in his eyes stirred something sour in Margaret’s stomach.

“Miss Hawthorne, we–my family an’ I, we’re awful sorry ‘bout yer Pa’s passin’,” the older man began. “He was’sa good man, an’–an’ it’s awful sad seein’ him gone.”

Margaret scrutinized him, fixating in particular on a faded scar along the side of his temple. She forced her expression to soften enough to register as approachable, though she kept her hands tightly grasped at her side.

“You’re Mr. Wilder, aren’t you?”

A brief flicker of surprise took over the scarred man’s face.

“My father spoke of you in great length before his passing,” Margaret explained. “He allowed me to help oversee the surveying of your family’s land. Or, that which you had hoped to claim and add onto, if memory serves.”

Hushed whispers rippled throughout Mr. Wilder’s entourage. “I–we didn’t come today to talk business, Miss Hawthorne.”

Margaret shook her head lightly, gesturing a hand farther down the road. “Nonsense. I would be concerned otherwise, given how lengthy this process has been for you and your family. And the date of approval is approaching quickly–you have every right to have come today in search of doing business.”

The flowers in Mr. Wilder’s hands began to fall apart. “We only came to pay our respects. Couldn’t make it in time for the funeral, but we thought–if’fin you’d allow it–we could place these an’ say our piece?”

“You may. But I insist on taking you and your men to the office afterwards so we may sign off on the remaining paperwork.”

Margaret watched a wave of guilt wash over the Wilder family’s faces. “That ain’t right, though, miss,” Mr. Wilder insisted.

“Right or not, it simply is, Mr. Wilder,” Margaret insisted. “My father’s passing does not put a pause on legality, and if we miss the deadline, I’m afraid one of the many railroad companies shall take it for themselves, as they have been wont to do lately.”

Her assurance didn’t seem to fully convince the Wilders, although the truth of the matter seemed to shake them greatly. Margaret forcefully dulled the sharp edges of her voice, trying her best to mimic the warmth she’d seen her father exude when working with clients.

“My father knew very well the terms that came with being Montana’s federal land commissioner, Mr. Wilder. And, as his daughter, those terms are just as familiar to me. While many may find the chance to grieve in the quiet darkness of their room appropriate, that is simply not the case for me.”

She offered a hand outward, hoping her words rang with a sense of truth to the Wilder family. “It would do me much better to see your family’s hard work bear fruit, instead of withering away. Allow me to finish the final task my father had started on this earth, Mr. Wilder.”

A beat passed between them, and slowly Mr. Wilder replaced his hat atop his head, gingerly taking Margaret’s hand to shake.

“‘Course, Miss Hawthorne. Last thing we’d want is yer Pa comin’ back to scold us. He worked awful hard for our sake; ‘least we can do is finish it right.”

Margaret nodded, relief flooding her veins. She stepped aside, allowing the family to pass into the graveyard to visit her father, their wildflowers still in hand, and took the time to re-temper her expression. Kindness was a luxury, after all, and even more so to openly show it to the rest of the world.

Orphaned.

Alone.

Destined to live as a sponsor.

She heard the words whispered between passersby, most noticeably from gossiping groups of younger women to ‘proper’ families who thought their voices were just quiet enough not to be overheard. Margaret watched them walk past with little regard. She was indeed, by all accounts, an orphan now, alone in the world thanks to her father’s recent passing. And with only a few years left until her thirties, they weren’t incorrect in calling her a ‘spinster’.

None of it mattered in the end, though; her father’s work would continue, competently done by Margaret’s own hand. All he had built up for the good people within the Montana territory would not be torn apart by the hands of eager businessmen. All would remain as is, and that was the best Margaret could hope for.

In truth, however, she wouldn’t be against a moment alone to tighten her updo once more.

Chapter One

The heat already proved unbearable as Caleb rolled out of his bed, the sheets clinging to a thin layer of sweat along his body. He stood up with a groan, calloused hands wiping down his face as he furiously blinked away any lingering fatigue. Morning had barely poked its way between his curtains, yet it had easily turned his bedroom into an oven already. Stumbling toward the window, Caleb pushed the frame outward and welcomed the sudden gust of air that blew past, which tugged at the dark tangles of his hair that clung to his still-glistening skin.

He reached for a stray length of hide along a small end table before sluggishly tying his hair up and off his neck. It still hung loosely, swishing back and forth with each lumbering step he took toward the wash basin, before catching some of the droplets of water he splashed vigorously across his face. The sudden shock of cold elicited a sharp gasp, and Caleb fumbled around for a hand towel to dry off with as he caught sight of his unshaven jawline. With another grumble about needing a new blade, he set off to hunt down clothing for the day, digging through the piles of garments abandoned in the corner and haphazardly hung over his writing desk.

Eventually Caleb managed to put something presentable together and headed into the main room of his home, easily crossing through the kitchen in a matter of steps. He grasped for the kettle, contemplated it, then set it back on the burner.

“Brewin’ll take too long,” he reasoned aloud, fishing out a loaf of bread from the pantry while pocketing a strip of drying jerky from his rack. A quick slice later and Caleb had himself a breakfast, shoving half of his impromptu sandwich into his mouth before slipping his feet into a pair of sturdy work boots and heading out the front door, hat in hand.

As much as he grumbled over the heat, Caleb couldn’t rightly complain about the view. Sunrise always took place between the ridges of the Big Belt Mountains, creating a picturesque shimmer of oranges and pinks against the pale snowcaps that trailed below into the valley proper. It caught the silhouette of a two-story barn mere paces away from his cabin, where the impatient thrum of animals greeted his ears.

“I’m comin, all,” he called out, fixing his hat on his head before stepping across the dew-covered grass. Lifting the latch, the barn’s double doors eagerly swung open, releasing the sweet smell of sitting hay into the air. Caleb moved toward the back and undid a large swinging gate, ensuring it hooked properly in place before moving to free his singular cow from her stall.

“Alright, hon. Out you get.” The cow let out an appreciative moo, sauntering out into the pasture at her own pace. This prompted an impatient whinny from the neighboring stall, and Caleb turned to watch a seal brown mare butt the front of her gate with an irritated snort.

“An ounce of patience would do you good, Bitters,” Caleb scolded gently.

Bitters replied with a seething flick of her tail.

With a roll of his eyes, Caleb stepped across the barn and undid the mare’s stall next, jumping back as she burst excitedly outward. Bitter immediately bolted out through the doors, running a few tight turns through the grass with a noticeable spring in her step. She shook her mane wildly and whinnied in delight, finally trotting to a halt as she stared eagerly back Caleb’s way.

“You act like we don’t do this every mornin’,” Caleb mused. “Folks’ll think I keep you locked up, what with how you act.”

Bitters’ ear twitched, as if acutely aware that she was being teased. She did another circle and stared off across the horizon, seemingly gazing at her desired destination.

“We still gotta open the coop ‘fore we head out surveyin’,” Caleb reminded her. “An’ you ain’t got yer saddle on, anyway.”

An indignant snort came as a reply.

“I ain’t barebackin’ all that way, Bitters.”

Another indignant snort, followed by her hoof digging firmly across the ground.

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose with a loud sigh. “Bless yer heart, Momma, but why’d you gotta give me yer most unruly mare?”

Bitters let out a trembling whinny, almost as if she were laughing at Caleb’s frustration.

***

The sun had finally pulled itself farther up into the sky, shining against Caleb’s back as he rode into Helena. Both the mountain range and the multi-storied buildings scraped against the sky, all with signs ranging from advertising general goods to open rooms for frontiersmen to spend the night. Folks of all make and matter crossed through the main square, delicate dresses crossing paths with sturdy overalls and mud-stained work boots. All walks of life passed through Helena, and Caleb gingerly rode his way through the crowds, careful to keep Bitters’ reins tight in his hand.

“Horsey!” a little girl squealed, the rosy hues of her cheeks a perfect contrast to the satin ribbons tied in her hair. Her mother moved to pull her out of the way, only for Caleb to dismount and offer her a gentle smile.

“Promise she don’t bite, ma’am,” Caleb assured. “Though Bitters here’s a fiend for sugar cubes.”

Ribbons’ eyes lit up immediately, and she dug into her mother’s shopping bag to produce a small satchel. With a giggle, she untied the strings and dug out a handful of white cubes, which Bitters giddily trotted toward. The beast’s lips brushed across the girl’s palm, and her laughter doubled in volume.

“They feel like rubber!” Ribbons laughed.

“That they do,” Caleb chuckled lightly. “You’re a natural, lil’ one.”

Her mother’s smile seemed like a mixture of concern and relief, carefully watching Bitters’ mouth for any sign that the beast might truly bite. But the moment never came, and Bitters went as far as to nuzzle the girl’s cheek. Ribbons’ laughter was a wonderful sound that filled Caleb’s chest with warmth, and as he waved goodbye to the two, he couldn’t help but watch them a touch longer than he perhaps should have.

He then felt a forceful nudge from Bitters, followed by an impatient whinny.

“Alright, alright.” Caleb led her across the street and paused before a building that looked notably more modern than many others in Helena, still two floors but clearly made with great attention to detail. Potted flowers stood neatly to attention near the front door, and the slight sheen across its wooden walls indicated a recent oil and polish. The sign above read, ‘Federal Land Commissions Office’, and through the glass he could see a whirl of folks moving stacks of papers from one desk to the next.

Caleb looped Bitters’ reigns around the provided hitching post, giving her a firm pat across her side as she meandered toward the watering trough. Taking his hat off his head, Caleb made his way through the building’s entrance, immediately oppressed by the stuffy air within. The incessant clacking of a dozen typewriters chorused with the clicking heels of secretaries moving between desks and offices as they ensured information was passed between the correct hands. A few of his fellow surveyors huddled around the canteen, enjoying what food and water was provided before riding back out to catalogue. One of the older men offered him a wave and slightly bucktoothed smile, and Caleb replied with a familiar nod of the head.

“Mornin’, Caleb!” the older man called out.

Caleb hadn’t the chance to reply. His attention was immediately pulled toward the back of the office, where a pair of spiraling staircases led up to the building’s second floor. A smartly dressed man seemed to have cornered his employer, Miss Hawthorne, against the railing, though Caleb knew better than to assume she needed any help whatsoever. He couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t look completely in control of any given situation. She was like freshly cut steel, with dark eyes that seemed to look into every inch of a man’s soul. Her fair hair clung tightly to her head, pinned back without any kind of characteristic accessory that might’ve brought a little warmth to the harsh lines of her face. And it wouldn’t do her justice to call her posture stiff; if anything, Caleb was reminded of the occasional mountain lion who wandered onto his property: poised, controlled, and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Yes, Miss Hawthorne was certainly something of a wildcat, but with the intellect and wit befitting the heir of a Federal Land Administrator. A dangerous combination, and one Caleb ensured he never crossed, unlike the gentleman who’d foolishly cornered her; Miss Margaret looked ready to tear his eyes out.

“I know things have been q-quite out of sorts since your father’s passing, Miss Hawthorne.” The smartly dressed man adjusted his spectacles, magnifying the clear panic slowly growing behind his eyes. “But really, now, you can’t seriously be arguing against the law itself?”

Miss Hawthorne’s expression hardly flickered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to point out what parts of my office appear ‘out of sorts’, Mr. Strauss.” The tone was a clear warning, an admonishment against even proposing such a ridiculous notion. “Though, I can’t help but agree with you on your latter statement. This insistent ignorance you and your client have in regard to the law is quite astonishing. I wonder if, perhaps, you should speak to the legal office before wasting your invaluable time like this?”

Mr. Strauss visibly swallowed. “M-Miss Hawthorne-”

“I believe I’ve explained to you, and to many of your associates, as a matter of fact, that your proposed on claim the southeastern plot is invalid due to the Donation Land Act.” Miss Hawthorne’s tone remained even, as if she were explaining basic concepts to a school child. “And even if I were to entertain your reasoning of…let me see here…” She lifted her clipboard, flipping through several pages before tapping her finger against a middle paragraph. “Ah, yes; ‘the designated 160 acres encroaches on territory purchased by Baltimore and Ohio, and thus, the remaining 160 acres falls into said purchase’.”

She lowered the clipboard, her eyes boring into Spectacles’ forehead. “I had my surveyors investigate this claim, Mr. Strauss. No more than an inch of their property encroaches. Should I practice due diligence and review the other claims by Baltimore and Ohio? I’m certain previously purchased deeds encroached on multiple acres of farmland owned by the good people of Montana. We could set up a meeting, and I could present the exact proper dimensions of the area purchased, if that might help illuminate things?”

Caleb watched the color drain from Mr. Strauss’ face. He quickly mumbled something half-hearte under his breath before turning on his heel and rushing toward the door as if Miss Hawthorne had just inflicted a curse upon his person. Caleb’s gaze followed after him, then turned back just in time to catch Miss Hawthorne’s gaze next.

“Ah, Mr. Boone.” Miss Hawthorne gestured up the winding staircase. “Excellent timing. I believe you have a report to give me?”

Caleb nodded smartly, following his employer as they made their way to her office. The interior was just as sterile as Miss Hawthorne’s appearance; stacks of papers neatly tucked to the side while her bookshelf was a perfect row of leather-backed spines. She daintily took a seat in her armchair, inviting Caleb to sit across from her in a more sturdy wooden one.

He did so without a word.

“Now, Mr. Boone.” Miss Hawthorne slipped a journal out from her desk, readying a pen as she spoke. “What news do you have of the northern lake property?”

Caleb shifted slightly in his chair. “Ground’s plenty fertile for growin’ an abundance of crops, Miss Hawthorne. An’ the lake’s got plenty of fish for folks to sustain themselves on.”

“Good” Miss Hawthorne nodded, jotting something unseen into her journal. “I had concerns over the lack of forestry, but it seems whichever family is given the property will not lack for game. As long as they know how to cast a pole, of course.” She glanced upward, and Caleb fought to hold her gaze. “And the squatters?”

Caleb bit his lip. “Still there, ma’am.”

Her journal snapped shut as she pushed it aside. “I thought I was very clear in our last meeting, Mr. Boone.”

“You were.”

Miss Hawthorne’s gaze narrowed. “Then what is impeding your ability to comply?”

Caleb paused for a beat, trying to keep his temper in check. “Folks like that ain’t got nothin’ to their name, Miss Hawthorne.”

“I’m aware.”

A spark of irritation caught light in his chest.

“They got nowhere else to go.”

“I’m aware of that as well.”

“An’ yet, you’ll throw ‘em out into the wilderness?” Caleb couldn’t stop that growing irritation from dripping into his voice.

Miss Hawthorne sighed lightly, folding her hands neatly against the top of her desk.

“I sympathize, Mr. Boone, but we are not running a charity. As I explained to Mr. Strauss, we work within the parameters of the written law. Exceptions lead to chaos. Imagine if I allowed this group of squatters to do what they like? Is that fair to the families going through the proper channels to obtain that parcel of land? And if they were to damage that land, or think themselves inclined to take even more through violent means? Is that fair to their neighbors, who hardly asked for such terrifying circumstances?”

Caleb’s fists tightly clutched onto the chair’s arms. “No, ma’am.”

“‘No ma’am’ indeed. We do not cater to those down on their luck, Mr. Boone, just as we do not cater to those with bulging pockets.” She eyed him carefully, as if daring him to try and raise his voice further. “There are plenty who would label our industry as corrupt and of ill morals. My father–rest his soul–worked incredibly hard to ensure our reputation did not become stained with accusations of corruption. I shall not allow it to be jeopardized now.”

Caleb’s knuckles whitened.

“Is that clear, Mr. Boone?”

He nodded as he grit his teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Miss Hawthorne’s gaze returned to her journal, flipping through the pages as her eyes carefully scanned her notes. “Close the door on your way out, if you please. I have sensitive matters to attend to.”

Caleb stood stiffly, the fire in his chest threatening to burn through his skin now. Instead, he took a steady breath and stepped out of the office, making sure to close the door as gingerly as possible. The last thing he needed was to be told off about ‘slamming’ the door too harshly, though seeing Miss Hawthorne jump at the sound would’ve significantly improved his mood.