Prologue

15 miles south of the Washita River

October 1875

Paul sat far from the campfire, the rifle across his lap gleaming in the fading light as he ran a cloth over the barrel. The deep tan of his skin blended with the hides he wore, making him look more like part of the land than the man leading the trail. Broad shoulders hunched forward, he moved the cloth with slow precision.

Rocco and Jody, the two hands traveling with him, murmured in the distance; their voices drifted over, but the night had brought its own kind of quiet—one Paul had learned to respect.

A branch snapped behind him. His fingers stilled.

Suddenly, Rocco’s laughter cut through the night like gravel over stone, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the light. “Jody, you ’member the time you near drowned in that creek outside of Wichita?”

Jody sat with his knees drawn up, poking at the fire with a stick, his wiry form restless even at rest. He never seemed to settle, thin arms constantly in motion, as though he had too much energy for his body to contain.

“I wasn’t drownin’, just… takin’ my time gettin’ out. Water was cold as death, though.”

As the two close friends talked, Paul aimed his rifle’s barrel into the darkness. Its weight felt solid against his palm.

The ease between his two companions stirred unpleasantness in his chest, leading his mind to memories best forgotten. They were like brothers, their bond forged through shared years, jokes, and experiences on the trail.

Paul turned his eyes back to the darkness, but the knot in his chest tightened. He tried to think of the last time he’d felt that kind of connection. Not since—

No. I won’t think about that.

He shook the thought off as another crunch sounded in the brush, closer this time.

“Your face was blue enough, might as well’ve been drownin’!”

“Shut up.” Jody’s reddish hair stuck out in wild tufts beneath his battered hat, and his freckled face remained constantly coated in a fine layer of dust, no matter how often he wiped it away. “Paul’s probably tryin’ to sleep.”

Paul eased the hammer back on his rifle, scanning the dark tree line. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint smoke from the fire, but underneath it, something else stirred. Fear. Desperation.

Two men stepped out of the trees, ragged clothes hanging from their gaunt frames, guns drawn and pointed at Jody and Rocco.

Jody scrabbled backward. “What—”

Paul fired before anyone else had a chance to react. The crack echoed through the night as the first man’s head snapped forward, his body crumpling into the dirt.

Rocco jumped to his feet, knocking over his tin cup. “Holy—”

The second man gaped, his eyes wide, then turned and ran.

Paul stood and made his way to the fallen body, nudging it with his boot. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.” He shrugged. “Man’s just desperate.”

Rocco wiped his face with his sleeve, his hand shaking slightly. “You think he’ll come back?”

“No. Man like that’s runnin’ for good.”

Paul crouched beside the dead man, pulling a torn map from his pocket and tossing it toward the fire.

Jody let out a breath. “Damn. Thought we were goners.”

“You were too busy jawin’ to notice what’s around you.” Paul shook his head and sat next to them. The night pressed close again, but it felt a little quieter now.

Rocco crouched down to pick up his cup; when he spoke, his voice was a little smaller than before. “Paul… you reckon the trail’s gettin’ worse?”

Paul scratched his chin through his beard. “Maybe.”

Jody shuddered. “Railway’s puttin’ us outta business. Ain’t much left for cattle herders.”

“World’s changin’. Don’t care what we think,” Paul said.

“Railway or no railway,” Rocco muttered, pulling his blanket closer. “Damn shame. Used to be you could walk these trails without worryin’ someone was gonna take a shot at you.”

Paul glanced at the sky, where the first stars were blinking into view. The fire crackled and popped, but didn’t do much to ease the chill settling in his bones. The time of the trail was coming to an end, as sure as the sun rose in the morning.

I’ll have to go home. Ice filled his gut at the thought.

“It’s the way things go,” he muttered. “Rail’s comin’, whether we like it or not.”

Jody tossed another stick into the fire. “And what happens after that, huh? No more trails, no more cattle drives… What’s a man supposed to do?”

Laying back, Rocco took off his Stetson and stretched out, folding his muscular arms behind his head. “Maybe it’s for the best. Ain’t much of a life out here, nohow.”

Rocco looked more at ease under the stars than most men would be in their own beds. His hat had plastered his grizzled hair to his skull, exposing the lines etched into his sun-beaten face to the dim firelight. Those wrinkles told the story of a man who’d lived his life hard and fast.

Looking away, Paul tightened his jaw. “Some folks ain’t got a choice.”

The fire crackled as the night deepened, stretching lengthening shadows across the camp. Jody rolled over in his bedroll, muttering something under his breath. Rocco yawned, eyes already drifting closed.

Paul remained where he was, his back against a cold rock. He didn’t bother trying to sleep. Otherwise, the dreams would come.

Chapter One

Washita River

The air hung thick with moisture, and the steady roar of the Washita River pounded in Elsie’s ears. The cattle moved nervously, their hooves churning up mud. There was no sign of a ferry this time, like there’d been at the Brazos. The short curls of her hair stuck to her forehead beneath the brim of her hat as her chest tightened at the speed of the current.

It didn’t matter.

She had to cross it.

“Keep ’em movin’.” Her worn wool shirt stuck to her skin, her too-new leather chaps creaking as her legs squeezed tighter around the horse’s sides.

She snapped the reins, and her horse stepped forward, closer to the riverbank. She tugged at the worn brim of her hat, a Stetson that had seen too many rains and too few dry patches, and tightened the bandana around her neck. Both the hat and the bandana served to hide the sharp line of her jaw and the feminine curve of the cupid’s bow on her small mouth. She prayed no one would notice that her frame was too slender even for a scrawny young man.

You’re Eli, not Elsie. You’re not a woman here.

The river spray mingled with dust, leaving a muddy smell she’d come to know well on the trail. Marcus, standing on the other side of the herd, pulled a lariat out of his saddle, coaxing the cattle with low, calming whistles. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin, his hat casting faint shadows over his weathered face.

“Ain’t no use rushin’, Eli,” he called, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. He stooped to pick up a handful of dirt, crumbling it between his fingers. “River don’t care about time. Just weight.”

Marcus’s one good eye flickered toward Elsie’s face, lingering for a split second longer than usual. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t.

Her stomach tightened. Had he figured out her secret?

No, that’s impossible. Just focus on the cattle.

“Ain’t time for lingerin’,” she said. “Cattle’ll spook if we dawdle.”

Water lapped at her horse’s hooves, and her breath caught. She tightened her grip on the reins.

“Come on now,” she muttered. “It’s just water, not a damn cliff.”

Her horse stepped closer to the riverbank until the muddy water was churning just below her. Elsie swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. She couldn’t swim. She’d never learned, and now the Washita seemed ready to swallow her whole.

Shaking herself, she straightened her shoulders. Eli isn’t afraid of a river.

“Just keep ’em steady.” Marcus pushed through the herd, giving a soft click of his tongue and wiping the sweat from his brow as he passed. “The river don’t bite.”

Elsie pulled her hat down, as if it could shield her from the relentless pull of the water. Her hands shook, but she pressed her heels into her horse’s sides. Why couldn’t it stop being so jittery?

The metal of her spurs clinked against the stirrups, the leather reins stiff in her hands from long hours of riding.

“Keep your damn head straight,” she muttered to herself, louder this time.

The horse’s hooves sank into the muddy bank as she kicked it into the river. The water rose above her boots. She swallowed again as the cold grip of the current crawled up her spine, and her horse snorted and tried to turn around.

“Hell’s bells,” she whispered, snapping the reins again.

A sharp whistle cut through the air as he urged a wayward cow back into the herd and approached the edge of the water, years of experience showing in every deliberate step. His bad eye, clouded and milky, remained still, but the other flicked to Elsie.

“You push ’em any faster, they’ll scatter. Ain’t worth drownin’ over.”

Eli isn’t afraid of drowning.

“Don’t need you ridin’ me, Marcus. I know my damn job.”

The words came out harsher than she meant, but the water—pulling harder now—made it difficult to think straight. She could feel the horse’s muscles twitching. Trying to find steady ground, she shifted her weight, but the thrice-damned horse wouldn’t stop fighting her. The leather of her McClellan saddle creaked beneath her, its worn pommel slick with moisture.

Marcus’s gaze rested on her for longer than she’d like before he tipped his hat and responded. “Ain’t sayin’ that. Just don’t want the river to take you.”

There was something soft in his tone—concern, maybe?

Elsie gritted her teeth and urged her horse onward, her breath catching as the ground beneath her shifted. The current pulled harder, and water surged against her legs.

“Come on, keep goin’,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Her horse stumbled.

They both went under.

Elsie’s lungs burned as the cold grip of the river swallowed her whole. She caught a glimpse of Marcus standing by the riverbank, his shout drowned by the rush of the current. His arms waved, but he wasn’t moving fast enough.

Just before the water swallowed her whole, Elsie heard him call out, “Paul, help!”

The current tore at her limbs, and her chest tightened with each passing second as she kicked and tried to get out. Her vision blurred. The world around her faded to a churning mass of gray and blue.

Help me!

Hands—strong and steady—clamped around her arms, dragging her free of the water’s relentless grasp.

Her head broke the surface with a gasp, her chest heaving as air flooded her lungs. She coughed violently, feeling the river’s chill seep deeper into her bones. A rough voice cut through the haze of water and panic.

“Don’t let go.”

Elsie shivered uncontrollably as she was hauled out of the water. Her lean body trembled from the cold, and her soaked clothes clung tightly to her frame. It would be harder to keep up the illusion of being a man if anyone examined her now-visible curves. She tried to ignore how her chest heaved with each ragged breath and pulled her sodden hat lower.

A muscled arm wrapped tightly around her waist, hauling her onto the back of a horse. She felt the warmth of a man’s body against her as he settled her in front of him. Her hands slipped on the slick leather of the saddle.

She heard Marcus’s voice close by. “Got him?”

Warm breath tickled Elsie’s ear as the man who’d saved her replied, “He’s fine.”

She blinked, water dripping from her lashes, and craned her neck to look up into the face of her rescuer. Recognition flickered—this had to be the trail boss. Aldo had mentioned him in passing, but she hadn’t thought they’d meet like this. A Colt revolver hung low at his hip, and his boots, caked in mud, bore the scuffs of countless miles.

His beard, brown with some early flecks of gray, gave him a distinguished air, as if he’d already seen and done more than most men his age. Beneath the wide-brimmed hat, his eyes held the sharpness of a man who missed little, the creases around them deepening as he weighed the risks. Those dark eyes met hers, serious and intense, as if they saw through the disguise she wore.

Don’t think about that. Eli doesn’t worry.

The man was as tall and broad as an ox with a thick beard framing his face. He ran a hand over his cropped hair, the short strands barely moving under his palm. The wet leather of his jacket clung to the thick muscles beneath, the hides he wore making him look like part of the wilderness itself.

“Eli Wadsworth?”

The name felt foreign to her, but she forced herself to nod, her throat too raw to speak. The weight of the man’s gaze lingered, and for a brief, breathless second, she worried that his hands—so close—would feel the truth hidden beneath her soaked clothes.

“Aldo told me what ya look like.” The man grunted, and his grip tightened around her as the horse splashed toward the riverbank. “What’d you reckon, crossin’ here?”

Elsie stiffened. She’d just had a little accident; that didn’t mean she’d chosen the wrong place to cross! She shifted, trying to sit up straighter, her soaked boots slipping against the horse’s flanks.

“Cattle…” She coughed as the words scraped her throat. “Cattle needed movin’.”

“Damn near lost the whole herd.” His eyes flicked briefly to the river before settling on her, his grip still firm around her. “And yourself.”

“Ain’t the first scrape I’ve been in.” She clenched her fists and glanced toward the herd, which was still trying to escape the water’s edge.

Alright… Maybe this wasn’t the best place after all…

“I saw drownin’.”

“I had it handled.”

He snorted and pulled the horse to a stop on firmer ground. He swung down in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the mud with a dull thud. He reached up, gripping her waist again and pulling her down.

Elsie stumbled, her legs still shaky from the river’s pull, but she steadied herself, wiping a wet strand of hair from her face and tucking it back under her Stetson.

“I don’t know what you think you’re tryin’ to prove, but drownin’ sure ain’t gonna do it.” His voice softened, just a bit, but the edge remained.

“Don’t need you leadin’ me over no river,” Elsie grumbled.

“You might not need it, but you’ll get it all the same.” He loomed over her. “Next time, listen.”

A chill wind whipped through the clearing, cutting straight through her wet clothes. Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the ground, teeth gritted.

“Get yourself dried off.” He sighed, taking a step back. “We’ve still got a long way ahead of us.”

Elsie nodded stiffly, her fingers fumbling with the straps of her saddle. Her heart hammered in her chest, not just from the river’s pull but from something about the way his gaze had held her—a weight she couldn’t quite shake.

Enough. Eli doesn’t care about how anyone looks at him.

Her wounded pride felt heavier than the cold water dripping from her hair and clothing. The man had already turned toward the cattle, barking orders to the rest of the hands as he tugged his horse toward the herd.

He didn’t even ask if I’m alright.

“Hell of a way to treat someone you just pulled outta the river,” she muttered.

“Hell of a way to get yourself killed,” he shot back, snatching a rope from his saddle and tossing it to one of the men. “Worse, you damn near dragged the whole herd under with you. Ain’t no sense in it.”

Elsie ground her teeth as fire rise in her chest. “Didn’t have a choice, not with that storm rollin’ in—or do you not see it comin’?”

“Always got a choice.” The man kept his focus on the cattle, pulling his gloves off with sharp jerks and wiping his hands on his pants. “You picked the wrong one.”

Elsie clenched her fists at her sides, his words digging under her skin like thorns. “I made the best call I could, considerin’ the river was risin’ and spookin’ the herd.”

The man turned, his dark eyes locking onto hers, though he hadn’t moved any closer. His horse shifted uneasily beside him, hooves sinking into the wet ground. His saddle was well-worn but solid, the silver conchos gleaming in the faint light. The stirrups hung low, adjusted to fit his long frame, and the rawhide reins in his hands looked as though they’d seen more years than most men.

“The herd was spookin’ ’cause you kept tryin’ to drown ’em.”

“I made the call I thought was right,” she said. “You got a problem with it, take it up with Aldo.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them heavy as the wind picked up, whipping her wet clothes against her skin. He finally shook his head, turning back toward the horses.

“Oh, we will.” He pulled himself into the saddle with one smooth motion. “But don’t settle in. We ain’t stoppin’ yet.”

Elsie’s hands trembled, though whether from cold or anger, she couldn’t tell.

Stay calm. Eli is supposed to be more in control of this.

“Ain’t no need to remind me.” She kicked at the mud as she watched him ride off. Her heart raced as frustration bubbled up in her chest. She took a shaky breath, then called out, louder this time. “What’s your name, anyhow?”

He stopped, turning in the saddle. His eyes met hers across the distance.

“Paul.”

There was something unreadable in his tone, something that made her feel like he saw more than she wanted him to. Elsie stared after him, her heart still galloping. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was waiting for her to slip up, and she hated it.

Marcus approached and gave her a once-over. “You alright?”

“Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”

He studied her for a moment longer before turning back toward the herd. “We still got a ways to go,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the brim of his hat as he walked off.

The horse and cattle hooves slapped against the wet ground, filling the silence between Elsie and Marcus as they rode beside each other. Her small mouth tightened, and she bit back a curse as she felt the familiar pressure against her cupid’s bow—a sing of femininity the men teased ‘the young trailhand’ for. The herd, formerly restless from the river crossing, had settled, merging with Paul’s group into a noisy, shifting mass.

Marcus glanced sideways, his weathered face calm under the brim of his hat. “You handled it well back there.”

“Didn’t feel that way,”

He straightened, his fingers brushing the reins as he chuckled. “Paul’s got a way with words, no doubt—but he pulled you out, didn’t he?”

“Didn’t ask for savin’.” She let out a short laugh, bitter and sharp, and tugged her hat lower over her forehead, shielding her face from the drizzle that had begun to fall. “Could’ve made it on my own.”

“Maybe. But the trail’s got a way of showin’ folks they ain’t as invincible as they think.”

“I’m fine.”

Eli can pull his weight.

“Still, don’t mean you gotta carry it alone.”

Elsie shifted in her saddle, the ache of the day’s ride settling into her bones. “Ain’t got a choice.”

Ahead, Paul slowed his horse, scanning the horizon before nudging the herd onward. She couldn’t shake the way he’d looked at her earlier—like he saw right through her. Not just Eli or Elsie, but something deeper, something she hadn’t noticed herself.

Marcus gave her a long look, his face softening just a bit. “Maybe not. But you’ve still got miles to go, Eli. Don’t let pride be the thing that trips you.”

Elsie bit back a retort, the slap of hooves and lowing of cattle filling the space where her words would’ve landed. Pride. Maybe that was part of it, but there was more.

There always was.

The wet ground sucked at the cattle’s hooves, and Elsie knew they’d have to camp soon. The thought of facing Paul again, after everything, made her stomach twist.