Chasing revenge for my family’s murder, I’m forced to join the woman I’ve always hated…
Returning to his war-torn hometown of Dayton, Nevada, Wyatt Calahan hopes to rebuild his life. However, danger awaits. Nearby, a ranch owned by Eliza fights to save her family’s ranch from sabotage, driven by guilt over the massacre that claimed her loved ones. When the attacks echo the tactics of the gang that destroyed both their families, Wyatt and Eliza are forced into an uneasy alliance. Their search for answers leads them to a ruthless gang leader whose grip on the region runs deeper than they ever imagined. With corrupt officials closing ranks and violence escalating, Wyatt and Eliza must decide whether to trust each other—or risk losing everything…
Calahan Ranch, Dayton, Nevada
1855
The world was on fire.
Not just the ranch. Not just the fields. The very core of everything Wyatt had ever known. Smoke boiled up in black plumes, a heavy, choking curtain that wrapped around the sky. The ground beneath his boots was hot, the dry earth cracking as if it too had begun to die. The smell of dry sagebrush mixed with the acrid stench of burning wood, and ash settled on Wyatt’s tongue.
Wyatt tried to spur his horse into a gallop, but the animal refused to budge from the ranch gate. He jumped off and sprinted towards the house, his eyes stinging from the cinders that danced like ghosts in the air even here.
When he got to the porch, he froze in his tracks.
His mother’s body lay crumpled in the dust, a bullet hole in her skull. His father lay beside her, bleeding from his temple, but breathing under the soot covering his shirt. The scent hit Wyatt then—something sour, thick, like scorched meat—and it clung to the inside of his throat.
He rushed forward, or tried to, legs trembling as if the world had come unmoored beneath him, a part of some dreadful dream where he could only move in slow motion. The broad porch, where he and Gus, his brother, used to whittle had become a heap of charred beams glowing red with embers.
A figure emerged from the smoke through the front door—a tall man, his silhouette framed by the blaze behind him, casting a monstrous shadow across the twisted remains of the porch. The figure’s coat fluttered, a long, dark duster that looked more like bat wings than cloth.
Wyatt’s breath froze at the bottom of the porch stairs, his heartbeat hammering so loudly it filled his ears, drowning out the roar of the fire.
The clink of spurs echoed through the chaos like funeral bells, as the man took a step towards Wyatt. The man smiled at him mockingly, his expression telling Wyatt that he could shoot him at any time, but chose not to.
Wyatt couldn’t understand why.
The man—shadows and darkness made flesh—raised a gun. The metal glinted with the auburn light of the inferno, a sliver of fire caught in the man’s glove. The shot cracked. Wyatt’s father’s head jerked, snapping back against the earth as blood splattered the dust.
For a heartbeat, everything in Wyatt turned to ice.
He dropped to his knees, ignoring the grit and the heat of the ground beneath his palms as he frantically searched for a weapon. The earth was rough, a thousand cruel little cuts scratching his fingers, but then there it was—the smooth iron barrel of his father’s gun half-buried in front of the porch steps.
His father must’ve dropped it when they shot him.
Wyatt grabbed it, the metal already warm, his own reflection warped on its surface. The Colt was heavy in his hand, like a piece of iron forged by the devil himself. He surged to his feet, but the man was gone.
Wyatt blinked. The man would’ve had to walk past him to get off the porch. Had he gone back inside? Why?
Wyatt staggered as he forced himself to walk up the porch steps. The smoke chased him, swirled around him, and strangled him with tendrils of gray and black, blocking his view of the inside of the house.
Just as Wyatt had stepped onto the porch, the man stepped out of the house again, dragging something with him, his mocking grin telling Wyatt he was merely a toy for the man to play with.
Wyatt heard the scream before he saw her—a high, keening sound that he recognized like his own voice. Lottie. His sister, her slight frame struggling against the man’s chest. The man dragged her away, his face obscured beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The moonlight caught on his belt buckle—a silver steer’s head, tarnished and grimy.
“Stop right there!” Wyatt’s voice cracked, and a rasp tore at his throat. He lifted the gun, his hands shaking so violently he could barely aim. “Put her down, or… or I swear I’ll shoot!”
The man stopped and turned towards Wyatt.
A dark smile flickered across the man’s lips. His eyes— pale blue, cold, and almost lifeless, with a haunted intensity—bore into Wyatt.
“Well now, what’ve we got here? A little pup tryin’ to bark?”
“I said, let her go!” Wyatt’s grip tightened on the Colt, but his aim wavered. “I ain’t askin’ twice!”
“You gon’ shoot that thing, boy?” The man tightened his grip on the struggling Lottie. “You best be careful. You don’t wanna hit this pretty little flower, now, do you?”
“Damn you, I’ll do it!” Wyatt’s arm trembled under the unbearable weight of the gun.
The man’s smile dropped, and his brows furrowed. The corners of his mouth twitched down as if a crack had appeared in concrete.
Wyatt panted and kept the gun pointed at the man as Lottie kept on struggling.
Slowly, the man’s smile returned and widened into something cruel. Something mocking. “What’s the matter, boy? Don’t you want your sister freed?”
Wyatt’s hands shook.
“Do it, then.” The man tossed Lottie to the ground like a sack of grain and spread his arms wide. “I’m standin’ here, ain’t I? Ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”
Wyatt’s breaths came in ragged gasps. “I ain’t scared o’ you!”
“I like you, kid.” The man laughed and walked up to Wyatt. “You remind me of me when I was your age. You’re what, nineteen?”
“I don’t care how young I am.” Wyatt swallowed hard, the heat of the fire burning his back. “You think I’m gon’ let you walk away?”
The man stopped just a pace away, looking down at Wyatt like he was studying a stray dog. “Walkin’ away’s exactly what I’m doin’. You ain’t ready, kid.”
“Then why—”
“‘cause I’m curious if you’ll ever be ready.” The man reached out, plucked the Colt from Wyatt’s trembling grip like takin’ candy from a babe, and gently patted Wyatt’s head. “Grow some grit, boy. Then come find me.”
“You…” Wyatt swallowed and trembled. None of this made any sense. Why would someone do all of this then not kill him? “You’re lettin’ me live?”
“I ain’t gon’ take your sister either.” The man chuckled and turned to walk away. “Honestly, it’ll probably come back to bite me in the ass someday.”
“You think this changes anything?” Wyatt spat. “You’ll pay for what you done!”
The man tipped his hat with a bloody glove. “I’ll be waitin’, pup.”
The man walked away.
Other dark figures meandered among the burning buildings like shadows slithering through smoke. Their shapes merged with the blacks and grays of the smolder, the glint of their belt buckles and worn, dust-covered chaps made them look like specters of some outlaw legend. Wyatt stared after them, breathing hard.
The tall man’s black gloves were still slick with the blood of Wyatt’s parents.
Wyatt collapsed, the world spinning for a moment, and the smell of burnt earth clawed at his senses.
“Wyatt!” Lottie crashed into him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Ma and Pa… they… they…”
“It’s okay, Lottie.” He held her tightly, letting her warmth and weight envelop him. His sister was alive. “I’ll protect you.”
“You… you promise?”
“I do.” He patted her back. “We just have to find Gus first.”
Lottie nodded, her face streaked with ash. They stumbled toward the blazing remains of the barn, their feet catching on scattered debris and embers.
“Gus!” Wyatt squeezed Lottie’s hand. “Gus, where are you?!”
Wyatt’s heart thundered in his ears, louder than the fire, louder than the voice in his head whispering that he had failed, that he would always fail; the scent of dry dust mixed with the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. After the barn, they checked the smokehouse and the chicken coop.
Then they went to the storm cellar.
The door was charred, blackened, and splintered around the edges. Wyatt tore it open, his fingers slipping on the soot-covered wood. “Gus!”
Gus was more than a brother; he was a tether to what little remained of their family, of the life they’d once known. Gus’s laughter had pulled them all from the brink of despair countless times. Whenever there was a problem on the ranch, Gus’s stubborn determination would light up even the darkest days.
The thought of losing him too was unthinkable. “Gus!”
Wyatt’s voice echoed in the darkness, and something shifted in the shadows. Wyatt’s heart skipped, breath catching in his throat.
“Wyatt? Lottie?” A tiny face appeared, streaked with ash, his eyes wide and wet.
Wyatt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, dropping to his knees as Gus’s pudgy form rushed into Lottie’s embrace. Gus clung to her, shaking, his small fingers digging into her shoulders.
Wyatt looked back toward the burning house and the smoke rising like a black scar against the sky. They would rebuild. He had no idea how, but they would find a way. One day, he would find the tall man, and when that day came…
He would not hesitate.
Near Chattanooga, Tennessee
1863
The rickety carriage lurched on the uneven road, the wheels rattling as if they could splinter apart at any moment.
Wyatt leaned back against the wooden bench, trying to find a comfortable position, but the hard seat made it impossible. His bedroll, strapped tightly beside him, pressed into his side and kept reminding him of the rough conditions they had to endure in this damned war. Here and there, patches of prickly pear cacti and yucca dotted the land, their spiny silhouettes dark against the horizon.
To his left, Gus was staring out at barren fields rolling by. Gus’s square jaw was tight, his brows furrowed as if his thoughts were barbed wires digging deep. Beside him, Lottie’s husband, Willis, sat with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his blue eyes.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dryness scratched Wyatt’s throat as he looked at Gus. “You look ‘bout ready to keel over.”
“You sound like Pa.” Gus shot him a sideways glare. “Don’t need you mother-hennin’ me.”
Wyatt ran a hand through his dark, sweat-matted hair, the strands sticking to his brow. His broad and bulky frame, once hardened by days on the ranch, now bore the wiry strength of a soldier who had spent too many nights hungry and too many days running on adrenaline. The hollows beneath his eyes told stories of battles fought—and lost—that no man could forget.
“I ain’t trying to be Pa. Just sayin’… We’re still breathin’.”
“Breathin’…” Gus’s voice was barely audible over the clattering wheels and clinking metal. “That ain’t the same as bein’ alive.”
Wyatt frowned. His heart tightened. He looked at Gus, studying the hard lines of his face, the way his eyes seemed hollow despite the fire that always burned there. He recognized that look—the same look he saw whenever he caught his own reflection.
A mixture of exhaustion, resentment, and a stubborn refusal to let go.
“You’re always thinkin’ you got to look out for us.” Gus crossed his arms. “I can look out for myself.”
“C’mon, boys…” Willis’s uniform bore the smells of sweat, old leather, and a faint trace of tobacco. “Let’s not spoil the ride. We made it through that scrape at Lookout Mountain with our hides intact. Ain’t that worth somethin’?”
“Easy for you to say.” Gus clicked his tongue. “You don’t have Wyatt here breathin’ down your neck all day long.”
“Now, that just ain’t fair.” Wyatt smiled. “I breathe down Willis’s neck just as much as yours, don’t I, Willis?”
“Lottie’d have your hide if you didn’t.” Willis’s smile faded, and a wistful look replaced it. “She’d have mine too, if I didn’t make it back to her.”
Wyatt looked away from them.
His holster and the bullets in his haversack jangled. His Colt Navy revolver sat at his side like a weight with an ivory grip worn smooth from years of use. Compared to the breech-loading muskets many soldiers carried, his revolver offered a quicker draw and reload—often the difference between life and death in these sudden skirmishes. It wasn’t the first revolver he’d owned, but it had become a part of him—an extension of his will to survive.
“Don’t you worry, Willis.” Wyatt looked at him. “We’ll get you back to Lottie yet.”
“Don’t go makin’ promises you can’t keep.” Gus snorted. “I love Lottie same as you, but promises don’t mean nothin’ to a bullet.”
Gus’s Winchester rifle, hung across his back, its stock marked with scuffs from years of rough handling, the barrel dulled by powder burns and grit. A bayonet attachment jutted beneath the muzzle, a grim addition for the kind of close-quarters chaos they both hoped to avoid.
Gus had always been a force of nature.
His broad shoulders and square jaw gave him the look of a man older than his years, but the fire in his hazel eyes was pure stubborn youth. His hands, calloused from years of ranch work, gripped the Winchester with a steady confidence that Wyatt envied and feared in equal measure.
In moments like this, with his hat askew and his hair plastered to his forehead, Gus looked so much like Pa that it made Wyatt’s chest tighten.
“Still, ain’t no harm in wishin’, is there? Sometimes, all you got’s the hope for a better hand than the one you’ve been dealt.” Willis looked at his carbine. “Don’t mean you stop playin’ the game.”
“You and your preacher talk, Willis.” Gus snorted and shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Where’d you pick that up? Some Sunday school marm?”
“Nah…” Willis chuckled, but there was a hollowness to it. “Just life teaching me lessons I didn’t wanna learn.”
Willis’s easy smile rarely faltered, even when the weight of the war pressed down on all of them.
His sandy blond hair, now streaked with grime, curled under the edges of his battered slouch hat. His blue eyes, kind but guarded, were a stark contrast to the hardness of his sunburned skin and the scar cutting across his cheek—souvenirs from the last ambush they barely survived.
He carried himself with the casual grace of someone used to deflecting trouble with charm, but Wyatt knew the war had left its marks on him too.
Wyatt took a deep breath.
The land blurred, and old memories clawed their way into Wyatt’s mind—the scent of burning wood, the scream that cut through the roar of fire, the pale blue eyes of the man who took everything from him. Seven years he’d hunted shadows before the war swept him away. Seven years of chasing whispers of the tall man who Wyatt eventually found out was called the Blade.
The war had given him a new enemy, but that old hatred simmered beneath it all, like coals that never cooled.
They passed an abandoned homestead, its timbers gray and sagging, a reminder of the people who had given up and moved on or were caught in the relentless grip of the war. Places like this sometimes sheltered contrabands—escaped slaves seeking safety in the chaos—or served as hiding spots for deserters, both Union and Confederate.
The carriage swayed as it hit a deeper rut, causing all three men to jolt.
Willis let out a small groan, rubbing at his lower back. “This damn road, I swear. Feels like they dug trenches just to spite us.”
“Ain’t nobody taking care of these roads.” Wyatt shook his head and forced the memories of the blood-soaked fields of Chickamauga, the bitter, freezing nights near the Stones River, and the streets of Chattanooga, scorched and shattered by artillery. “Everybody is too busy either fightin’ or trying to survive; keeping their heads down.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” Gus huffed, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Everybody’s scared, and just lettin’ the world run ‘em over. If we had more folks with a backbone, we wouldn’t be in half the mess we’re in.”
“Ain’t that simple. You think folks don’t got a backbone just ‘cause they’re scared? People got families to protect, lives to keep goin’. Not everybody’s cut out for fightin’.”
“Then maybe they should be!” Gus shifted, his face contorting in a scowl as he turned to Wyatt. “Maybe if more people stood up, we wouldn’t be buryin’ so many of our own.”
“Alright, alright.” Willis cleared his throat, and his tone was gentle. “Let’s not do this now. We’ve all seen too much, lost too much. Let’s just get to camp and get some rest. We need our wits about us.”
Wyatt held Gus’s gaze.
There was an untamed fire burning in Gus’s eyes, a wild flame that Wyatt recognized far too well. It was the same fire that had kept Wyatt going when everything else felt lost.
“Willis is right.” Wyatt slowly looked away and exhaled deeply. “We need to stay sharp.”
“Of course you’d say that.” Gus spat over the edge of the carriage. “Can’t ever—”
“Gus.” Wyatt looked down at the leather holster at his hip, the creased and worn out strap he’d taken from his father’s dead body. “We’ll talk about this when we get somewhere safe. I promise.”
Gus clenched his jaw and looked away.
Wyatt wanted to reach out to him. He wanted to say something to ease his brother’s burden, but he had no idea what. Over the last five years, not once had he found the right words to take away the trauma suffered by his brother during his night spent hiding in the storm cellar. The night of skulking in the dark while listening to shouting and screaming from the outside. Besides, it was going to be a long conversation once Wyatt found those words.
It wasn’t the kind of talk they could have on the road after a battle, when a Confederate ambush—
Gunfire exploded through the air.
The carriage jerked to a halt, throwing Wyatt and the others forward onto the rough wood. Wyatt instinctively grabbed his Colt, his senses sharpening and heart pounding as he moved toward the front of the carriage and looked out.
Several Union pickets—hidden behind cacti and a few overturned wagons to the front and each side of Wyatt’s unit—were firing at them with rifle-muskets fitted with bayonets. The dark blue of their uniforms was unmistakable, and several soldiers among them wore vibrant Zouave uniforms; the bright reds and blues standing out like jewels against the dull landscape.
“Ambush!” Gus took his Winchester rifle and fired.
The shot cracked through the chaos, the smell of gunpowder immediately mingling with the dry, dusty air.
“We gotta move!” Willis was already reaching for his Spencer carbine. He held the lever-action rifle tightly in his hands as he aimed at the Union soldiers. “We gotta get out of the damn carriage!”
The rest of their unit was dismounting quickly, scattering to find cover. Lieutenant Carver, their commanding officer, was already barking orders. “Form a line! Drop those wagons and take cover! Return fire!”
Several soldiers scrambled to obey, dropping a supply cart, their muskets already loaded and aimed. The air crackled as the gunshots rang out like thunderclaps. Wyatt rolled from the carriage, hitting the hard ground with a jarring thud that sent pain shooting up his side. The dirt and pebbles bit through his pants as he scrambled to his knees, drawing his revolver. He took a deep breath, raised the Colt, and fired, the recoil jerking his arm back.
Gus darted between the scattered yucca and cacti, his Winchester barking with every shot. He moved like a wild spirit—too reckless and fearless for Wyatt’s comfort. Each shot Gus fired thumped like a heartbeat about to be his last, each step he took a moment before he keeled over.
“Gus!” Wyatt helped Willis overturn their carriage. “Get back here!”
Willis ducked under the carriage wheel. The distinctive crack of the repeater echoed, followed quickly by another as he worked the lever and kept firing. “Wyatt, on your left!”
He twisted in response and caught sight of a Union soldier breaking cover. The man, with a bayonet fixed to his rifle-musket, charged forward, his eyes locked on Wyatt. Wyatt leveled his revolver and squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the soldier square in the chest, knocking him backward and sending blood splattering all over the soldier’s shiny brass buttons.
“Got him!” Wyatt’s heart pounded.
The battle raged. Soldiers shouted, gunfire boomed, and the acrid stench of smoke and sweat mixed in the arid air. The horses panicked, pounding at the ground with their hooves as they struggled against their tethers. One of the horses that had been pulling Wyatt’s carriage neighed sharply as a bullet whizzed past its head.
“Push them back!” Lieutenant Carver moved from one cover to the next, slapping any soldier too afraid to shoot. “No quarter! No hesitation! No fear!”
“We’re surrounded!” Willis fired his rifle and looked at the lieutenant. “We gotta push through or we’re done for!”
“Damn it, Willis! Shut up and keep firing!” Lieutenant Carver ran to them and knelt. “They’re trying to scare us into pushing. There ain’t more than seven pickets out there. We’ve got a full unit.”
Wyatt looked for Gus. Why couldn’t he have just held his ground?
“We’ll lose a lotta men…” Willis ducked as a shot slammed into the side of the carriage above him and splintered the wood. “They got better cover than we do.”
“We’ll lose a lot more if we try pushin’.” Lieutenant Carver shook his head. “There’s at least four hundred yards between us and them, and there ain’t enough cover to protect a thousand men from three hundred and fifty rifle-muskets firing three times a minute.”
“That’s some quick calculation you did there, Lieutenant.” Willis reloaded his rifle, his hands moving quickly, almost mechanically. “Guess that’s why you’re the boss.”
Wyatt stopped caring whether his shots hit anything as he searched for Gus. There wasn’t enough cover for a full unit, but there was more than enough for a hotheaded fool that was trying to rush seven pickets on his own. Couldn’t he see that the rest of the unit wasn’t—
There!
Wyatt had finally spotted him, still pushing forward, nearly upon one of the pickets. Gus ducked behind a yucca plant, taking aim at a Union soldier who had broken cover. The muzzle flash lit Gus’s face in a brief burst, his hat askew, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Damn it, Gus, fall back!” Wyatt broke cover and rushed towards his brother.
His eyes watered from the haze, and bullets flew around his head, but he didn’t care. He had to get to Gus before he got himself killed attacking a full picket alone. Then men started shouting behind him and, suddenly, everyone was defying Lieutenant Carter’s orders and rushing all the pickets at once.
Oh, Wyatt was gonna get an earful about this later. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered as long as he got to Gus—who was still making his way to the picket alone—and made sure he made it out safe.
Because Gus wasn’t just his brother; he was Wyatt’s anchor. The one who could still laugh after a long day of hell, who could take Wyatt’s sharp words and throw them right back without missing a beat. Gus had always been the steady one, the reminder that even in a world gone to ash, they could hold onto something real.
Wyatt didn’t know who he’d be without him—didn’t want to find out.
The rifles boomed from behind him, and Wyatt took aim at the picket Gus was charging. Fellow Confederate soldiers fell behind him, but the group that had gathered with Wyatt managed to scatter the picket. As the Union soldiers fell, Wyatt allowed the rush of triumph to blast through him. He allowed himself a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could push through and make it out of this ambush alive.
All three of them.
Then he looked back to Gus’s position again. Three Union soldiers had surrounded him instead of retreating, their rifle-muskets raised, bayonets glinting menacingly in the last rays of the red light. Gus had his back against a large cactus, his Winchester empty. He swung it like a club, striking one of the soldiers across the face, knocking him back. But the other two moved in, bayonets poised, ready to strike.
“Gus!” Wyatt screamed, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. The world was moving in slow motion, every second stretching out into an eternity. Every stab into his brother’s chest took forever to go in and out. His brother’s gasp exploded louder than any canon. Wyatt forced his way through the air as if he was running through water or tar. As if he was moving through blood.
“Let him go!” His hands trembled as he raised his revolver and fired. “Gus!“
The world blurred—the shouting, the smoke, and the gunfire all faded into the background. The three Union soldiers fell like puppets with their strings cut, but so did Gus’s body. Wyatt kept firing his revolver at the three dead men, but his brother stayed dead.
His brother was dead.
Wyatt collapsed into the cracked earth, unable to feel his muscles, incapable of breathing. How could he breathe when his brother couldn’t? How could he move when his brother lay there motionless? How—
“Wyatt!” Willis dropped next to him and shook him. “Wyatt, snap out of it! You’ll mourn later, we both will, but we have to move before—”
The back of Willis’s head exploded.
Wyatt blinked as Willis collapsed next to him.
Memories flashed before his eyes—his father’s face, Lottie’s terrified eyes, the mocking smile of the man in the black duster. The faces blurred together, fading into darkness as his vision dimmed, the sounds of battle fading to a distant echo.
Then came the blow—a sharp, searing pain as something struck his temple. The world tilted, the sky above spinning wildly, the ground rushing up to meet him. He fell, his knees buckling, collapsing to the hard earth, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.
The last thing Wyatt heard before the darkness swallowed him was the distant echo of Gus’s laughter—a memory from a time long past, bright and warm, a sound from before the world had turned to ash.
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Seems like a good book with alot of adventure. Looking forward to reading it.