Prologue

1840, Fort Hall, Idaho

Closing the page, Ryder Winters sat cross-legged on his bed and shook with excitement as his eyes tracked the last sentence of his adventure book. The leather binding was worn and its spine cracked. Even though it was the hundredth time, it was just like he was reading it again for the first time. He traced the embossed lettering with a finger. The story’s hero had, at last, defeated the outlaws, and won the heart of the woman he did everything to save. It was a good ending.

“That’s what Uncle Silas would do,” Ryder murmured to himself.

Uncle Silas had come home last summer. The moment he’d returned it was as though some great invisible candle had been lit in Ryder’s imagination. Ryder remembered sitting on the edge of his chair, listening wide-eyed as Silas recounted a narrow escape. Silas had stumbled upon a Comanche tribe, who, after sizing him up with suspicion, had welcomed him as a friend when he mended a broken bridle for one of their horses.

“He taught their chief to ride bareback,” Ryder had whispered to his father later that night, still marveling.

His father, Joseph Winters, had grunted. “Or so he says. Don’t believe every story Silas tells, boy. You’re only young, but you’ll soon learn they grow taller every time he tells ’em.”

But Ryder didn’t care. To him, Uncle Silas wasn’t just a storyteller—he was a man who lived the kind of life captured in the books Ryder read. And now, after months of waiting, Silas was coming back. The thought sent a thrill coursing through him. He shut the book and leaned back against the wall, imagining what the man had been through since he had last seen him.

Would he have tales of gold strikes out west? Or perhaps a narrow escape from bandits on the Santa Fe Trail? Maybe he’d even have a knife or a trinket to give Ryder; something from a faraway place with a story of its own.

Anything was possible.

Ryder’s thoughts were interrupted by the distant clamor of voices outside. At first, the sound was faint, muffled by the thick walls of the house. But it grew louder, sharp enough to cut through Ryder’s daydreams.

He set the book aside, straining to make out the words. His father’s voice carried up first, loud and raw with anger, followed by another man’s steadier tone. Ryder frowned. His father didn’t raise his voice often, and when he did, it was enough to make the hairs on Ryder’s neck prickle.

Ryder slid off the bed and padded over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he peered out.

The afternoon sun slanted over the yard. His father stood near the barn, gesturing wildly, his fists clenched. Amber liquid beaded on his long-grizzled beard. He wiped it with a dirty hand, his gray eyes wide but dull. Opposite him was a man Ryder knew to be the sheriff, his hat pulled low over his brow, his posture stiff. The sheriff’s face was set in grim lines as he spoke, his voice calm but firm. Ryder couldn’t hear what they were saying, but his father’s angry expression made his chest tighten.

He turned from the window, his stomach churning with unease. He wanted to stay put and wait for the storm of his father’s temper to pass, but curiosity—and a growing sense of dread—pushed him forward.

Ryder slipped down the stairs, trying his best not to make the old wood creak. He edged forward and opened the front door. The warm air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did little to ease the chill that had settled over him.

As he crossed the yard, snippets of the conversation drifted toward him.

“—ambushed on the road,” the sheriff said.

“I told him,” his father spat. “I told him not to go through there. Damn fool thought he was untouchable.”

Ryder’s feet slowed, his pulse hammering in his ears. He stepped closer, just close enough to see the tears glistening in his father’s eyes, a sight so rare it froze him in place. He couldn’t hold in his voice a moment later.

“What happened?”

Both men turned toward him. His father’s face twisted with anger, though Ryder couldn’t tell if it was directed at him. The sheriff tipped his hat, his expression softening.

“Ryder,” his father said. He glanced at the sheriff, as if searching for the words he couldn’t find.

It was the sheriff who answered. “Son, your uncle Silas… ran into trouble. A gang on the north road caught him. He’s not coming back.”

Ryder blinked, the words failing to make sense. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

The sheriff hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Ryder’s father, who had turned away, his shoulders hunched.

“I’m sorry, Ryder,” the sheriff said gently. “Your uncle’s gone.”

Gone.

The word hit Ryder like a kick to the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground beneath him had shifted.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not—he can’t be. He’s coming here. He promised—”

“I warned him!” his father roared. He spun to face Ryder, his eyes blazing. “I told him not to ride through that territory. But no, Silas always thought he was smarter and faster than the rest of us. Thought he could outrun anything! Even Death!”

“Joseph,” the sheriff interjected.

Ryder stared at his father, the anger in the man’s voice clashing with the tears that spilled down his cheeks. It was too much, too big for Ryder to process. His uncle—the man he had idolized, the man whose stories filled his dreams—was gone?

Just like that.

The sheriff put a hand on Ryder’s shoulder, his grip steadying. “I know this is hard, son. Your uncle was a brave man. He stood up to those men, wouldn’t let them take what wasn’t theirs. He went down fighting.”

This didn’t bring Ryder any comfort.

The sheriff’s voice grew softer. “We’ll do what we can to bring those men to justice. I promise you that.”

Ryder was already in another world. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as tears blurred his vision.

Silas was gone. And the world seemed much smaller.

***

The cemetery was quiet except for the soft murmur of the preacher’s voice, weaving his way through scripture about life and death.

“Are you cold?” his mother asked him. “You’re shivering.”

Ryder clasped his hands in hers, the pressure of her grip grounding him even as the grief threatened to overwhelm him. The wooden casket, simple and unadorned, rested at the edge of the grave, waiting to be lowered into the earth.

Ryder’s eyes stung, but no tears came. His uncle’s stories still swirled in his mind, larger than life.

From the corner of his eye, Ryder saw his father, leaning slightly to one side, his shoulders stiff as he stood by the moss-covered gravestones. Something wasn’t right. His father’s posture lacked its usual sharpness, and as the preacher spoke, he muttered under his breath, loud enough that a few heads turned. Ryder’s stomach clenched.

As the service ended and people began to disperse, his father took a step forward, nearly stumbling. His mother tensed beside him, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Never should’ve gone west,” his father muttered, too loudly. “Damn fool.”

Ryder felt his chest tighten. The shame in his father’s voice was like a slap, as though he were spitting on the memory of the man they were here to mourn. Ryder’s mother reached for his father’s arm, but he shrugged her off.

“Pa,” Ryder said..

His father rounded on him, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. Ryder caught the sharp scent of whiskey and recoiled slightly. “Don’t you ‘Pa’ me, boy,” his father snapped “You listen to me, and you listen good.”

Ryder froze, his heart hammering. He had never seen his father like this, not like this in public.

“You never mention him again. You hear me? No stories. No adventures. None of it,” his father said.

Ryder blinked, stunned. “But why?” he asked. “You don’t love him? He’s your brother.”

His father’s face twisted with anger, and for a moment, Ryder thought he might strike him. Instead, he jabbed a finger in Ryder’s direction.

“My brother got what everyone out west gets eventually. Murdered.”

The words hit Ryder like a physical blow.

His uncle had died doing what he loved, hadn’t he?

An adventurer, a pioneer, a man of action. Ryder thought of the journals he’d pored over, the maps, the stories of distant mountains and rivers that sparkled like diamonds. All of it seemed to crumble in an instant.

“That’s enough,” his mother said, stepping between them.

His father’s glare shifted to her, but he said nothing more. He turned and began to walk unsteadily toward the wagon, leaving Ryder rooted to the spot.

Ryder’s brother, Eli, came up beside him, his jaw tight with anger. “Why’d you have to go and make him mad?” he hissed.

Ryder turned to him, incredulous. “I didn’t—”

“You know how he gets when he’s like this,” Eli interrupted. “You just made it worse. Next time, just do what he says and keep your mouth shut.”

Ryder stared at him, his throat tightening with frustration. He wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his fault their father couldn’t hold his liquor or his temper. But the words stuck in his throat.

Eli shook his head and stalked off after their father, leaving Ryder alone by the grave.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the freshly turned earth. The pit in his stomach grew heavier, spreading through his chest like a shadow. His uncle’s voice echoed faintly in his memory, telling him never to let fear keep him from chasing his dreams.

His father was slumped against the seat of the wagon, and Ryder felt fear creeping in.

His mother appeared at his side, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but her presence was enough to break the dam. Silent tears streamed down Ryder’s face as he turned into her arms, his sobs muffled against her apron.

“Shh,” she murmured. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

But as Ryder clung to her, the pit in his stomach remained, heavy and unmoving, as though a part of him had been buried along with his uncle.

However, a new flame licked within his depths, and it was a hungry one. His father’s words fizzled in the far edges of his mind, disintegrating into nothingness.

He would never listen to that man. He knew it now.

Whatever his father said, adventure awaited him. Far more, it seemed, than in the pages of one of his books. He would not be afraid. Much like his uncle, he would risk it all. However, Ryder swore he would watch his back. Perhaps he could go further than his uncle ever did — perhaps he could finish his story for him.

Chapter One

1848, Fort Hall, Idaho

The morning sun had barely risen above the horizon drenching before it drenched the tawny grass. with light. Ryder adjusted the leather reins in his hands, his eyes locked on the restless stallion pawing at the ground before him. The horse was a beauty—black as coal, with a wild, untamed energy that had sent every hand on the ranch running for cover.

But Ryder wasn’t running.

He tightened his grip, his palms slick with sweat, and whispered calming words as he edged closer to the animal. The stallion’s ears flicked back, its sparkling eyes watching him warily. Ryder could feel the tension in the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

“Easy now,” he murmured. “We’ll figure this out, you and me.”

His father had no clue what he was doing. He didn’t need another lecture about how dangerous it was, or how breaking a horse like this was beyond him. Ryder wasn’t a child anymore. He was eighteen, and if he could just prove himself with this horse, maybe his father would finally see that.

Ryder grabbed a fistful of mane and swung himself up atop the animal. The stallion reared instantly, letting out a furious whinny, but Ryder held on, his legs gripping tightly against the horse’s flanks. The world tilted as the stallion bucked, but Ryder gritted his teeth and let his body move with the rhythm of the fight.

For a moment, he felt it—the connection, the control. The stallion’s wild energy was no longer something to fear, but something he could channel. A thrill shot through him as he realized he was doing it.

But then, one wrong move.

Ryder leaned too far forward, and the stallion seized the moment, bucking harder than before. Ryder tumbled through the air. He hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, the breath knocked clean out of him.

Dust filled his lungs. He tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, and his head swam. Before he could catch his breath, hooves pounded the earth.

Looking up, Ryder saw his father riding toward him, his face set in a deep scowl.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” His father pulled his horse to a sharp stop.

Ryder wiped the dirt from his face and tried to stand, his legs unsteady. “I almost had him,” he said.

“Almost doesn’t count,” his father shot back, dismounting and walking toward him. “What were you thinking? That horse is too wild. You could’ve broken your neck.”

Ryder squared his shoulders. “I was doing fine until I slipped.”

“You slipped because you don’t know what you’re doing,” his father snapped. “You’ve got no business messing with a horse like that.”

Ryder’s frustration boiled over. “I know what I’m doing! I’ve been working with him for days now. I just need more time.”

“Time isn’t going to make you ready for something you’re not meant to handle,” his father said. Ryder caught the faint smell of whiskey on his breath, and his stomach twisted.

“Why won’t you let me prove myself?” Ryder asked. “I can handle more than you think. I don’t plan to spend my days painting fences and feeding chickens. I’m not a kid anymore. I ain’t gonna break my neck! I can help around here—real help, not just chores.”

His father shook his head. “You’re not ready, and that’s the end of it. I know what’s best for this ranch, and for you.”

Ryder’s fists clenched at his sides. “The ranch isn’t doing well, Pa. We both know it. You can’t keep pretending everything’s fine while you—”

“While I what?” his father growled.

Ryder hesitated for a split second, then pressed on, his voice trembling with anger. “While you drink yourself into a stupor every night! It’s killing you, and it’s killing this ranch. You’re too stubborn to see it.”

His father’s face darkened. “You look just like him, you know…”

“Like who?” Ryder asked.

His father regarded him from head to toe and shook his head, eyes flicking over to the side of the house where the gravestones lay.

“You mean my uncle?”

“I’m done with this conversation,” his father said.

“No, you need to hear this,” Ryder said, his voice breaking. “You’ve changed, Pa. You’re not the man you used to be. Uncle Silas—”

Before he could finish, his father’s hand lashed out, striking him across the face. The blow wasn’t hard, but it stung, both physically and emotionally. It made Ryder’s head spin; he hadn’t been struck since he was a little child and never this hard. Ryder stumbled back, his hand flying to his cheek as he stared at his father in shock. Rage boiled in his stomach.

His father’s chest heaved, his hand still raised as if he might strike again. But then, he turned abruptly, climbing back onto his horse without another word.

Ryder watched as his father rode off. He felt like an animal. He had been treated like a badly behaved hound. His father had made him feel like that.

“Ryder,” came a voice behind him.

He turned to see his brother Eli approaching, his expression sympathetic.

“You alright?” Eli asked, his tone cautious.

Ryder gave a curt nod, though his cheek still stung.

“Why’d you go and rile him like that?” Eli said, shaking his head. “You know how he gets.”

“‘cause someone’s got to,” Ryder shot back, his voice low but steady. “Somebody’s got to stand up to him.”

Eli let out a heavy sigh and pushed his hat back on his head. “Boy, that’s a fool’s errand if I ever heard one. He’s too old and too ornery to change now. Best you just let it be.”

Ryder glared at him, frustration bubbling hot in his chest. “That’s your answer? Just bow your head and take it, no matter what he says?”

Eli crossed his arms. “That’s the way to keep the peace, little brother. We don’t need no more trouble in this house.”

Ryder shook his head, his hands balling into fists. He felt the pull, the invisible urge to run. There was a road in his head, one that stretched far away from the farm, from the life his family wanted for him. This life was leading him nowhere except toward the inevitability of becoming a repeat of his father. He couldn’t do it, as much as he knew it could break his brother’s heart. He had to say something.

“I can’t do it, Eli. I can’t sit by while he lets this place fall apart, drinkin’ himself stupid every chance he gets. I just… I need more.”

Eli raised an eyebrow. “More, huh? What’re you gettin’ at?”

Ryder took a breath, his eyes flicking toward the horizon as if he could already see it. “The California Trail. Mr. Atkins was jawin’ about it yesterday down at the store. Wagon train’s rollin’ through town come morning. Westbound. Real adventure, real opportunity.”

Eli frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re fixin’ to chase after somethin’ like that?”

“And why not?” Ryder shot back, his voice growing stronger. “Folks are headin’ west, makin’ somethin’ of themselves. Strikin’ gold, buildin’ new lives. I could do the same.”

Eli shook his head slowly. “You’re chasin’ pipe dreams, Ryder. The west ain’t what you think it is—it’s rough, mean country. You know what Pa would say.”

“I ain’t afraid of rough country,” Ryder said, standing firm. “What I’m afraid of is sittin’ here, watchin’ my life trickle away like water in a dry creek.”

Eli stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable, before letting out a slow breath. “Suit yourself, kid. But don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re hungry, broke, or worse. You’re on your own if you do this, you hear?”

Ryder’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. “I hear you. And I’ll prove you wrong.”

Ryder watched him go. He looked out toward the horizon. He had seen this view his whole life, the same hills, the trees slowly growing higher. He was tired of it.

Tomorrow, the wagon train would pass through. Tomorrow, his chance to leave this place—and his father’s shadow—would come.

And this time, Ryder wasn’t going to let anything stop him.

***

The house was silent, save for the faint creaks of wood settling in the cold. Ryder lay in his bed, staring up at the dark beams of the ceiling. He tossed and turned, his thoughts swirling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the disappointment in his father’s glare, the sharp sting of his words still cutting deep.

The California Trail. The storekeeper’s tales of open plains, endless skies, and the promise of fortune beyond the Sierra Nevada filled his head. It was as if every whispered dream he’d buried was rising up, calling to him.

But the guilt gnawed at him. If he left, who would help his family? His father was stubborn, sure, but the ranch needed all the hands it could get.

The decision ate at him.

Ryder sighed, throwing off the covers. He padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, the moonlight slanted through the window, casting a pale glow over the rough-hewn table. He poured himself a glass of water, the coolness steadying his restless nerves.

Behind him, a soft shuffle broke the silence.

“Can’t sleep, huh?”

Ryder turned to see his mother standing in the doorway, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her hair was loose, and there was a softness in her expression, a quiet understanding that always made him feel like a boy again. Ryder felt his shoulders relax as she drew closer.

She walked over and placed a hand on his cheek, then leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “I know what’s eating you,” she said gently, brushing back his unruly hair. “Your father.”

Ryder hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “He doesn’t trust me,” he finally said. “He won’t let me do anything real. Remember that time he let me go to the big city to get the wagon fixed?”

“Uh-huh…” his mother said. “The way I remember it, you went missing. He was livid, had to come fetch you.”

“But he didn’t!” Ryder said. “Yes, I was in a saloon, but I wasn’t drinking—I was only trying to get a better price than that darn Mr. McCall was offering. I was only doing what he’d asked.”

“He didn’t ask you to disappear.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Ryder said. “He won’t let me a meter away from him. How am I supposed to help if he keeps holding me back?”

His mother sighed and sat down at the table, patting the seat next to her. Ryder joined her.

“Your father…”

She trailed off, searching for the right words. “He’s been through a lot. More than you realize. But he loves you, Ryder, in his own way. It’s the same as his brother. Whenever he’d come to town they’d spend the entire time squabbling, but he was always so sad when he left. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Ryder said, his frustration bubbling up. “The ranch is struggling. He drinks more than he works. And he doesn’t listen to anyone—not me, not even you.”

His mother didn’t argue. Instead, she reached across the table and took his hand. “I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. But give him time. He’ll come around eventually.”

Ryder shook his head. “What if he doesn’t?”

There was a long pause, the silence stretching between them. Finally, Ryder glanced at her, his voice almost a whisper. “The California Trail is passing through tomorrow.”

His mother’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Ryder spoke, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe longer. If I stay here, I’ll rot away like the fence posts in the north pasture. I need to go, Ma. I need to see what’s out there.”

For a moment, her face was unreadable. Then she looked down at the table, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “I knew this day would come,” she said softly.

“You did?”

She smiled faintly. “You’re just like him, you know.”

“Like who?” Ryder asked, although he already knew.

“Your uncle,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “He was always restless, always dreaming of the horizon. It’s in your blood, Ryder. It’s in your face too; you got his look about you. You’ve got the same fire. I’ve seen it in you since you were a boy.”

Ryder stared at her, torn between hope and doubt. “But Pa…”

“Your father is afraid,” she said. “He doesn’t want to lose you the way we lost your uncle. But this is who you are. An adventurer.”

He looked down at the table, his hands balled into fists. “I don’t want to leave you, Ma. Or Eli. But I can’t stay here.”

She reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small cloth pouch, sliding it across the table. Ryder frowned, picking it up. It was heavier than he expected.

“What’s this?”

“Money for provisions,” she said simply.

Ryder’s eyes widened. “No foolin’?”

“No foolin’” she said, her smile bittersweet. “I don’t want you to go, Ryder. But I know I can’t keep you here. You’ve got too much of the world to see.”

He stared at her, his throat tightening. “You sure?”

She reached out and cupped his face with both hands, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re my son, and I love my boys more than anything. That’s why I have to let you go.”

Ryder felt a lump rise in his throat. He hadn’t expected her support—hadn’t even dared to hope for it. He hadn’t expected anyone would understand. People in his town didn’t just leave. It simply wasn’t done.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, clutching the pouch tightly. “I won’t let you down.”

She smiled and kissed his forehead again. “You never could, Ryder. Now go get some rest. Tomorrow will be the start of something new.”

For the first time in weeks—maybe months—Ryder felt a spark of excitement as he climbed back into bed. A taste of the freedom he’d been craving. Tomorrow, his journey would begin.