Prologue

1866 — Houston, Texas

Colt Graves swung down from the last car as the train whistled and pulled to a total stop. His boots smacked the dusty platform, a waft of old dirt finding his nose from a place far from home. Four years of mud, smoke, and rot had seemed to follow him no matter how much he bathed. He dusted off his coat, squinting at the sun rising over Houston. Home.

The war had taken longer than anyone could have predicted. Colt had stopped counting the months after a time. It was all too much. At first, it was the victories and the losses that overwhelmed him, but then it was the faces of the men who fell beside him. A mix of friends, strangers, boys who’d never lived enough to grow beards. He’d seen death before, as Sheriff of Houston, but that was one body at a time. War piled them up until you stopped counting. He breathed deep and straightened the strap of his bag.

A boy stumbled nearby, carrying a bundle of mail too large for his frame. Colt, feeling an old itch, called out, “Careful with that, son! Don’t drop the letters. Put half back and do a second run.”

The boy flinched. “Oh, c’mon, mister. That’d take too long!”

“You got a letter right there peeking right out, could fly off with just a little breeze!” Cole responded.

“You bustin’ my hump over one stupid letter, mister?” the boy smirked.

“I am,” Colt said sharply. “I’m the sheriff. That’s my duty.”

He watched the boy balance the bundle more carefully and turn back with a grumble and a reddened face. Cole smiled.

The afternoon sun baked the air, carrying the faint scents of hay and manure from the corrals nearby. Not far from the station, a small wooden stable offered horses for rent or sale, and a handful of riders lingered, talking low in the shadows.

A wiry man with a sun-creased face stepped forward. “Looking for a horse, stranger?” he asked. His eyes lingered a fraction too long.

“Just need one to get into town,” Colt replied.

The man nodded and led him toward a corral. “Got a good one here. Strong, steady. Name’s Brandy.” From behind the fence, a black mustang raised its head, ears flicking, nostrils flaring. Its coat was sleek, catching the sunlight, and its eyes were bright and intelligent. Colt gave it a long look.

Brandy shifted restlessly, stamping a hoof and snorting softly. Colt reached through the bars, running his hand along the horse’s neck. “Easy, girl,” he murmured. The mustang pressed its nose into his palm, testing him as much as he was testing her.

The seller watched, scratching his jaw. “She’s a spirited one, that’s for sure. Can be tricky if you don’t handle her right.”

Colt nodded, swinging a leg over her back. Brandy bobbed her head, but then fell into step obediently as he guided her out of the corral. He noticed how she moved, her ears alert. Colt found himself matching her easy pace, adjusting subtly to her rhythm, enjoying the feel of her beneath him.

“You take good care of her; she’s a prize,” the man called after him. There was something in his tone that didn’t sit right, but Colt ignored it. Something felt off—a fine horse like this in a place like that. He would have to double-check later for any reports of theft. He memorized the seller’s face.

As they moved toward the edge of town, Colt felt a small sense of comfort. Brandy was steady, sure-footed, and smart. She tossed her head once, as if to say, Be careful not to cross me, and Colt allowed himself a short, easy laugh.

For a moment, the world beyond the corral and train platform faded. Still, he noted that home wasn’t the same as he had left it. The streets seemed smaller, quieter, and somehow suspiciously still. Colt took a deep breath, trying to shake off the memories of battlefields and blood. He had hoped it would fade. He was done with all of that.

As he crested the last rise, Colt expected to see home in the distance. Instead, his chest tightened. In the distance, smoke rose, black against the pale sky. Maybe a barn fire—a controlled burn perhaps. He tried to comfort himself, but the way the smoke clawed upward, black and hungry, told him nothing was right.

“No.” His pace quickened.

The closer he drew, the more the shapes resolved themselves. The fields were scorched, the tall grass blackened and curling, the barn’s roof splintered and sagging like it had been crushed under some enormous weight. The air smelled of smoke and something metallic and sharp, which made him flinch.

And then his eyes caught the figures. Two dark, unmoving silhouettes sprawled in the charred grass, too far to make out.

Father. Rose. Could it be?

His stomach pitched, a cold, heavy weight that pressed him toward the ground. He stumbled, catching himself on a fencepost, hand brushing the worn leather of his holster. His hand trembled on the weapon.

Through the pounding in his head, he judged the scene. Somewhere in the back of his head, his sheriff’s brain remained sober. No accident. The fire was still blazing. Recent.

His gaze swept the horizon, scanning the dust-laden trails. Something terrible had happened. It couldn’t be Rose; it couldn’t be his father, he would have to get closer to know for sure.

“Who did this?” he bellowed.

There! Faint shapes—riders—were already fading into the distance. Too fast. Too many. They’d be gone before he could reach them.

Even amidst the shock, even as the world seemed to tilt around him, Colt’s mind clung to law and order. He had to act. He tried to raise his weapon.

Through the haze of war, one thought remained. I’ll get back to my life. Back to Houston. Back to my father. Back to Rose. But now, all that was gone. It couldn’t be, but it was. It was that thought that had gotten him through the freezing nights and the endless marches, through the sound of artillery screaming overhead. No matter how far away from Texas he was, he could still picture the dusty street outside the sheriff’s office, the smell of fresh coffee drifting out of the cafe, and Rose’s smile when she caught sight of him coming up the walk. In his mind, his family’s ranch lay spread out below, just as it had his whole life… Only it was gone. All gone. Still, he couldn’t be sure about the bodies. He had to know.

Colt pulled Brandy up hard.

The air grew thick and acrid, stinging his eyes as the blaze came into full view. The main house was already half collapsed, timbers blackened and spitting sparks. The barn was gone; a heap of glowing rubble.

His boots hit the ground before the horse had stopped. Colt’s mind refused to understand what his eyes told him. He knelt, choking on the smoke.

The bodies. He knew right away that his worst fears were indeed true. His father’s stern face was slack now, his shirt front dark with blood. Beside him lay Rose, the ring Colt had given her still glinting faintly on her hand. Her hair—that warm chestnut he’d run his fingers through a hundred times—was streaked with ash.

Colt’s breath came in short, ragged bursts.

No. No, I’m seeing it wrong.

He reached out, as if touching them might make them warm again. Might turn this scene into something else. But their skin was cold. They had been shot; their bloodied clothes told him it had been an execution, no sign of a fight. Murdered at point-blank range.

Somewhere deep inside, something broke, becoming dust. He rose to his feet, drawing his revolver in the same motion, and his head snapped toward movement on the horizon.

The riders.

Four of them, dark against the dying light, moving fast away from the ranch. Almost gone, but still in sight.

His body moved without thinking. He swung into the saddle and gave chase, the wind cutting at his face, the rhythm of the gallop hammering through his bones.

By the time Colt reached the bend, they were gone—vanished into the empty Texas dust.

He sat in place, his chest heaving, the revolver heavy in his hand. His instincts screamed at him to keep going, to hunt them down even if it took all night, all week. But another voice told him the truth. They were gone. He’d lose his horse before he found them.

Slowly, Colt turned back toward the column of smoke that marked what was left of his home.

By the time he reached the ranch again, the fire had burned low, the buildings reduced to skeletal remains. The heat still licked at his skin as he dismounted. He went back to where the bodies lay.

They were still there. Still cold. Still dead. This was no nightmare. His vision blurred.

A voice startled him.

“Colt?”

He turned sharply, his hand going to his gun again. It was Amos Tucker, a neighbor who ran cattle two miles east. The man’s face was pale in the firelight.

“I saw the smoke, went to find help, but got here faster…” Amos said, stepping closer. “Sweet Lord above…” His eyes landed on the bodies, and he stopped, his hat twisting in his hands. “I’m sorry, son. Real sorry.”

Amos swallowed, looking at the wreckage. “You ain’t the only one hit. The whole region’s crawling with outlaws since the war ended. A lot of men turned to crime. Ain’t much law left to stop ‘em. Heard they struck the Martinez place last week, took near everything.”

Colt’s gaze didn’t leave the ground.

“Colt, listen—”

“Leave.” The word came out flat.

Amos blinked. “I can help you bury ‘em. Or ride after them men?”

“Leave,” Colt repeated.

Amos hesitated, but something in Colt’s eyes must have told him there was no arguing. He touched his hat in a mute gesture of respect, then backed away toward his own horse. “I’ll… I’ll come by later,” he said quietly, before riding off into the darkness.

The only sound left was the crackle of dying fire. Colt stayed crouched there a long while, the revolver still loose in his hand. The part of him that had fought through four years of war knew what came next: digging graves, saying words over the dead, taking stock of what remained.

But another part, deeper and more dangerous, wanted no part of that.

Because standing here, with the smoke of his home in his lungs and the faces of the only people he’d ever loved lying still in the dirt, Colt Graves knew one thing for certain.

He couldn’t stay. This was no longer home.

Chapter One

1882 — Sanderson, Texas

Sixteen Years Later

Sixteen years on the trail had a way of wearing a man down without him realizing it. Colt Graves sat at the bar of the Silver Spur Saloon, turning his whiskey glass slowly between his fingers, watching the amber light catch the ripples inside. Outside, Sanderson baked under a late-summer sun. He was cool inside.

It wasn’t much of a town, just a strip of wood-fronted buildings along the dusty street. Still, it was bigger than the mining camps and half-dead settlements he usually passed through. Bigger meant a better whiskey, at least. He had ridden for weeks, lost on the trail, looking for somewhere to stop. It was the same feeling that always found him eventually, something in him that said he’d been drifting for too long. So here he had decided he would wait.

He took a sip, letting the burn settle in his chest.

Lost on the wind had been his way for so long it felt like the only way a man like him could live. Every time he lingered too long in one place, he felt a noose around his neck start to tighten.

No. He couldn’t settle somewhere. Too many memories. Too many chances for history to repeat itself. Best to keep moving, keep his name light. He told himself he was fine with it. Had been for over a decade. No home meant nothing to lose.

The doors swung open, letting in a shaft of sun and a tall figure in a dark, tailored coat. Colt noticed the shine on his boots, the polish on the brass buttons. The kind of man who didn’t belong in a place like this. That was, unless he had business.

The stranger’s eyes swept the saloon, settled on Colt, and came straight toward him.

“Colt Graves?” The man’s voice was olive oil.

Colt studied him over the rim of his glass. “Who’s askin’?”

“Thorne Hart,” he said, offering a gloved hand. “Union Pacific Railroad.”

Colt shook it briefly, the leather cool against his palm.

“Heard of you,” Hart went on. “Former sheriff. Army man. Your name still comes up in certain circles.”

“Can’t imagine what circles those’d be,” Colt said, turning back to his drink. “Gotta be wide circles if they can track me down.”

Hart leaned an elbow on the bar. “We’ve had… incidents on our construction site outside of town. Men dead under strange circumstances. Others quitting outright. It’s slowing the line, making folks uneasy. We need someone with skill and a reputation to keep order.”

Colt’s gray eyes narrowed slightly, and he stroked his beard. “Sounds like you’ve got a sheriff for that already.”

“Let’s say, we could use a man who answers to no one but his own judgment. I’m prepared to pay well.”

Colt tapped his glass. The thought of steady pay, a real bed, maybe even a hot meal every night was tempting. He was bone-tired of waking up under open skies with his back aching and his boots wet from dew. But taking a job like that meant staying. Staying meant roots, and roots meant losing everything when the ground got pulled out from under you.

“No,” Colt said finally. “Don’t sound like my kind of work.”

“In what way?” Hart asked.

“Sounds ugly. I don’t do ugly.”

Hart’s brow furrowed slightly, but he masked it with a polite smile. “I understand. Still, think on it. A man like you could make a difference. And I suspect you’d find the matter… intriguing.”

He left a small calling card on the bar, tipped his hat, and made for the door.

Colt didn’t touch the card. He went back to his whiskey.

A few seats down, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked hands and a blacksmith’s build—Colt hadn’t seen him come in—spoke without looking up from his beer. “That railroad job will get a man killed quicker’n a bad poker hand.”

Colt’s head tilted slightly. “That so?”

“Mm,” the man said, and took another drink. He didn’t elaborate.

Colt turned back to his glass. He’d decided whatever trouble was brewing around here, it wasn’t his trouble.

But as the thought settled, the saloon doors banged open hard enough to rattle the glass behind the bar. Four men in dust-stained work clothes strode in, faces flushed with heat and fury.

“You callin’ me a liar again!”

“You’re the one who’s been talkin—”

Hands went to holsters.

Colt’s chair scraped the floor. He moved without thinking, crossing the space in three long strides.

“Easy, boys,” he said. “You draw in here, and you’ll be wearin’ pine before supper.”

The bearded one spat. “Ain’t your business, stranger.”

Colt’s jaw worked. “It is when I’m sitting at the same table you’re about to shoot through.”

Murmurs rippled from the other patrons, half of them nursing drinks, the other half pretending to be interested in their boots. Even the piano man had gone still.

The big-shouldered man lifted his weapon and fired, half-drunk. Behind, on the wall, a bottle exploded. Colt snapped his hand toward the weapon, swatting it down.

“No more shooting!” He roared.

The room echoed with the shot.

Colt didn’t relax until they both had their hands free of iron. “Now,” he said, “somebody mind telling just what’s got into you?”

No one jumped to answer. Finally, a man near the back spoke up, a stocky figure in a soot-stained shirt. Colt recognized him as the one who’d warned him earlier about the railroad.

“Arguing about last night,” the man said. “Another worker died. Out past the cut where they’re blasting rock for the line.”

The wiry man shot him a glare. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“Enough,” the big man growled. “We ain’t talkin’ about this with strangers.”

“Fine,” Colt said, stepping aside but keeping his eyes on them both. “But next time you’ve got a disagreement, try talkin’ first. Saves everyone the trouble of mopping blood off the floor.”

He turned back to his table, finishing his whiskey. By the time Colt stepped outside, the light was fading toward gold. The air smelled faintly of dust and something sharper, burn powder from blasting, maybe. The town’s main street stretched quiet except for a few wagons rattling toward the outskirts where the railroad cut lay.

He told himself he was just walking. Just seeing the lay of the land. But his boots turned toward the commotion without much convincing.

Past the last row of shops, the ground fell away into a rough slope where men were gathered in tight knots. He didn’t have to get close to see the tense shoulders hunched.

A pair of bodies lay on canvas tarps, the shapes unmistakable even from a distance.

Colt stopped halfway down the slope, his breath shallow. The tarps were the wrong color, but the sight still pulled him backward in time to another slope, another sky, and the still forms of his father and Rose on the dirt before he’d buried them.

He swallowed hard and forced himself forward.

A foreman with a battered hat noticed Colt and squared up to the tall, dark-haired man. “Name’s Jeb, I know most people around here, the ones I don’t tell a story. You’re story ain’t one I know, those dark eyes tell me you’re a killer. Stature tells me you’re a soldier. But I know all the soldiers around here, and you ain’t one of them. You with the railroad?”

“No,” Colt confirmed.

“Then you shouldn’t be here.”

Colt ignored the warning, kneeling by one of the tarps. He didn’t uncover the face; he didn’t need to. The angle of the man’s arm, twisted unnaturally, told enough. The other body’s leg was crushed under a slab of rock, the boot barely visible beneath the stone.

“What a waste. You planning to keep losing men?” he asked, standing.

The man scowled. “Planning to finish the line, whatever it takes.”

Colt walked away without another word, his back toward the street. He told himself again that it wasn’t his fight.

But Thorne Hart’s offer lingered in his mind, mixing with Jeb’s warning and the image of those covered bodies.

***

Back at the saloon, the place had mostly emptied. Jeb was gone. The barkeep glanced up as Colt stepped inside.

“You stickin’ around?” the man asked casually, wiping a glass.

Colt dropped a coin on the counter. “For tonight.”

He found a corner table, sat, and let his hat tilt low over his eyes. He’d ride out in the morning. That was the plan.

But long after the lamps were lit and the streets went quiet, he was still turning over the same question in his head.

What the hell is happening in this town?

And why, despite everything he’d sworn to himself, did part of him care?