Chapter One

Bonneville, Missouri

March 1870

Sweat slipped down the side of Luke Vance’s face like a snake slithering out of a fiery hole, sour and hungry. Usually, Luke didn’t mind sweating, but it felt different in the dry, hot graveyard. Graveyards were for the dead. Any sweat that dripped off Luke’s face and hit the ground would dry up on dead ground.

“Lord, we return Albert Brown’s spirit to you,” Reverend Hart said wearily. The sun was probably getting to be a bit too much for the old man. “From dust You made us, Lord, and to dust we return. Amen.”

The reverend closed his black Bible and tossed a handful of dirt onto the wooden coffin. “God be with you all. Let us leave the dead to rest.”

As the small group around the coffin began to disperse, Luke glanced at his Aunt Fran.

She cast a cold, soulless gaze at Luke. “Get back to your chores,” she ordered, not shedding a single tear.

“Yeah, get on,” Nathan, Luke’s younger cousin, added.

“You heard my brother—git!” Billy, Nathan’s older brother, barked. “If them stalls aren’t spotless, I’ll take a branding iron to you. Now Pa is gone, you don’t get a soft ride no more, boy!”

Luke glared at the three scorpions, filled with resentment and anger. His uncle had taken good care of him after his folks passed. Now that Uncle Albert was dead—kicked in the head by a sour mule—Luke knew his aunt and cousins would do their best to run him off.

Luke was just seventeen, but his uncle had claimed Luke had a solid mind for a young man his age. Uncle Albert had taught him a great deal during the past seven years: how to handle horses, ride, scout trails, shoot, find water, run cattle, build fences and barns—everything a future rancher might need to know. He’d taken well to his schooling, too, becoming one of the best riders and scouts on the ranch, which made his cousins awful jealous.

Luke slapped his dusty brown hat over a field of straw-colored hair that needed cutting. Uncle Albert had once remarked on Luke’s stern face, marked with wild youth instead of settled wisdom, but assured Luke he’d grow into his years like a sturdy oak weathered storms. While Luke didn’t consider himself overly attractive, he’d overheard one of the girls in town say he was ‘handsome as a kicking mustang.’

Right now, the description seemed appropriate—like a wild horse, Luke was about ready to kick his cousins. Instead, he pushed his anger down. “Reckon you’ll just ride me hard until I leave. Might be I should head off now and save you the trouble.”

Fran’s eyes flashed. “How dare you speak that way in front of my husband’s coffin!”

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, just know you won’t be wanting me around no more,” Luke answered evenly, biting his tongue to keep from giving Fran a good chewing.

“Best get on, then,” Billy snarled, “before I give you a good whooping!”

“You can try, but I don’t recommend it. Besides, I ain’t gonna disrespect Uncle Albert by drawin’ blood today. Just wouldn’t be right.”

Luke could see that his words made Billy boil. Billy was a year older, but that didn’t matter squat; Luke had already beaten him in two fair fights, and Uncle Albert hadn’t done anything to stop it—in fact, he’d seemed right proud of Luke.

“Get out of here!” Fran snapped. “You better be gone when I get back to the ranch. Albert was a fool to have taken you in! That man was always too soft!”

Reverend Hart walked up and laid a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Come on, boy. No call to dishonor the dead.”

“Yes, sir.” Sighing, Luke allowed Reverend Hart to lead him away. Luke glanced at the headstones as they left the graveyard. Some belonged to babies, some to children, some to young men his age. Others marked the final resting places of women who’d died in childbirth or folks taken by the fever. Very few graves held those who’d lived long enough to succumb to old age before God called them home.

“Listen, son…” Reverend Hart stopped at an old black buggy connected to a baked horse that showed no interest except in dying. “My nephew, Tucker, wrote to say he’d been hired onto a wagon train heading west.”

“The Oregon Trail?” Luke asked.

The reverend nodded. “They’re leaving from Kansas City next week. If you’re smart and fast, you can catch up.” He searched Luke’s eyes. “I see good in you, boy. Stay around here, and all you’ll find is trouble. Go find yourself a new life out West.”

With a final pat on Luke’s shoulder, Reverend Hart climbed up onto his buggy.

Luke swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “Thank you for your kindness. You’ve always been good to me.”

“I knew your folks. Good people. Shame about that wagon accident all them years back.” He looked down at Luke. “Your uncle feared the Lord, boy, but with him gone, ain’t nothing left on his ranch except bitterness. Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” A hint of sorrow touched the reverend’s eyes, and Luke’s chest tightened with the knowledge that they’d never cross paths again.

Not in this life, anyway.

“I’ll be praying for you, son. Remember to do right in the sight of God, and never cause harm without good reason.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Reverend Hart nodded and shook the reins to get the old horse moving.

Luke watched him leave, then walked over to the thick river birch where he’d tied his quarter horse. “We best go, Thunder. It ain’t a far ride back to the ranch, but I don’t want to be there when Aunt Fran gets back.”

Luke had raised the gelding since the day he’d been foaled. Thunder was Luke’s best friend, and their bond was a strong one.

Luke mounted and started off, casting one last look over his shoulder at his uncle’s grave. Ignoring Billy’s glare, he whispered, “Thanks for loving me, Uncle Albert.”

Guiding Thunder onto the trail leading toward the ranch, Luke rode through a patch of dense woods until they came upon a stream. After letting Thunder drink and filling his canteen, he continued until they reached the ranch’s east field. Cattle grazed as Ron Bosley and Andy Pratter, two of Uncle Albert’s favored ranch hands, worked on a fence.

Luke rode up to them. “Just wanted to say I’m mighty grateful for you fellas taking time to teach me. Soon as I gather my things, I’m leaving Bonneville.”

“Figured you’d be riding off. Won’t be long before we do the same,” Andy replied, wiping sweat off his face. He was a tall, lean man who worked hard and stayed away from the saloons.

Ron was a good worker, too, though he hit a whiskey bottle on ‘special occasions,’ which always seemed to end in a fight. “Where you headed?”

“Gonna ride to Kansas City and see if I can join a wagon train heading for the Oregon Trail.”

“Trail is mighty tough,” Ron warned. “We’re gonna see if we can get on with Peter McMayes. He runs a good spread. You’re welcome to ride with us.”

“Nah. Best strike out on my own like my uncle and pa did when they were my age. Thinking about stopping when I get to Denver. I got some schooling under me, so I might see what I can do in a city.”

Andy wiped his forehead again. “Well, you got a good head on your shoulders. Best of luck. If you ever get back to Bonneville, look me and Ron up. We’ll always have a chair waiting for you.”

“I’m mighty grateful.” Luke nodded and rode on, feeling sad to be leaving two men who always treated him good.

As he neared the house, the thunder of hooves rose behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Billy come tearing around the barn.

Narrowing his eyes, Luke dismounted.

Billy jumped off his horse and slapped it on the rump. “Get on—I got business to take care of!”

Luke crossed his arms. “You got words with me?”

“Don’t play dumb! That saddle rifle belongs to my pa, and I ain’t gonna let you leave with it.” Billy’s ugly face twisted with outrage. “Give it over!”

Luke drew a deep breath as his hands balled into tight fists. “Best stand down, Billy. You know darn well Uncle Albert gave me this rifle.”

“You’re a liar and a thief!” Billy spat.

Luke looked around, but he and Billy were alone in the yard, though he thought he heard someone in the barn shoveling hay. “Last time we tangled,” he growled, “I bloodied you up something fierce. Today ain’t the day to be picking a fight you can’t win, seein’ as we just put your pa to rest.”

“Coward!” Billy spat, his face growing red, then charged Luke with raging fists.

Having no choice but to defend himself, Luke dropped back to block a punch, then kicked, sending his cousin to the ground. When Billy got up, Luke punched him so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head.

He hit the dirt and didn’t get up.

“Didn’t have to be this way, Billy,” Luke murmured, feeling more worn out than the reverend’s buggy horse. Straightening, he turned toward the road.

I best hurry—Aunt Fran can’t be far behind.

Quickly, Luke made his way into the house, then walked upstairs to his small room at the end of the lonely hallway, followed by distant voices from the past.

“Now, dry up them tears, son. Cryin’ won’t bring your pa and ma back, but on my life, I’ll love you as fierce as they did.”

Uncle Albert’s words lingered while Luke gathered his meager belongings into a bag. Then, he looked at the bed tucked into the corner beneath a window. How many nights had he lay there, staring through the window, as he wondered what his folks were doing in Heaven?

Pa, Ma, Uncle Albert… I swear I’ll do right by you and by God. I ain’t gonna ride sour. I’ll remember what you taught me.

With that, Luke strode outside, tied his bag to Thunder’s saddle, and mounted up, preparing to leave the home that was his no longer. “Gonna join that wagon train and get on the Oregon Trail. Reckon I’ll set my sights on Denver, Thunder. We best get busy, ’cause we got a long ride head of us.”

Luke rode off, leaving Billy lying on the dirt, blood trickling from his mouth. Not the best start to his journey, but sometimes, violence seemed to be the only language folks understood.

He only hoped it wouldn’t prove to be an omen of what the trail held for him.

Chapter Two

Luke followed the road west until he came up on Samson’s Trail. Bonneville was in the southern part of the state, so he turned northwest toward Kansas City, where the wagon train was mustering for the Oregon Trail. He felt… free.

There was no turning back.

As Luke traveled, he kept his eyes sharp and his ears pricked, alert for trouble. Former soldiers from the War between the States—mostly Confederate Rebels—rode wild through Arkansas, Missouri, and Texas. Luke had heard rumors of outlaws farther west, too, even up into the Colorado territory. He had no desire to visit the South; he’d heard too many stories about cattle rustlers and bandits.

Denver was a growing city. At least that’s what Uncle Albert had told him, a mere two weeks ago. “Luke, you’re too smart to be branding cattle. You’d do good in a city like Denver. Boy howdy, That city is growing.”

“We’ll have to cross the Platte River, Thunder.” Luke ducked under a low-hanging tree limb. The trail was narrow, but passable. “I reckon Uncle Albert woulda sent me to Denver sooner or later. I wouldn’t’ve put up a fuss none, either. I’m mighty curious to see what city life is like.”

Right before dark, Luke came upon a short bluff, twenty or so yards high, which he’d seen before when riding with his uncle. About a mile west of the rocky formation, they’d start following an old wagon trail.

With that in mind, Luke eased Thunder to the edge of the bluff. The gelding took three steps—then froze when shooting erupted from below.

Instinctively, Luke jumped off Thunder and grabbed his saddle rifle, then dropped to his belly and looked below.

The fading sun cast broken light on a small cabin pushed right up against the rock with a run-down wagon sitting out front. Five outlaws stood behind the wagon, shooting toward the cabin, while a single rifle peeked through a broken window, returning fire.

Luke’s stomach tightened. These outlaws meant to kill. Judging by their hooping and hollering, they were whiskeyed up out of their minds.

Nervous sweat broke out across Luke’s brow. The odds didn’t look good: five rifles against his one. Just as his gut tightened, he remembered Uncle Albert’s advice about dealing with unruly horses.

“Always think smart and fast. Understand what they’re thinking, and stay one step ahead.”

I ain’t gonna be yellow. Them folks are in a bad way. Luke scanned the scene as he considered his options. If he just started shooting, he might get one or two of them, but that still left three.

Might be able to bluff ’em… If I can make them believe there’s a whole posse‍—

Before Luke could settle on a plan, the door to the cabin burst open with a crash.

A man came running out, firing wildly and swearing at the top of his lungs. “You killed my wife! You bast‍—‍”

Within seconds, bullets began peppering his body, filling him with holes. Then, his head jerked back, and he collapsed in a heap.

“Got him good, real good, Ted!” one hollered. “Right in the head!”

Luke had never seen a man die in such a way. Though the sight shook him to his core, he didn’t shrink; instead, righteous fury filled his heart, bolstering his courage. He aimed his rifle at the broken wagon and fired twice, striking one outlaw in the chest.

“Flank ’em on the right!” Luke hollered, his voice echoing like a herd of runaway horses. “Flank ’em on the right!” he repeated, firing off two more shots. One of his bullets chewed into the chest of an outlaw stumbling away from the broken wagon.

“They got Ted! Get out of here!” an outlaw hollered, running for his horse.

“They’re going for the horses! Run ’em down the trail!” Luke yelled, managing to hit one more outlaw before the other two fled. The man grabbed his throat as he hit the ground and began rolling back and forth, gurgling, while his partners abandoned him.

A few agonizing minutes later, he stopped moving.

Unable to tear his eyes from the blood still pulsing from the man’s throat, Luke gulped. His gut clenched as he swallowed bile. At times, controlling his temper felt like taming a wild mustang.

Reckon I understand why Uncle Albert always stared hard at his rifle after a fight now.

Luke waited on top of the bluff for half an hour or so. When it was evident the remaining outlaws weren’t going to return, he rode Thunder down a narrow rock trail and emerged beside the cabin.

A single lantern cast dim light through the broken window. Luke nudged the bodies of the outlaws he’d shot with the toe of his boot. Deader than pickled jerky.

Next, Luke checked on the man who’d been defending the cabin. The poor man’s face was set in a bloody shadow.

Kneeling, Luke removed his hat. “Mister, you don’t know me, but I did what I could. I promise I won’t leave you out for the buzzards.”

Luke straightened, then turned and eased the cabin door open, bracing himself for what he might find. Sure enough, a woman lay sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor, three ugly holes marring her chest.

He twisted the brim of his hat in his hands, searching for words. Reverend Hart would’ve known what to say, but for all Luke’s learning, words had deserted him.

I best get to burying them. Ain’t no one else gonna do it.

Taking the lantern, Luke found a small shed on the far side of the cabin, located a shovel, and searched for a proper spot for two graves. Finding a flat stretch of earth that looked relatively free of rocks, he started digging.

It took time to dig deep enough to protect the graves from scavengers. By the time he’d finished, it was around midnight. He found two sheets and wrapped the bodies up, then settled the couple into their final resting places.

After covering the bodies, Luke gathered rocks and pried several wooden planks from the shed to form crude crosses. Then, he pushed the crosses into the earth, stacking the rocks to form cairns at the base of each, and stood back with his hat off.

“I may be a stranger, but I’m awful sorry about what happened. May you be with the angels now…”

Exhausted, Luke decided to stay here for the rest of the night. He rubbed Thunder down and settled next to the shed—he didn’t even consider sleeping inside the cabin—until the sun broke in a dismal morning.

When he woke, the smell of death hit him hard and fierce. “I’m mighty anxious to leave this place behind!” he told Thunder, preparing to mount up.

Then, his eyes locked on the cabin. He needed supplies, something awful.

Them folks are dead, he told himself. Nothing in that cabin can do them a lick of good.

The thought made his stomach squirm; thinking it over, though, he figured the couple wouldn’t mind. Luke had laid them to rest with dignity, after all.

Better the supplies go to me than the varmints who caused all this.

Luke walked into the cabin, feeling like a sorry thief. Flour trickled from holes in a sack resting on a long wooden shelf; most of the contents had already spilled to cover the floor below. Shattered glass littered the floorboards, interspersed with the contents of various jars. Still, he found an intact sack of flour, a bag of sugar, a tin of coffee beans, and two bags of beans.

He loaded the food up, then hesitated. The truth was, he only had a few dollars to his name, and he’d used most of his bullets shooting at the outlaws. Sighing, he glanced at the cabin and, deciding to take the dead man’s rifle, he trudged back to retrieve it. Nearby, he found some bullets, along with two packs of matches. He could sell the extra rifle if he needed.

After adjusting the bags to distribute the extra weight evenly on Thunder’s back, he turned. His eyes came to rest on the pair of makeshift grave markers, and his eyes pricked.

His own folks appeared in his mind. They’d been on their way to town when a snake spooked the two horses pulling their wagon. The horses had taken off, and when the wagon hit a sharp bend on the trail, it had flipped. Pa’s head had hit a rock, crushing his skull, and Ma had been crushed beneath the wagon.

If I hadn’t stayed back to help Uncle Albert mend that fence…

Luke swiped a tear from his cheek. “Best to keep moving. Tears don’t do nothing for the dead.” He turned his back on the graves and mounted up. “Let’s go, Thunder. Did all I could do here.”

He hadn’t even traveled a mile before he stumbled from Thunder’s back and heaved, emptying his stomach. He remained on his hands and knees, shaking, for several minutes. When he finally stopped quivering, he slowly regained his feet and returned to Thunder.

He took several gulps from his canteen, swishing the water around and spitting it out between each, then mounted up. “Let’s go, Thunder. We got to meet up with our destiny.”