Chapter One

Today was not the day, and Charlotte Belcher certainly wasn’t the one for Clance Fenimore. He couldn’t feel it, the electric sparks and thundering heartbeat that he hoped to feel with her. And, though it was almost doubtless, he was hoping that Charlotte, who sat across the table from him, couldn’t feel it herself either. Clance could have bet on Charlotte being more excited about the money under his name than she was about him.

Clance glanced at the young, eligible, and lovely-looking woman before taking another bite of his meat. He couldn’t possibly stomach any more of the food on his plate that he’d ordered. The questions Charlotte and her mother, who sat beside her daughter, threw at Clance made him completely off his feed. He realised what a dreadful mistake it was to request to dine with the women. Much as he’d come to know dining with all the women who’d come before her in the past had also been a mistake.

Now, as the brief silence fell over their table at the town saloon, Clance’s mind started to fill up with running thoughts like dirty water. He wished for a bride who would see him for more than his riches and was afraid to marry one who only cared about his money. When he’d invited Miss Charlotte Belcher and Mrs. Belcher to luncheon, he hoped that maybe Charlotte would be the one who would take Clance away from his loneliness and help him believe that trusting someone again wouldn’t be so bad. But as the time passed during their meal, the conversation proved that both women to be far more interested in Clance’s house and ranch than they were in him.

He’d met quite a few of the small number of eligible women in town in the past, and Clance ought to know that good women with pure, compassionate hearts were rare in Hollow, just like crimson clovers in the Texas desert.

“This meat is tender and delicious,” Charlotte murmured in a soft voice as she smoothed her hands over the fabric of her myrtle green dress. Her words broke the quiet, and Clance stopped being too much in his head.

He looked up and pushed his black hair back from his forehead before replying. “They came straight from my family’s ranch. This saloon and most other saloons in Hollow have been in trade with our ranch ever since I was a little boy.”

“Are there any members of your family that have a share in your ranch, Mr. Fenimore?” Mrs. Belcher asked most brazenly, a scaly smile on her face. From the corner of his eyes, Clance watched as Charlotte peeked at him to judge his response.

For a second then, he didn’t know how to answer the ill-mannered question, as he felt more trapped than ever. Did Mrs. Belcher or her daughter ask Clance how he was faring with keeping up with all his responsibilities around the ranch? Did they give their sympathies on his father’s death even?

Inarguably, all that the women wanted to know about was his ranch was the amount of money he owned, and the reason for such familiar and intrusive inquiries were very clear to Clance.

It was not as if he expected to not be asked anything about his estate. He did want to find a woman who would love his ranch and his home, but most importantly, someone who would love him. Both sides needed to be balanced, and just like all the other women Clance had met, Charlotte and her mother only weighed one side of the scale down. The other sat ignored and empty of any weight, which in turn made Clance feel glum.

All of Hollow knew Clance for the prosperous property that had been left to him, but not many people knew the daily difficulties of keeping the ranch together and going. With all his staff and the ranch hands looking to him for answers and solutions, Clance felt as if he was being stretched thin to keep up with all his responsibilities.

However, the last thing Clance wanted was to be a failure. He didn’t want to fail and not live up to his father and the town’s expectations. It was indeed strange, however, how his hankering to be seen as the man he was, and not the man who was merely doing well financially, could affect his life in many ways.

Clance wanted to take his leave right then and ride off far and fast. But courtesy demanded he stay and respond to what was asked. He swallowed back his emotions and retreated more into himself, deciding that he should probably start asking more about young Charlotte to avoid any more personal inquisitions from Mrs. Belcher.

“No, Mrs. Belcher, it’s only me in the family. I was only respecting the fact that my father put his life’s effort into making it what it is now by not calling it my ranch.” Clance bit back a sigh and leaned back in his chair with heavy shoulders, attempting to hide his discontent.

“And Miss Belcher,” Clance turned his attention to Charlotte, who at once sat up straighter. “I’ve heard you have quite an interest in sewing. I would like to know more about your passion.”

Just like that, meaningless chatter continued until the end of their luncheon, leaving Clance feeling dragged out and dumpish. He wondered if this was a sort of sign from God. It was his duty to protect and keep the Fenimore name in high standing with a good reputation, and although Clance struggled to carry the weight of the world all by himself, he knew that he shouldn’t allow finding love to come in between him and his duties again. The last time he’d let that happen, it hadn’t ended well for him at all. He had to focus on the ranch for now, while still having hope of finding the lady destined to be with him, in time.

Clance remembered what his father had said to him once when he was younger. The words were etched on his mind. “Matches are made in heaven, dear boy. You and the girl promised to you will find a way to each other someday.”

***

Later that evening, Clance found himself at the deputy sheriff’s office. His look fixed on the ray of sunlight that gleamed through the crack in the window and glinted off the surface of a gun that lay on the table in front of him. He braced his elbows on the corner of the desk and rubbed his jaw. The slight stubble on his skin felt rough on his thumb and forefinger.

“How did the luncheon go? I know you’d been looking forward to it,” Clance’s friend, Jack Coffee asked. He was also a competent ranger. But it had taken no longer than two minutes with Jack for Clance to know he was as stubborn as a mule. Clance looked up to meet his gaze and then quickly looked away to the side, steering clear of his friend’s watchful eyes.

“They were a bag of nails. I don’t want to say a word about it,” Clance muttered in response and slouched back in his chair. His fingers lazily drummed on the side arm.

“Ah, you’ve finally met the right woman for you to wed. This is excellent news,” Jack uttered in a sarcastic tone and stretched his long legs in front of him. Clance rolled his eyes.

“I don’t even want to think about marriage now, especially marriage to Miss Belcher. Her mother was an absolute nightmare as well.”

“You’ve been playing the lone hand since the death of your old man, Clance. I’m sure at one point you’ll have to focus more on a woman’s good qualities than her bad.”

Jack deliberately left out the one seemingly important relationship Clance had after his father’s death. Clance didn’t mind that it wasn’t mentioned. In fact, he was glad that his friend didn’t say anything about it because, to Clance, it never happened. He was trying his best to erase all the memories related to that toxic bond.

“Acknowledge the corn; no man can bear life on his own. I’m shocked you could get even this far without a woman by your side.”

“You know well how rare right-minded women are in Hollow. I’ve met many women here, none of whom I’d like to make my wife. And as for what you said earlier, it’s true to say that the lady I met today had no good to focus on. At least, she had no good in my eyes,” he responded.

Clance squirmed in his seat under the scrutiny of his friend. He knew exactly what Jack was trying to do. It was what Jack did best; read people’s expressions to know what they were thinking about and how they were feeling. Being Jack’s closest friend for many years, Clance had gotten himself caught in this habit of Jack’s many times, and it was strange how Jack always assumed Clance’s feelings correctly.

Clance shook his head and picked up one of the files of paper on the desk, covering his face while he pretended to read. “Stop studying me,” he said with a growl.

“Perhaps you should look for women down east,” Jack suggested after a moment.

“Are you saying I should travel down east only to look for an eligible woman there?” Clance frowned and looked over at Jack’s grinning face from over the top of the file.

“That’s not what I’m saying. Post an ad for a mail-order bride in the paper down east.”

“Jack, I’m not so sure about that.” Clance sighed, knowing he wasn’t so sure if that was the right way to go through with his difficulty.

“Don’t you need a woman to help you with the ranch? Don’t you need a woman to cook you a decent meal? Don’t you need a woman like every man needs a woman?” Jack pressed.

“Yes, but…”

“You’ve met my wife, haven’t you? Isn’t she a sweetheart?”  Jack interjected.

“Yes Jack, it’s tha…”

But the deputy’s voice interrupted, growing louder with each word. “Look at you. You have a ranch full of cattle and you’ve been getting skinnier since your father’s death. And now look at me. I’m always full as a tick.”  He spread his arms wide on both sides for emphasis.

“It’s true that it worked for you, but who said it would work for me?” Clance said and threw the file down with a soft thud. The pain at the side of his temples increased, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the pounding ache he felt. He needed to get back to the ranch and finish up his work there before the sun went down, but something in him made him want to stay a while longer and hear what Jack had to say.

“It worked for Vince Pruitt,” Jack said, this time with a lower tone.

Clance said nothing. He couldn’t deny that Jack’s proposition would bring him some good. His hesitation to post an ad made no sense to him now. It had worked well for Jack as well as for Sheriff Vince, and Clance knew very well how happy they both were with their wives. He’d seen the love the couples shared for each other and had always envied their affection. What if Jack was right and this worked out for him too? What if the bride he found down east was nowhere close to being like the other women he had known?

“Vince, you know him. The stuffy sheriff,” Jack spoke when Clance sat wordlessly, lost in his thoughts and the possible outcomes an ad would bring him.

“Yes, I know him, Jack.” He let out a breath.

“If Vince could get himself a dedicated wife who could bear him, I can’t see how a respected man like you wouldn’t.”

Jack shuffled through the piles of paper on his desk, and then pulled out a newspaper. He slapped it in front of Clance, pointing to a section filled with similar ads to the one he was to write. “You pen down your ad and it will be in a fine spot that will go down east, right to your future bride’s hands.” Jack smirked.

“Mail-order bride, huh?” Clance said, feeling the nervousness and anxiety bubbling up in him. He kept telling himself that this ad might bring him luck, and he would finally find someone who would love him for who he was rather than for his deep pockets.

“Enough with the sighs. Take a pen.” Jack pushed a blank piece of paper and waited patiently until Clance finished writing his advertisement.

Clance passed the note to Jack.

“Lonely hearts. Looking for an eligible young woman, a mail-order bride for a rancher who owns land in Hollow, Texas. She must be well-mannered, educated, and raised well. She would be asked to help around the ranch if needed. A good outlook and an ardent desire to learn are preferred, and of course, a woman who doesn’t possess a fear of horses or any other ranch animals.” Jack chuckled after reading the final line. “You won’t regret this, Clance,” he said. “And let me know if you ever hear back.”

Clance couldn’t help the small smile that played on his lips. He ran his shaky hands through his hair and placed his hat back over his head. Jack had nearly entirely convinced him that this would lead him down the right road to the future he wanted to live in. But the thought of marriage and being legally bonded to someone also made him feel a little sick.

Clance knew what the nervousness of getting married felt like, and he knew what the pain of heartbreak and deceit felt like as well. Clance’s chair creaked as he leaned back. The constant weight he always felt bearing down on him was now seemingly lighter, but still ever present.

Chapter Two

“After months of absence, he appears at her door, and she can’t get herself to breathe air into her lungs, nor can she help the joyful tears that fill her eyes. When she finally inhales the evening air, the smell of him surrounds her completely. Her knees buckle and she finds herself in his arms. She feels his hands around her waist, and his smile pressing against her cheek as she’s being lifted to the horse’s bare back. The two of them, together again, riding through the meadow along with the blustery win—”

“Fern! I need you to come to the kitchen right this instance.” Her mother called from the bottom of the staircase, as she always did. She looked up from the pages of her book for a moment and replied, “I’m coming right now, Ma.”

“—riding through the meadow along with the blustery winds, to the warm shelter up east where they’d spent the night and made lo—”

“Fern Baker, don’t make me come up to your room and get you down here myself.”

Fern shut her book quickly and ran downstairs. She knew that the tone her mother had just used could not be ignored—unless she wanted to be yelled at. Lifting the hem of her coral pink dress, she ran faster through the hallway and finally entered the kitchen, where she found her mother and two younger sisters. Fern smoothed down her hair and hoped that the flush on her cheeks from what she had been reading earlier wasn’t so visible.

“Mama.” She kissed her mother’s powdery cheek before stealing a raisin from the small basket on the kitchen counter and popping it in her mouth. “What did you want me down here for?” she asked and grinned when her mother slapped her hands away from her next attempt to take more fruit.

“Help your sisters lay the table for supper, Fern, and then your father and I would like to talk to you.” Fern’s smile instantly fell as she thought of what her parents could possibly want to talk about. She hoped it wasn’t another lecture about her spending hours reading instead of helping around the house as much as she was expected to. Fern couldn’t keep herself away from the stories. She was drawn to the sweeping romances and thrilling adventures lived by the characters in the books, and she hoped she could live a great life just like that someday. But her reality held no adventure or glamour. She was simply a twenty-three-year-old girl, with absolutely no great prospects.

Fern placed the basket of freshly baked bread on the dining table and took a seat across from her mother. She squeezed her father’s hand with a soft smile and then turned her attention to her other side, where Clare, her younger sister by two years, sat. She nudged Fern’s shoulder with her own before leaning in to whisper in her ear, “You aren’t in trouble again, are you?”

Fern frowned. “Of course not,” she said in response, which Clare only giggled at.

Of all her four sisters, Fern was closest to Clare. The two girls shared the smallest age gap between them and had always been the best of friends ever since they were young. As children, their mother would dress Fern and Clare in the same coloured frocks and ribbons tied around their piggy tails. The people in town would confuse themselves when trying to figure out which girl was which. Apart from having the same looks as each other—brown hair, big, innocent brown eyes, and creamy white skin—the two sisters had nothing else in common.

Fern always tried to push Clare’s nose into a book, but Clare was more interested in baking the newest recipe for banana bread instead. Her mother used to say that Fern was the dreamer and Clare was the realist. Her mother was right, and though sometimes Fern wished she were more like Clare, she also knew that she would never change to be so different.

Fern’s two older sisters were already married to reputable men in town, and now even Clare was engaged and soon to be away from home. It saddened Fern to think that yet another one of her siblings would leave her. After a few months passed, it would be only Fern and her youngest two-year-old sister, Charlie, at home with their parents.

And that made Fern often wonder how long she would have to wait for her own love story. How long would she have to live with her parents while her sisters fell in love, one by one? When would she feel the same affection for a man? Fern’s expectations of a good husband were high, but she knew there was someone out there for her. She only had to find him.

The sound of cutlery being used and Charlie’s winsome chatter filled the dining room as the family’s meal continued. Fern pushed her uneaten food around her plate while daydreaming. She looked out the open window at the cloudless, darkening sky before she heard her mother call her name to get her attention.

“Charlie, why don’t you get ready for bed?” Her mother said with a soft smile, and Fern watched her youngest sister rush out of her chair and up the stairs to her bath.

Fern wished she could go up to her room as well and continue reading from where she left off, rather than having to sit here and listen to what her mother had to say. Fern slouched her shoulders and played with the lining of the tablecloth, when she felt her mother’s eyes fall over her.

“What’s the matter, Mama? Did I do something wrong?” Fern asked while her gaze stayed on her lap. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father shaking his head. At that, Fern let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that she got herself in trouble often, but it was her mother’s serious tone and her father’s presence for this conversation that made Fern more nervous than necessary.

“Silly girl,” her mother said. “Were you worried about that the entire meal? About you being in trouble? Is that why you barely touched your food, Fern?”

“I’m just not quite hungry anymore,” Fern shook her head, sporting a small smile.

“Very well,” Mrs. Baker continued, straight onto the point of the conversation as she usually did. “We have arranged for you to meet with a very nice man tomorrow for supper. I certainly hope you take a liking to each other.”

Fern sat up straighter at her mother’s words. “What man, Mama?” she asked.

“Mr. Ackerman. He’s a man with a high reputation and good manners, and is also very well educated,” her father answered, leaning back in his chair. “He comes from a respected family and has a large estate, and now he’s in need of a wife. I knew his father briefly before he passed; he was a good man, just like—I’m sure—his son is.”

“You aren’t getting any younger, Fern, and you need to find a good husband for yourself before you grow too old for men’s likings. Tell me you’ll give this man a chance tomorrow. Put away your childish and romantic fantasies for just a while, and you’ll surely like him,” Mrs. Baker pleaded, reaching across the table for her daughter’s hand.

She didn’t feel like correcting her mother, saying that what she wanted in a husband was not just childish and romantic fantasies. If the man was interesting, intriguing—with a trace of mystery, perhaps—and he knew the right time to hold her hand and kiss her cheeks and scoop her away on a spontaneous, romantic getaway. Fern would marry that man without hesitating.

Maybe the man she was meeting tomorrow would be exactly what she wanted. Fern laid her palm over her mother’s cold ones and nodded. “Of course, Mama, Papa. I’ll meet him for supper tomorrow,” was all Fern could say before pushing her chair back to stand.

She kissed both her parents cheeks and made her way up to her room, with Clare trailing behind her. She wasn’t opposed to the idea of meeting Mr. Ackerman tomorrow. In fact, Fern felt a little excitement in her belly when she thought of him being like one of the many heroes she read about in her books. Would he take her hands in his larger ones and kiss her knuckles softly when they first met? Would his eyes shine with tenderness and warmth and bring her to feel swarms of butterflies in her stomach?

With a heavy, musing sigh, Fern fell back onto her bed while Clare closed the door to their bedroom and sat in the corner of hers.

“Don’t you want to know any more about the mystery man you’re to meet tomorrow?” her sister asked with a slight frown creasing her forehead. Fern propped herself up on her elbows and rested her head on her open palm while she glanced at Clare, a small playful smile tilting up the corners of her lips.

“Clare, Miss Dorothy didn’t know Mr. Cleveland before they met. He was a stranger, and a mystery man to her as well, and look at how they fell in love with each other.”

“Yes, but they’re not real people, Fern. Miss Dorothy and Mr. Cleveland are fictional, unlike you and Mr. Ackerman.” Clare brought her knees up to her chest, and Fern saw the slight worry in her eyes. “If you could only get your head out from in the clouds, you would want to ask Papa more about Mr. Ackerman before meeting him.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Fern asked with a grin, thinking of all the daring experiences she would have with him, if he were.

“No, Mama and Papa wouldn’t arrange a meal with a dangerous man. But if he were, I don’t think you should be smiling,” Clare rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated breath, as if Fern’s silly ideas exhausted her.

“I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Fern reassured her sister and then looked up at the ceiling. Clare didn’t always understand her, like at this moment. Fern wasn’t going to sob and tell her mama that she didn’t want to meet the man they’d chosen for her, a man she knew absolutely nothing about. However, Clare expected her to, only because it was what she would have done if she were in this situation. But Fern liked the excitement of not knowing what kind of man she was going to dine with.

When she closed her eyes and ignored her sister’s shuffling beside her, she pictured a handsome Mr. Ackerman, with a great sense of humour. His jokes would make her giggle and her chest would feel light with happiness. And he would be an interesting man, of sorts. And what if he loved to chase after adventures just like she did? They would be perfect for each other.

As Fern, giddy with anticipation, went to bed that night, she dreamt a dream where she rode on a horse’s bare back with a young man behind her. One hand stayed around her waist as she leaned back into his chest. The winds were warm in her hair, as they travelled out west to start the beginning of their epic love story.

***

Fern stared at the man sitting across from her. The thoughts fluttering through her mind kept her from eating another bite of the pie that had been ordered for her.

“Do you not like the pie, my dear?” Mr. Ackerman asked before setting his fork down.

“No, it’s delicious.” Fern plastered on a smile, determined to continue seeming pleasant.

In all honesty, Mr. Ackerman wasn’t what she’d expected him to be. Maybe it was wrong of her to have assumed what he would be like. At the very least, it had only caused her disappointment within the very first ten minutes of conversing with him. He wasn’t intriguing, he didn’t have good humour, and he never laughed at any of the jokes Fern told him. From the sight of his round belly, Fern knew he wasn’t one for adventures either. Although she didn’t want to admit it, she should have listened to Clare and asked Papa a little about the man she was having lunch with right at this moment.

“Miss Baker, do you know what qualities a good wife possesses?” the man asked.

Fern met his gaze and wondered for a while about a proper answer. She glanced quickly at her mother sitting quietly beside her, hoping to get a clue of how she was supposed to respond, but her mother only continued eating pie whilst waiting for Fern to reply. When Fern took a deep breath and opened her mouth to respond, Mr. Ackerman cleared his throat and interrupted her before continuing to speak himself.

Fern couldn’t help but frown at his rudeness. Didn’t papa say he was well mannered? He should have also told her how boring and shallow he was, and most importantly, how much older he was.

“A good wife, Miss Baker, is also a good cook. She would have to know all the recipes for her husband’s favourite meals by heart. That would certainly make her a good wife, don’t you agree?”

Fern nodded absentmindedly. But she didn’t agree. A good wife was much more than a person who knew how to make the best biscuits and gravy. She bit her bottom lip instead of saying her thoughts aloud. And then she lowered her lashes as the stuffy man went on. She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, and a second later she felt Mrs. Baker shift in her seat, as if she wanted to tell Fern to pay attention to what Mr. Ackerman was saying.

“Being a good housekeeper comes next. She would need to see to all the domestic affairs and keep the house warm and clean.” Mr. Ackerman spoke with a mouth full of apple pie. “And in time—a very short time, I suppose,” the man let out a belly-shaking laugh, which made Fern squirm uncomfortably in her chair. “She has to be an attentive caretaker for the children that she will have to bear. These three capabilities are what it takes to be a good wife,” he said, bringing his gaze right to hers. “Do you think you have those assets, Miss Baker?”

Fern swallowed hard before taking in a shaky breath. It felt as if Mr. Ackerman was looking for an unpaid maid to bear children for him, rather than a loving wife who would care for him and be cared for by him. Ferns hands fisted around the white dinner napkin that lay on her lap, and before the panic of having to marry a man like him could claim her, Fern took a sip of water and pushed aside the negativity.

Mr. Ackerman didn’t remove his eyes from her. He was still waiting for an answer to his question. He raised his eyebrows and pushed a forkful of pie into his mouth.

“I do think I have some of those assets, Mr. Ackerman, just like most women do,” Fern said. “I do know how to cook simple meals, and though working around the house hasn’t always been easy for me, I’m quite fond of working through the house chores with my sisters. We keep each other entertained most days, and the rest of the time I occupy myself by reading.” She grinned proudly, hoping he would ask her more about the stories she’d lived through books.

Mr. Ackerman looked displeased, however, and Fern instantly regretted saying so much. It was a habit of Fern’s, to talk aloud, splashing on and on whenever she was nervous or anxious. And right now, Fern was very nervous.
“I reckon you know how to sew?” the man asked.

“Just a few stitches, enough to close an open hole in my dress and hem the edges,” Fern replied politely, ignoring her mother’s displeased, quiet sigh. Fern spoke again before her mother could interject to tell Mr. Ackerman sweet lies about her sewing skills, or about how she thought that Fern would one day become a good wife in all the ways Mr. Ackerman believed a good wife should be.

“And how do you spend your day, Mr. Ackerman?”

“Simply. I leave for work before the sun rises and come back home in time for supper,” he answered. Fern felt her heart sink much deeper into her chest. If Mr. Ackerman woke up so early, that would mean he probably went to bed early too. That wouldn’t leave him much extra time to spend with his wife. Fern almost felt sorry for the older man. Did he not do anything for fun? Ride horses, perhaps?

She knew with absolute confidence that Mr. Ackerman wasn’t going to be the hero in her story. Fern wanted more. She knew she was getting older, but she didn’t want to waste her life by doing only the bare minimum. She wanted more excitement, and more romance. She wanted to wake up every day and jump out of bed with exhilaration.

Fern thought back to the novels she’d read about the events out west. Big ranches and dashing cowboys. She could even see herself getting dirty in the mud while helping around with the ranch animals. She would wear a caddy and sit over the pile of hay, watching the sun go down while reading more books and living such a story herself.

That was the kind of life she desired to live, not the one she would have if she married a man like Mr. Ackerman. The hope that Fern had felt all throughout the night before and even that morning turned into something foul beneath her ribs. Thankfully, the meal ended quickly. Fern carefully kept answering the older man’s questions, and in turn, always noticed the disapproval in his eyes. Eventually, the conversation came to a stop and there were only crumbs of apple pie remaining on every plate on the table, except for Fern’s.

Mr. Ackerman shook Fern’s hand and tipped his hat to bid goodbye to her and her mother before leaving the saloon where the three of them had dined. Once he rounded the street corner and disappeared from Fern’s sight, she let out an exhausted breath and slumped back down into her chair with her head hung low.

“Well?” Fern looked at her mother from the corner of her eyes.

Mrs. Baker looked equally tired, but more worried just by listening to the conversation Fern and Mr. Ackerman had shared. She rubbed the tip of her index finger along the lines of her forehead and then sat down. “He wasn’t so impressed with you, that’s for sure.”

“Mama, I wasn’t with him either. He’s old and boring and expects me to be his maid more than his wife.”

“You need to understand that’s what most men want, dear. A good cook, a good housekeeper, someone who would be able to take care of her husband and not spend all her time inside her head dreaming,” her mother mumbled. “You promised you would try to give this man a chance, Fern.”

“And I did, Mother. But he was awful, and I certainly would rather stay at home my entire life than live with Mr. Ackerman,” Fern cried softly. She hated the worry she saw in her mothers’ eyes, and she wished she could do something to be less of a burden than she was already. Mrs. Baker looked up at the heavens and then cut her gaze back to Fern.

“I suppose we could find you a better man,” Fern’s mother spoke. “Preferably, one in better fitness as well.”

Fern laughed with relief and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders, hugging her tight to convey how much she appreciated her understanding. “Thank you, Mama,” she said softly.

All the way home, Fern’s mind spiralled with thoughts of what she was to do next. She didn’t want to sit and do nothing until another suitor wished to meet her. When she pictured dining with a man worse than Mr. Ackerman, Fern shivered with aversion. She knew there was a solution to her problem, and she had only to stay patient while looking for it for the next couple of days.

It was fortunate that Fern had always been the optimistic sister in the family. The one whose hope for a happy ending never lessened no matter what she went through or what was said to her. And that optimism was exactly what would see her through to achieving her dreams and living the life she desperately wanted to live, rather than settling for someone just because she had to.

When Fern and Mrs. Baker arrived home, the front door opened, and Clare rushed out. “What happened?” she asked in a frenzy. Their mother simply shook her head and walked past the girls into the house, mumbling incoherent words as she went.

“He was an absolute bore, Clare,” Fern replied, linking her arm with her sister before making her way inside. “He was old and stuffy and had this terrible idea of how a good wife should act and what she should do.”

“You didn’t like him,” Clare muttered, more as a fact than a question, and Fern nodded in agreement. “I’m sure you’ll find someone you like someday, Fern, but now even I’m worried about you.”

“What do you mean?” Fern stopped to turn and look at her younger sister.

“You’re looking for a great story to live in, one with thrilling adventures and heart-stopping romance. But sometimes you forget that you don’t live in the pages of a fictional book. Not all men will be perfect like the ones you read about. Everyone has flaws, and though I know from your face that Mr. Ackerman has flaws you can’t overlook, if you meet another man with imperfections, will you be willing to look past them?” Clare asked while looking at Fern.

After a moment of thought, Fern nodded. “Of course, I would, Clare. I’m not that selfish. If I feel a connection towards him, despite his bad qualities, I’ll want to be with him no matter what.”

Clare looked away and dropped her shoulders. With a much softer tone she said, “I believe you. It’s just that I don’t want you to waste your life running after what you want, but never catching it. We both know it’s a possibility.”

Fern didn’t get mad at Clare even though she knew she should. Her words hurt, but as always, Clare only spoke the painful truth to protect Fern. And she was right. This was all she had in her life right now, her drive to live passionately. But for Fern, it was enough. Fern believed, unlike Clare, that she could catch what she chased.

Once inside, Clare left her to continue baking. Fern could hear her mother’s muffled voice as she spoke to her father in the study. She decided it would be best if she didn’t join them. So, Fern picked up the newspapers lying on the living room table and walked up to her room.

As she had walked back home with her mother, an unclear notion had come to her, and she thought further on it now. Mail-order brides. Fern closed the bedroom door behind her and flipped the pages of the paper to the advertisement section.

She’d heard about mail-order bride ads from many girls in town, and now was curious to see a posting herself. She read through each ad until her eyes fell over one ad that got her heart racing. Fern leaned in, intrigued, and her pulse fluttered as she read on. It was an ad from a rancher living out west, who also owned his own land. Fern imagined the wild yet romantic land that his house must be on, and giggled excitedly to herself, forgetting all about Mr. Ackerman.

This was the right thing, right? Would answering an ad be the one thing that Fern needed? Would she find her dream man this way? Fern didn’t allow herself to think about her rash decision any more than she already had. She quickly wrote a reply to the ad and ran out of her room to send it. She was uncertain, but the urge to take a risk won over her doubts about her choice.

“Mama! I’ll be back shortly, I promise,” Fern shouted before leaving in a hurry. The grandest adventure of her life awaited her, and Fern only hoped that the mystery rancher’s response would finally mean she could stop running.

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PROLOGUE

The four men lay in wait, watching as wagons slowly entered the long, winding road that led to Braughtenboro. “No, no,” Lonnie’s father whispered. “Not that one. It’s too small. We need one with some real good pickins’.”

Finally, as the dawn broke five days after they had arrived in Montana, his father turned to them each in turn, nodding slowly. “Today. Today is the day, boys.”

And it turned out, it was. A few hours after sunrise, a covered wagon began to rumble down the path, being driven by an anxious-looking boy Lonnie’s age, twelve years old or perhaps a bit older. Two women, both dressed in various fineries, sat behind him, and the wagon itself was large and unwieldy, looking like it may tip over at any moment.

“Wait for it,” his father whispered, tracking the carriage with his razor-sharp eyes. “Wait for it … almost there.”

“Not so fast, George,” a voice came from behind them.

Stunned, all four of them turned around. Standing behind them was a sheriff, young, but still looking foreboding in his stance and the way he held his revolver level with George Underwood’s head.

“That’s enough of that,” the sheriff said, prowling towards them like a cat. Behind him, Lonnie could see two other officers crouched behind brush, their guns also level with the men. “This ends here, George Underwood. I’ve been following you since Nevada. I’m not letting you steal from honest, hard-working men.”

“Is that right,” George sneered, slowly drawing his own weapon from where it was anchored securely at his waist. “We’ll see about that.”

Both men drew their weapons at the same time, but the sheriff was just a hair faster.  Lonnie never was able to tell who had fired first. All he knew, both then and now, was that the shot hit his father squarely in the chest, the blood blooming through his coat like a bright red poppy. George slumped over, dropping his revolver to the ground with a surprisingly gentle thud.

The sheriff cursed loudly, having been shot in the shoulder by George before the man had fallen. He fell to the ground, gripping his arm, shouting at his two men to keep shooting. They obeyed, firing shots at Wolf, Dirt, and Lonnie himself.

Lonnie heard the blast in his ear, felt the pain sear through his body as he, too, fell to the ground, dust billowing up around him.

This is it, he thought, staring up at the sky for what he thought would be the last time. This is how I am going to die.

Instead, he blinked back into consciousness sometime later, unsure of how much time had passed. The sun was starting to fade towards the West, but Lonnie still didn’t know if it had been hours or days that had passed. Wincing, he reached up to touch his ear, finding it still intact except for a tiny nick, caked in dried blood.

The bullet, he realized, must have just grazed him, but the sheriff and his men had thought him dead so had left him. A pool of blood splattered the ground where Lonnie had been laying, so it was understandable why the other men had thought that.

Slowly, Lonnie rose to his knees, blearily taking in his surroundings. On his right, the body of Wolf lay face-up, blood pooled in the dirt under his ribcage. Wolf’s eyes were still wide open, glazed and staring blankly at the sky. Dirt was gone, as was the sheriff and his two men. Lonnie wasn’t sure if they had escaped, or had simply crawled off somewhere else to die in peace.

To his left lay his father, George Underwood, still slumped in the same position he had been when he’d first been shot. George’s back leaned up against a hearty bush of sage, stained red with his own blood. Inching closer, Lonnie studied his father. George’s eyes were closed, and he looked strangely peaceful, unlike Wolf’s wide-eyed look of fear. He could have been sleeping, if not for all of the dried blood painting his overcoat, and the cold way his skin felt when Lonnie reached out and touched his father’s dead hand.

“Dad?” Lonnie whispered, using a phrase he hadn’t said in years. It was clear his father was dead, but something in Lonnie’s brain just couldn’t wrap around the fact that he was really, truly gone.

Inexplicably, Lonnie began to cry. Tears rushed hot and salty down his face, leaving wet, slick trails behind. His emotions surprised him; his father had never been a sentimental man, and he had taught Lonnie to be the same. But right then, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with his dead father by his side, Lonnie had never felt more alone.

“Son?” a voice came, like an angel. But it wasn’t his father’s voice. Turning slowly, wondering if the sheriff had returned, he came face-to-face with another man.

The man looked like a rancher, sitting regally atop a chestnut-brown horse, his face lined with wisdom, and his eyes large and kind. He gazed down at Lonnie not with contempt, which was what he was used to, but with sympathy.

“Yes?” Lonnie whispered, so quietly the man couldn’t hear him.

“Son?” he repeated, holding out a hand to Lonnie. It was enormous, tanned from age and hard work, and to Lonnie, nothing had ever looked more comforting. “Do you need help?”

Wordlessly, Lonnie reached out and grabbed it, desperate for a lifeline.

CHAPTER ONE

Celia Lawton stared down at the pot on the stove until her eyes blurred. The silence in the house pressed onto her, threatening suffocation. Her father was not home yet. However, this was normal in the Lawton household.

She sighed, hating that dinner was about to be beans yet again. Celia was a people-pleaser, even if the person to please was just her father. The thought of disappointing him, especially after all they had been through, made Celia feel hot with shame and queasy with sadness. She began scouring the kitchen, praying there would be something there that she had missed the first time around.

They were completely out of meat and bread, and only had a few sad, shriveled onions and potatoes left in the root cellar beneath the hearth. Celia knew her father did not have any money to buy more meat. In fact, he didn’t have any money to buy food at all. The onions and potatoes had come from their own meager harvest this past year, and the beans were a gift from her father’s sympathetic boss, who ran Tyson’s Goods and Supplies. He claimed he had ordered too many bags of beans from the store, but Celia knew better. He was just saying that to avoid damaging her father’s pride further.

How had it come to this? While they had never been rich, Celia remembered when she was a girl, and her mother would have plenty of food to cook hearty meals each night; her vegetable garden lush and stretching towards the sky in a silent prayer. Now, the vegetable patch grew nothing but the occasional ground produce, and the breathtaking flower bed her mother had kept had been reduced to a pile of shriveled, dried-up weeds. Every year since her mother died, Celia had promised herself she would go out and start fixing up the prized flower garden, which was what she knew her mother would have wanted. But without fail, every spring she would get just as far as the door, look out on the once-beautiful patch of land, and turn back.

Would her mother be proud of the woman she had become? It was a question Celia asked herself frequently, especially when she was home alone and could sometimes still swear she heard her mother’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards. The answer, however, always seemed to escape her.

The door creaked on its hinges, a sign that Celia’s father had finally gotten home. Her father’s arrival meant that Celia could stop thinking about her mother and focus on someone else, for which she was grateful.

“Hi, Papa,” she said, turning from her spot at the stove to study him.

He had always been a handsome man, that much, Celia was sure of. But every year since his wife’s death, he had grown more and more stooped, his once winning smile fading away into a hard, thin line.

Easing his hat off his head, Celia’s father nodded to her and then started to furiously rub his tired eyes.

Celia felt a pang of sympathy for the husk of a man in front of her, mingling with an ever-present coil of hot, painful guilt. She knew everything he did was for her. – toiling away in the fields early in the day, then heading down to Tyson’s, where he stayed until after sunset. Anything to give her a better life.

Celia knew her father had no interest in working at a general store, no interest in piling bags of chicken feed and grain on top of each other all afternoon, or ringing up customers buying flour, milk, and the occasional sweet. No, her father’s passion had always been in farming, in loving the land and seeing what it would give you in return. She remembered the way her parents had always worked in harmony, her mother singing songs from church as she cheerfully weeded her garden, her father whistling in return as he led their old mule, Monk, through the fields with his plow, leaving churned up reddish-brown earth in his wake. It was a beautiful sight, and always what Celia imagined her life with her future husband would look like.

“Hey, Sunflower,” her father said, stamping a kiss on Celia’s forehead. Most eighteen-year-olds would shy away at their father’s use of a childhood nickname, but Celia still craved that little piece of normalcy. It reminded her of the man her father used to be, back when their family was complete. “Sorry, I’m a little late.”

“That’s okay, Papa,” Celia replied, turning back to the stove. “Sorry, dinner is beans again. I was going to fry up some potatoes and onions to go with them if I can scrounge up a bit of lard.”

“That sounds wonderful, Celia,” her father said earnestly. ‘Thank you.”

His gaze slid to their tiny back window, which overlooked the farm. In the years since her mother’s death, the land had grown more and more barren. First, it was the corn, then the carrots, and then the peas. Now, onions and potatoes were about all her father could manage to keep alive until harvest. Celia knew the townspeople whispered about her father’s bad luck, his lost motivation, but Celia knew the real reason he could no longer keep anything alive. The ground could sense the heartbreak within him; it couldn’t provide for him if he didn’t love the land anymore.

They both stood in silence for a moment, Celia mentally preparing herself for what she would do if she couldn’t coax enough lard from the near-empty tin. They certainly didn’t have any butter. Would a little water work to steam the vegetables? As she turned to see what the contents of the lard tin held, she heard a harsh knock at the front door. This brought both Celia and her father to attention. They looked at each other, confused.

“Are you expecting visitors, Papa?” Celia asked, knowing the answer as soon as the words left her mouth. Her father hadn’t had a visitor since Mama had died.

“No,” he said softly, making a few quick strides towards the door. When he opened it, it revealed the face of Tom Woolcock, their landlord. Her father blinked, looking confused. “Oh. Hello, Tom.”

“Hello, Angus,” Tom said with a smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of his face. Celia’s heart sank. Tom Woolcock was one of the most cheerful men in town, always flashing genuine grins to everyone that passed by the saloon he owned and operated. She had never seen him look this solemn.

“What can I help you with, Tom?” Celia’s father gestured for Tom to take a seat on the dusty settee. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

Celia blanched, hoping Tom wouldn’t take up the offer, since she had nothing but a pitcher of water and rapidly cooling beans to serve him.

Tom pulled his hat off and held it to his chest but remained standing. “Angus, I’m sorry to have to do this. You know it’s not what I want to do. But, the fact of the matter is, I’ve got bills to pay too.”

Celia glanced rapidly from Tom to her father. He remained stone-faced. What in the world was going on?

“What do you mean, Tom?” her father said in a voice that made Celia believe he knew exactly what Tom meant.

“You haven’t paid rent in four months, Angus,” Tom said, looking down. “I’m sorry, but if you can’t pay something this month, I’m going to have to find a new tenant.”

Celia spun to face her father directly, panic etching itself into her features. “Papa? What is he talking about?” Celia knew they were struggling to pay the bills, but four months behind on rent? She’d had no idea it was that bad.

Her father ignored her, instead keeping his gaze on Tom. “I understand, Tom. I’m doing my best; I promise you that.”

“I know, Angus,” Tom said solemnly. “And I’ve tried to be as understanding as possible. Especially with Anna gone, I know it ain’t been easy for y’all around here.”

“No, it ain’t been.” Her father’s voice was even, but Celia could hear the pain underneath. Her own pain was building under her breastbone, a desperate desire to somehow help her father out of this situation.

“I know,” Tom repeated, starting to look visibly uncomfortable. “And like I said, I’ve tried to be understanding. But … the fact of the matter is, Angus if you can’t pay your rent this month, y’all are gonna have to find somewhere new to live.”

“Okay.” Her father said this flatly, then turned his back to Tom and looked back out the lonely, dirty window. Without this farmland, Celia knew he would be even more devastated. He lived for two things: his daughter and his land.

“Well,” Tom said, shifting his gaze quickly to Celia and then to the floor. “That’s all I came by to say. I … I hope y’all have a nice night. Angus, swing by the saloon when you have that money ready. Otherwise …” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Goodnight, Tom,” Celia said stiffly, taking two quick strides to the front door and yanking it open, a gesture that would let Tom know, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to leave.

“Goodnight, Celia. Angus.” Tom walked out the front door, sliding his hat back in place. He shot one last, sympathetic glance at Celia, and then to her father. “I’m … I’m sorry, y’all.”

Celia bit her tongue to avoid saying something uncharitable in return. Her father ignored him entirely. Tom then ambled back to his horse, which was tied to the post at the bottom of the hill the house stood on.

Both Celia and her father sat in silence for a moment, neither of them even bothering to close the door. Suddenly, her father spun on his heel and slammed the door shut with such force that their tiny house rocked back and forth. He then let out a string of curses that Celia had never heard him use. If Mama had still been there, she would have let him have it for using such foul language.

“Papa – ”  Celia started to say, but he held up his hand and cut her off.

“Celia, darlin’, this ain’t your fault.” Her father rubbed his already bloodshot eyes over and over again, then stared at the ceiling. “I’m gonna figure it out.”

“But Papa, I really think you ought to – ”

“I said I’m figuring it out!” he thundered. Celia stepped away from him, shock and hurt pressing down on her chest. He had never raised his voice to her that way; he had barely ever scolded her as a child.

She remembered her mother’s careful chiding. “I swear, Angus, it’s like that child can do no wrong as far as you’re concerned”.

Tears collected rapidly in the corners of her eyes. Why aren’t you here when we need you the most, Mama?

“I’m sorry,” Celia’s father said after a moment, taking a step towards her and cupping her smooth cheek with his rough, farm-worked hand. She tried to blink the tears away.  “I’m going to take care of it, Sunflower, I promise.”

“How?” Celia whispered.

Her father took a deep breath. “I have an idea,” he said slowly, pulling his hand from her cheek to rake it through his auburn hair, the same color as the dirt he loved so much. “I have an idea.” He repeated the words, but more confidently this time.

“What?”

“Don’t you worry,” he said, giving her another quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m gonna go take care of it right now, and by tomorrow morning, everything will be right as rain.”

“But – ”

“Don’t wait up for me,” her father said, jamming his hat back over his flyaway hair and heading for the door. “I’ll be back home late.”

“Papa, wait – ”

But he was already out the door, walking at a fast clip towards the barn where his mule, Chuck, was penned. There was nothing Celia could do but watch him go.

*****

Two hours passed, and still, Celia’s father had not returned. She tried to go to bed, but to no avail. Her entire body reverberated like one huge knot of anxiety. There was no chance she was getting any sleep in this condition, but it took Celia several hours before she came to this conclusion, tossing and turning stubbornly for as long as she could.

Finally, she got back out of bed, went downstairs, and rummaged through the kitchen drawers. She pulled a stubby, well-used candle from one, along with a box of matches. Fumbling with them for a moment, she hurried outside to the stable.

Inside the big double doors, she took the lantern that hung from a hook. She lit the candle and placed it inside to guide her way.

Chuck’s stall was the only one in the stable that was still in use. Monk had died years ago. Celia still remembered the way her father’s voice had caught when he told her and Anna that the old mule had finally dropped dead in the field; right after the day’s harvesting was done. Their two other horses had been sold after Anna died, so they could pay their rent for the months Angus had been too grief-stricken to leave his bed.

Celia’s mind spun in circles as she made her way to the back of the stable. How had things gotten so bad? What had she missed? What had she been too blind to notice?

When she got to the last stall, which had once been Monk’s, Celia dropped to her knees and moved the straw aside until she could see the loose floorboard, which she popped up. Holding her breath, she waited a moment before shining the light of the lamp into its dark and shadowy depths.

She looked into the trunk that held the family jewelry. All of her mother’s pieces were still there. It took everything in her power not to reach in and caress the well-loved jewels, the slightly tarnished silver. Her grandmother’s jewelry lay beside it, also untouched. Her father’s beloved knives, the ones that he used to cut meat and fish, still remained as well, shiny in the lantern light. In fact, only one thing was missing, and when Celia saw what it was, her heart sank.

Her father’s shotgun.

CHAPTER TWO  

         The next morning, Celia was back at her post at the stove, making grits. She had tossed and turned most of the night, wondering when she was going to hear the clip-clop of Chuck’s hooves coming down the road. Finally, she dozed off a little bit before sunrise. When she woke, she’d crept down the hall to her father’s room, hoping to see him asleep. But his bed was empty; still made from the morning before.

Celia made enough grits for both herself and her father, in the vain hope that he would walk through the door at any moment, whistling and letting her know things were, fine, just fine, and that he had simply gone to talk to Tom and convince him that they needed just a little bit more time to pay the rent.

As she was cleaning up after breakfast, Celia finally heard the sound of boots crunching on the gravel. Her heart soared as she listened for the sound of the key sliding in the lock. She turned towards the door, mustering up a smile, and waited for her father to walk in.

But it wasn’t her father.

It was her aunt Rose, her father’s youngest sister. Rose dropped the house key she’d used to let herself in into her apron pocket.

Celia’s father and her aunt shared the same reddish-brown hair, a few shades lighter than Celia’s own, but the similarities ended there. Rose was effervescent, fun, and lively. Even at age thirty-three, after having three children, men turned to stare at her on the street. Her cheeks were rosy like her name, her blue eyes bright. However, the sparkle Celia usually saw there was gone.

“Aunt Rose?” Celia walked towards her aunt, who was so fine-boned and small, Celia always felt as if she was talking to a child when she stood near her. “What are you doing here? Where’s Papa?”

Aunt Rose walked slowly towards Celia, her arms already reaching towards Celia like she was fumbling around in the dark. What in the world was going on?

“Aunt Rose?” Celia repeated, panic starting to creep into her stomach, squeezing at her heart.

Rose sighed. “Oh, Celia. Sweetheart.” Tears then sprang to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

*****

Robbery. Armed robbery.

That was what Rose told Celia. At least her father wasn’t dead, she tried to tell herself. It could be worse.

Right now, however, nothing seemed like it could be worse than the sad truth.

“He thought it would help,” Rose said softly, her eyes on the floor. “I guess he thought it would solve all of y’alls money problems. And that he wouldn’t get caught.” She blinked away tears, her voice breaking. “He thought … well, Celia, I can honestly say I don’t what he thought. I can’t imagine what was going through his mind.”

Celia swayed like a piece of tall grass in the breeze, feeling strangely empty as her world crumbled from beneath her feet. Her father had robbed a bank. Her sweet, gentle father, the same one who had cried when they buried their old hound dog, Jake, by the tiny stream that ran along the back of their house. The same one who had sung Celia songs and made up stories for her every night when she couldn’t fall asleep. How had that man robbed a bank?

“Where is he?” Celia finally asked, once Rose had fallen silent.

“Jail, sweetie. He’s in jail.”

“Jail?”

Even though it only made sense that he would be in jail, it still made Celia’s head spin to hear those words out loud. Her heartbeat in a rapid tempo as she imagined her soft-spoken father behind bars. Jail was for criminals, bad men who hurt people. Not her kind, wonderful father. It just couldn’t be.

“For how long?”

“Not sure yet. But … considering, I’d say a long time.” Rose stopped for a moment, swallowing. She buried her head in her hands after a moment, and Celia watched as her aunt’s narrow shoulders rocked back and forth. “Oh, Angus,” she said, lifting her tear-streaked face back to her niece.

A knock on the door startled Celia but also brought her a sense of relief. Finally, there might be something else to occupy her mind from this sudden nightmare. But who could it possibly be now? She hurried to the door and yanked it open, finding herself face-to-face once again with Tom Woolcock.

“Oh. Tom,” she said coldly, feeling like last night’s conversation was a million years ago. “It’s not really a good time.”

“I’m sorry, Celia. But it’s going to have to be.” Tom walked in without asking. He stopped short when he saw Rose sitting on the settee, eyeing him. “Oh. Rose.” His voice changed. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Like most of the men in town, Tom was completely enamored by Rose. Rumor was that he had even asked for her hand in marriage when they’d been around Celia’s age, but Rose had declined and then married her husband Waylon two years later. But, despite the fact that Rose was a married woman, Tom had never stopped staring at her, going out of his way at every opportunity to speak to her or put his hand on her arm.

“Tom.” Rose’s voice was flat.

“Ladies, I’m very sorry.” He hesitated for a moment. “I heard about Angus.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Celia said politely, turning away from him in the same way her father had last night. “What can I help you with now?”

“Well, I heard about Angus first thing this morning. Of course, I’m sure it’s just a big misunderstanding, and it’ll get cleared up quickly, but …” He sighed, letting his eyes wander around the modest home before landing on Celia again. “I … I have someone who is to start letting this house next week. Fact of the matter is, I’m losing money on this property, and there’s no way y’all are going to be able to pay the rent with Angus’ … situation. I’m sorry Celia, honey, but I’m going to need you to leave by Friday.”

“Leave?” Celia squeaked out, her head spinning.

Leave her home? The only home she had ever known? The only home where her mother had ever hugged her, had tucked her into bed?

No. No.

Celia felt bile rising in her throat, nausea swimming like a fish in her stomach. She tried to say, something, anything, to prevent this, but her mouth simply wouldn’t form the words. It was like her brain already knew there was no hope.

Silent, Celia sunk onto the settee, feeling a tiny piece of comfort in the solidness beneath her.

“That ain’t right, Tom.” Rose had risen to her feet and was staring Tom down, an impressive feat considering that Tom was almost a foot taller than her. “That ain’t right, and you know it. She’s a child.”

Tom looked uncomfortable. “Look. Celia is eighteen years old. That makes her a tenant just like her father. Hell, she’s old enough to be married herself. She could have been married two years ago.”

Celia’s cheeks burned. Feeling a strange, fleeting sense of embarrassment, she turned away, choosing to focus on the dry, brittle stalks shooting out of her mother’s dead garden instead.

“So, she’s on her own?” Rose shot back, hands on her hips. “That ain’t very Christian of you, Tom. I thought you were better than that.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered, chagrined by Rose’s scolding. “I really am. Trust me, this ain’t easy for me either.”

Rose rolled her eyes and then turned to Celia. “Celia, honey, it’ll be okay. You can come stay with me. For as long as you want. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Celia nodded, a rush of tears finally flooding her eyes. She hadn’t cried since her aunt had broken the news. Suddenly, the gravity of her situation set in. She had lost her father and her home on the same day. What did she have left? Surely life couldn’t be so cruel to her. She felt her desperation becoming stronger with every breath she took.

“Well, there ya go.” Tom shifted from one foot to another, clearly growing even more uncomfortable.

“You should leave, Tom,” Rose said frostily, nodding towards the door. “We don’t need anything from you. I’ll see to it that Celia is out by tomorrow night.”

Tom nodded, looking almost relieved at the prospect of being kicked out. “Like I said, I’m – ”

“Good night, Tom.” Rose’s voice was firm. She turned towards Celia, blocking Tom’s view as the tears began to stream down Celia’s cheeks in earnest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Rose’s thin arms offered little comfort to Celia. “Everything will be all right.”

*****

Celia was miserable. She had been staying with her aunt Rose and uncle Waylon for a week now, and she felt like she was going crazy. Her three little cousins, Henry, Waylon Jr., and Elizabeth, were constantly underfoot, both confused and awed by the sudden presence of their older cousin in their home.

Everyone in town knew about her father’s crime. Within days, Celia and her family had become pariahs. She was too ashamed to even step foot into Tyson’s. She had put in applications to every shop in town, but because of her father, no place would hire her. No mother wanted her children raised by a girl whose father was a criminal, so being a nursey maid or a tutor was out of the question too. She had no money, barely any possessions, and no place in the town any longer.

Celia was desperate. This desperation was in the forefront of her mind as she climbed the steps to the attic one morning about a week after her father had been arrested. A newspaper was tucked under her arm. She could care less about the news; this was simply a last-ditch effort to get a moment of peace away from her cousins.

She flipped through the pages idly, skimming the words but hardly absorbing any of the information. Frustrated, she snapped the newspaper shut and tossed it away from her, letting it float softly to the attic floor. She had hoped reading the thing would help keep her mind off her father, but it was no use. All she could imagine was his face the last time she had seen him, the worry and fear in his eyes. He loved the newspaper. Was he allowed to read it in jail?

Tears blurred her eyes, one fat drop snaking down her cheek and splashing onto the abandoned newspaper. She stared at it, trancelike. What was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go? She couldn’t stay with her aunt and uncle forever.

The questions spun in her mind like a tornado, bumping up against one another but not offering any solutions. Sighing, she picked the newspaper back up, beginning an attempt to take her mind off her plight, when something caught her eye.

It was the ad that her tear had landed on, the ink a little smeared from the drop.

Good-looking German rancher, age 29, seeking the companionship of a young girl or widow; object matrimony, it read. Cooking and cleaning required. Find your new home and purpose on a lovely Nebraskan ranch.

Celia blinked a couple of times. A mail-order bride. Could her solution really be that simple? Could she really write to a lonely man and get a husband in return?

Celia had always dreamed she would marry for love, but it didn’t look like anything in her life was going as she hoped anymore. Without her father there for her to take care of, there was really no reason why she shouldn’t get betrothed. After all, she was eighteen years old; most of her childhood friends were already married.

Trying to ignore the tiny sense of defeat coiling in her stomach, Celia tramped ungracefully back down the stairs. She ignored her cousins as they immediately swarmed her, asking in unison where she had been and what she was doing.

She walked to the far side of the house, where her uncle Waylon’s office was. Waylon was barely ever there; he only kept an office so he could have a place to order supplies for the farm and pay taxes. Slipping in, she pilfered a scrap of paper and one of his quills.

Sitting down at his desk, she began to write. When she was done, she stuffed the letter into an envelope, making sure to copy the address on the ad carefully. Tears still seemed to sit right behind her eyelids, but she ignored them and concentrated on the task at hand.

It’s better than nothing, Celia repeated to herself as she made her way out to the post. It’s better than staying here.

She slid the letter in and closed the box firmly, imagining a lock turning and clicking into place, preventing her from re-opening it.

Then, she turned and ran all the way back to the house, breathing heavily by the time she got to the steps. Tears streamed down her face in earnest, sobs that she had held in for days bubbling up like boiling water and spilling out of her mouth.

This isn’t what you want, a tiny voice in the back of her head said.

No. It wasn’t what she wanted. But right now, it was what she needed.

*****

Within days, Celia was answering every mail-order bride advertisement she could find. Reluctantly, she even made her way back into town, ignoring the blatant stares of the townspeople, to buy the classifieds from the stand outside Tyson’s.

So far, she’d answered nine mail-order bride ads, all as truthfully as she could. None had responded to her.

Celia was honest to a fault; it was a trait her father always said she had inherited from her mother. She simply could not bring herself to lie. And now, her honesty was coming back to bite her. No one would want her with her background. She had nothing to offer.

She sat on her aunt and uncle’s back porch for several weeks after her life had fallen apart, biding time before she went to the post to see if anyone had replied to her yet. Every day she had peeked into the mailbox with high hopes, but every day, there’d been no response.

Some days earlier, Celia had answered an ad from a rancher named Henry Irvin, who lived in Montana. Celia knew nothing about Montana, nor was she even sure if she wanted to live there, but Henry was well to do and, in all honesty, she was running out of options. She could no longer afford to be picky.

Finally, Celia dragged herself off the porch, almost stepping on Waylon Jr., who was trying to catch bugs in a jar at her feet.

“Watch out!” he shouted, scooping a fat black beetle into the jar and screwing the lid shut. Celia ignored him entirely, heading to the post on the corner, like a ship towards a lighthouse.

Holding her breath, she opened the mailbox, expecting it to be empty. Instead, however, one slim envelope lay inside. With trembling fingers, Celia reached inside and pulled out the letter, opening it in what felt like slow motion.

Celia, the letter started. I am so pleased that you answered my advertisement. You seem like a lovely young woman. I would be delighted if you would come to Montana to be my bride and live with me on my ranch. Please respond swiftly and let me know when you are coming. My ranch is in Fuller, Montana, and the exact address is…

Celia looked up towards the sky, wishing for the millionth time in her life that her mother was there to guide her. Instead, she whispered a silent prayer and looked back down at the letter.

Montana.

She was moving to Montana. She was getting married.

Celia tried to feel happy. She really did. But the only thing she could muster up was a sense of relief. Relief that she would be able to leave the town that had turned its back on her. Relief that she could leave Rose and Waylon’s crowded, busy home. Mainly, though, Celia felt relief that someone was finally willing to take her.

For now, that would have to be good enough.

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Chapter 1

Myrtle Foster’s father had a saying for every hour of the day, and one popped into her mind as she watched Vernon Clapp, the only lawyer in the Wyoming town of Lakemont, prepare to read his will. Don’t trust a lawyer any further’n you can throw him, sweetheart. She wished he were here beside her, so badly that it ached in her chest.

Then again, if he were still here, you wouldn’t have to be in a lawyer’s office in the first place.

Clapp sat and folded his hands. “I want to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss, Miss Foster. It was a snake bite that took your father?”

“Yes – a prairie rattler, out in our backfield.” Unpleasant images of that morning bloomed in her mind, and she angrily brushed them aside. No time.

“And I know that your mother has also passed on…”

“Giving birth to me, Mr. Clapp, a long time ago now. So if you don’t mind, let’s get on with it.”

Clapp’s eyes widened in surprise; he obviously wasn’t used to such direct talk, particularly from a lady. Myrtle remembered another one of her father’s sayings with satisfaction. Use words like bullets – shoot ’em straight and true, and don’t waste ’em.

“Indeed we will,” Clapp continued. “Harmon, please bring in the last will and testament of John Foster.”

Clapp’s assistant, a skinny, bespectacled young man, hurried in and placed a leatherbound file on Clapp’s desk. The lawyer broke the seal and unfolded the document within, then scribbled in his notebook. “The county office insists that I make descriptive notes of all attendees of will readings, to safeguard against any attempted impersonations and claims against their contents. Let’s see – Myrtle Foster, black hair, hazel eyes, five feet nine inches or so…”

A silky, confident voice spoke up from behind Myrtle. “I’d put her at five-ten, Vernon.”

She spun in her chair, but she’d already recognized the voice. It was Ted Natterman, the rancher who owned the adjoining land to the Foster ranch – the man who’d been after her father for years to sell his family homestead.

What the blazes is he doing here?

He answered her unspoken question immediately. “I just thought I’d drop in to hear your father’s will reading and pay my respects, Miss Foster.” He glanced at Clapp. “No law against that, is there, Vernon?”

“No, Ted – will readings are a matter of public record.”

“Splendid.” Natterman smiled widely, flashing a set of gleaming white teeth. Myrtle’s father’s voice was in her head again. A man with a head full of perfect teeth is like a crocodile – liable to snap one day. She’d never seen a crocodile, but she could imagine…

The rancher took a seat next to Myrtle, and Clapp began to read the will. “Last will and testament of John Robert Foster, being of sound mind and body, witnessed by Vernon Clapp and recorded for posterity on the day of our Lord, March 8th, 1879…”

So, her father had made out his will three years ago, then. Clapp’s assistant gave a small squeak from the corner of the room, and Natterman shot him a glare, leaving Myrtle puzzled. What was that about?

The lawyer continued. “I hereby bequeath all worldly possessions to my only daughter, Myrtle Jenkins Foster, including the personal effects of her late mother, Ada.” Clapp scanned through the sheets of paper in his hands. “Your father catalogued these items in some detail, Miss Foster. I can read them out if you’d like…”

“No, that’s fine.” The last thing she wanted was to have that snake Natterman hearing a rundown of her family’s heirlooms and personal belongings.

“Right then. The final point is the matter of your father’s ranch itself.” Clapp flipped to the final page of the will. “My farmhouse, land, and all other ranch property are bequeathed to Myrtle Jenkins Foster and her husband to maintain, sell, or otherwise do as they see fit. Signed this day with God as my witness – John Robert Foster.” He set the paper down, and for a moment the office was filled with a tense silence. Myrtle felt the questioning eyes of the three men on her, but she was frozen in silent shock.

Husband? The ranch goes to me and… my husband? Oh, Papa, why did you have to say something like that?

It was Natterman who finally broke the silence. “Why, Miss Foster, I didn’t even know you were married!”

“I’m not.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them behind her lips, and Natterman’s mouth curled into a predatory smile. “Very sorry, my dear. An honest mistake, given the language of your father’s will. In fact, the language is quite clear, wouldn’t you say, Vernon? The ranch is bequeathed to Miss Foster ‘and her husband’, rather than the young lady alone?”

Clapp looked slightly uncomfortable but nodded. “I suppose it is.”

“And knowing as we do that Miss Foster is at present unmarried, it stands to reason that the portion of the will regarding the ranch property is null and void, yes?”

Myrtle’s stomach did a slow somersault as Clapp nodded again. “It’s ambiguous phrasing from a legal standpoint, at the very least.”

Ambiguous phrasing? This is my home you’re talking about, you callous little swine!

Natterman turned to her, putting on a practiced look of sympathy. “Now, Miss Foster, the last thing either of us wants is for your beloved ranch to be put up for auction and sold off to the highest bidder like a gimpy old carthorse.”

You’re richer than King Croesus, Natterman. I don’t think you’d mind that one bit.

“I have a somewhat unusual business proposal for you,” he continued smoothly. “The ranch is clearly too much for you to maintain all by your lonesome, but if you and I were to be wed, the terms of your father’s will could be carried out as written.”

Myrtle gave him an instinctive look of disgust, which only seemed to spur him on further. “It’s the only way to save your home, my dear. Surely you must understand that.”

Her heart was racing in her ears. Think!

“Hold on just one ever-loving minute, Natterman,” Myrtle shot back. “I said I’m not married – at the moment. But I am engaged to be married.” The lie came so quickly that she even surprised herself. She turned to Clapp. “I have a fiancé, Mr. Clapp. That must be enough to fulfill the terms of the will, right?”

The lawyer wilted slightly under Natterman’s piercing glare but nodded. “I agree, Miss Foster. I don’t think any court in the country would overturn a will due to a flimsy technicality such as that.”

Natterman glanced meaningfully at Myrtle’s hands. “I feel I must point out the apparent lack of a ring on your finger, my dear.”

Myrtle’s blood boiled at the rancher’s impertinence. “Not that’s it’s your business in the least bit, but my fiancé is coming into town any day now, and he’s bringing a ring along with him. Satisfied?”

Natterman clenched his teeth. “I look forward to meeting your suitor, Miss Foster.”

So do I… Myrtle felt beads of nervous sweat creeping down her neck.

“And if by any chance he fails to appear…” Natterman stood, looming over Myrtle like a hungry vulture. “Then I’ll be ready to claim the Foster ranch myself…by any means necessary.”

She glared up at him, refusing to show fear. “Is that a threat, Mr. Natterman?”

“Not at all, Miss Foster, not at all… simply a promise.” The rancher headed for the door, then turned back with menace dancing in his eyes. “And I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

***

Lee Bryant covered a yawn and took in the first rays of sunrise from the porch of the house he and his parents shared. The view of Lancaster as the early-morning light set it aglow was pretty, no arguing that…

Pretty for Pennsylvania, anyway. But just imagine – a sunrise over the Rockies, or a sunset on the Pacific Ocean?

“Still clearing the cobwebs out of your eyes, boy?” Pop asked sternly, shaking Lee out of his daydream. “Look alive. This porch ain’t gonna put itself back together.”

Lee gave him a salute with his hammer. “What’s the saying, Pop? Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man groggy and weak in the eyes?”

His father chuckled. “Just get to it. That windstorm last night left damage all across town. The sooner we finish up our own porch, the sooner we can move along to the paying customers.”

“I thought the family business was called Bryant Construction, not Bryant Repair… how many houses are we going to fix up?”

Pop clapped him on the back. “As many as we can fit in the day, son. Building a house is fine enough, but maintaining what you’ve built is the real test.”

Lee nodded reluctantly. I’ll take your word for it, old man.

Together, the two men lifted the fallen porch railing back into place and set to nailing it down. Pop made quick work of his side, and Lee did his best to keep pace, but the enticing glow of the sunrise kept drawing his gaze away.

What does a man do out West? Anything he wants, I suppose. The mountains are studded with gold, so they say – fortunes just waiting to be found. I could learn to raise and rope cattle, or open a saloon, or make a quick buck on blackjack…

Lee’s hammer came crashing down on his exposed thumb, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. “Yow!”

He danced back from the railing, which crashed back down to the ground. Pop’s head whipped around. “Darn it, Lee, what happened?”

“Just – just careless, I guess.”

He smiled in embarrassment. A vein throbbed in Pop’s neck, and Lee could tell he was about to blow his top. Luckily, just then Ma called out from the kitchen. “Breakfast is up, fellas!”

Pop took a few deep breaths, then laughed under his breath. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

“For working, you mean?” Lee grinned. “You can say that again.”

Pop socked him in the shoulder, and they headed inside to the kitchen, where Ma was setting out plates of sausage, eggs, and biscuits. “I heard a holler,” she remarked suspiciously as they all sat. “Everything going all right with the porch?”

“Fine and dandy,” Lee answered, taking care to hide his swollen thumb behind his coffee mug. “Just a healthy debate over the intricacies of construction technique, that’s all.”

Pop stifled a snort into his own coffee, and Ma shot him a glance. “Mmhmm…”

The fragrant morning breeze floated in through the screen door. To Lee, it smelled like freedom, adventure, possibility… All at once, his mind was made up. The conversation he’d been putting off for weeks – now was the time.

“Ma? Pop? I need to tell you something. You know how the business has just hired on two new men?”

Pop nodded. “More like boys, really, but they’re coming along.”

“Exactly! And there aren’t too many big projects booked for the next month or two, right?”

Ma raised an eyebrow, apparently catching on already to where this was headed. “Last I checked, just a few barns and a gazebo for the Pritchards at the top of the hill.”

“Right. That’s the kind of work that could get done in a flash, even without my help…”

There it was, out in the open. Ma and Pop fixed him with identical, skeptical looks. “And why on God’s green earth wouldn’t I have your help?” Pa asked accusingly.

“Well, supposing I, uh, left town for a few weeks. Maybe even a month or two.” Now that the dam had broken, the words came pouring out of him in a flood. “It’s high time I go find out what the world has to offer me, that’s all. I can’t say what that’ll be exactly, but that’s half the fun! You both know that Lancaster’s just never quite suited me…”

Ma plunked down her coffee mug against the table. “Now hold on just a minute, sonny boy. Lancaster suits you right down to the bone – or it could, if not for those restless feet of yours. All you need is a place of your own-”

“I could get a place any day, Ma, but you and Pop need the help around here-”

“-and a nice girl to settle down with. For crying out loud, Lee – a tall, blond, blue-eyed boy like you?”

“I’m twenty-seven, Ma,” he muttered, but she was like a runaway train.

“Every eligible lady of age in Lancaster has their eye on you, but all you can see is the horizon.” She sighed and shook her head. “Talk some sense into him, Clay; I’m all talked out.”

Lee doubted that somehow, but he held his tongue as Pop took over. “I know what you’re feeling, son. Honest I do. It’s called wanderlust. Heck, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t touch me in the middle of the night, every once in a while…”

Ma glared at him. “Say that again, Clay?”

“Nothing, dear.” Pop reddened, and Lee had to stifle a smile. Careful, old man. “Just about every man feels that fire inside when they get to be your age,” Pop continued. “But when you get old enough, you learn that you’re never going to find happiness if you always think it’s just over the next ridge.”

“I believe you, Pop. Really.” Lee smiled. “But I’m not ‘old enough’ to learn that yet. Not without checking over a few ridges, at least.”

Pop pursed his lips in thought, then looked at Ma guiltily. “Well… I’m plumb out of ideas, Ethel.”

She twisted a napkin between her hands. “So, what’s the plan, Lee? Are you just going to throw a sack over your shoulder and see where the road takes you?”

“Nothing of the sort, Ma. A train’ll get me to California much quicker than my restless feet ever could.”

“And what will you do for fresh clothes? Lodging? For heaven’s sake, what are you going to eat?” She was working herself up into quite a lather.

“Well, I do own some clothes already, so that’s one thing taken care of,” he grinned. “As far as food and room and board… I have some money saved, and even if I run a little low, something will turn up. It always does.”

Without another word, Ma pushed back from the table and stormed off upstairs. Lee and Pop sat in the still kitchen for a moment before the older man cleared his throat. “You’ll notice that your mother isn’t quite over the moon with this idea, son.”

“I did gather that, yes.”

Pop smiled in resignation. “If your mind’s really made up, Lee, then I’ll take you in to the train station tonight – after we finish up the day’s work, of course.”

“Of course.”

His father’s expression grew solemn. “But please, remember what I told you, and take it to heart. You don’t find real happiness somewhere down a railroad track; you find it right at your feet…” Pop poked him in the chest. “If you’re willing to build it, that is.”

“I’ll remember, Pop.” But at the moment, the only thought hurtling through Lee’s mind was the thrilling promise of the train and the wild, open country beyond.

Ready or not, California – here I come…

Chapter 2

Once Myrtle had signed a few documents and left Mr. Clapp’s office, she emerged into the afternoon sun and untied her mare, Laramie. “Let’s say we get back home, girl,” she murmured in the horse’s ear before mounting her and trotting off down Lakemont’s Main Street toward the family ranch on the edge of town. Her mind was sizzling in the heat, and it didn’t help that she was trying frantically to figure some way out of the predicament she’d gotten herself into.

Natterman expects my fiancé to come strolling in, large as life… but there is no fiancé. For heaven’s sake, there’s never even been a ‘gentleman caller.’ What now?

The high sun blazed down on her, hanging dead-center in the wide sky. Myrtle passed by the faded pinewood facade of the Hotel Lakemont, and thought for a moment about stopping in to see Luella, her best friend and owner of the establishment. She could only imagine the face Luella would make when she heard about the afternoon’s trials.

I know just what she’ll say, too. “High time you found yourself a man, even if he is imaginary!”

Myrtle couldn’t help laughing, but she decided to catch Luella up later on – she’d already been away from the ranch too long. She and Laramie continued through town, and before long the buildings had melted away into the open air of the high plains. The stubby mountain range that had inspired Laramie’s name rose toward the big sky in the distance, and the prairie lay before Myrtle’s eyes like a gently swaying sea of gold. The Foster ranch was just ahead, and, as always, the sight of her modest farmhouse filled Myrtle with an almost unbearable sense of belonging and safety. It was home and hearth, now and forever.

Unless Natterman has his way…

Myrtle dismounted, led Laramie to the side pasture, and went inside, shedding her heavy boots and hat immediately and letting down her hair. She took a deep, appreciative breath, already feeling slightly calmer. She’d think of something. Of course she would. After all, the alternative if she didn’t was too terrible to even consider.

She heard fast-approaching hoofbeats just outside. A visitor? She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Maybe it was just a neighbor coming with condolences about Papa, but then again, perhaps Natterman had decided he didn’t feel like waiting for her imaginary fiancé to turn up… Myrtle smoothly retrieved her father’s double-barrel shotgun from its resting spot beside the fireplace and moved to the window.

A skinny man in an ill-fitting suit was struggling to tie up his horse, and Myrtle realized with surprise who he was: Clapp’s nervous-looking assistant from the office. What was his name? Henry? Hyman?

She swung the front door open, shotgun still in hand, and the man stumbled back in comical shock when he spotted her. “Good heavens, please don’t shoot, miss!”

Myrtle smirked and laid the gun down on a side table, then returned to the door frame, standing tall in what she hoped was an intimidating stance. She had no idea what the assistant wanted of her, but it was best to be wary. “I only shoot trespassers. You’re not a trespasser, are you, Mr…”

“Kelly.” The young man’s face had drained of color, but it was slowly returning. “Harmon Kelly, miss, with Mr. Clapp’s office. You remember, I was there earlier today, when-”

“Of course I remember.” Myrtle folded her arms. “Did I forget something in the office, Mr. Kelly?”

He tugged at his collar. “No, ma’am. And it’s Harmon, if you please. ‘Mr. Kelly’ makes me think I’m my own grandpa.”

Myrtle laughed despite herself, and suddenly saw Harmon for what he really was: an anxious boy, barely twenty, who wouldn’t have followed her and Laramie all the way home if he didn’t have something important on his mind. “Harmon, then. What can I do for you?”

“Well, miss, it’s more what I might be able to do for you.” He wiped his brow. “Would you mind terribly if I stepped inside? It’s quite hot.”

“Of course.” Myrtle waved him in, and Harmon practically collapsed onto the threadbare chair nearby. “Thank you, miss. I’m from Buffalo originally; Wyoming weather generally agrees with me, but on a day like today? No, ma’am.”

“Would you like a glass of water? Our well out back runs clear as a bell.”

“Very kind of you.”

She poured him a glass from the pitcher in the kitchen, and he gratefully accepted it with trembling hands. Myrtle was mystified – the young man looked almost fearful, like he was on the run from the law.

“You mentioned that you might be able to do something for me, Mr. Kell- Harmon, rather?”

He brightened a little. “I think so, yes… but I need your word first, miss. Can you promise not to tell a soul the information I share with you?”

She furrowed her brow. “Doubtful. I tell my best friend just about everything.”

He smiled softly. “I suppose that’s all right… presuming your best friend isn’t Mr. Clapp, or else I’m out of a job.”

Myrtle laughed. “Your job is safe.”

“Well then…” He took a deep drink and cleared his throat. “You might have noticed that when Mr. Clapp began reading your father’s will earlier today, I made a small, er, noise.”

She struggled not to smile. “I believe I recall that, yes.”

“I was startled to hear the date of the will in particular,” Harmon went on. “March 8th, 1879…”

“Why would that startle you?”

The young man tugged at his ear. “You see, I was under the impression that your father had written his will no more than three months ago.”

Myrtle felt a tingle of confusion. “Why would you think that, Harmon?”

“Well, miss… he said as much, when he came to Mr. Clapp’s office.”

The confusion spread through her. “My father came in to Clapp’s office three months ago?”

“That’s right – at least, a man going by the name of John Robert Foster, who looked exactly like… him.” Harmon pointed to the portrait of Papa over the mantle. “I met him at the front desk, and he said he had an appointment to revise his will. He met Mr. Clapp in his office, and left perhaps ten minutes later.”

As Myrtle listened, something unfamiliar glimmered in her mind: hope.

“The office door was shut, but I can only assume that your father’s will was in fact revised,” Harmon continued. “Which is why I was so surprised to hear otherwise today…”

He trailed off and gave Myrtle a meaningful look. “What are you saying exactly?” she asked. “Clapp has a revised will, and he’s keeping it secret for some reason?”

Harmon looked a bit nervous. “I wouldn’t make such a reckless accusation toward my employer, miss, you understand. But perhaps the new will was misplaced, or perhaps it was tampered with by a third party…”

“Natterman.” The name escaped her lips in a low growl. Of course! Of course that scoundrel has something to do with this.

“I certainly couldn’t say, miss.” Harmon’s eyebrows twitched with hidden meaning. “But what I can tell you is that I’ll do everything in my power to find your father’s true will. I’ll search every inch of that office myself if I have to.”

Myrtle’s heart softened with appreciation for the young man’s kindness. “Why are you taking this risk, Harmon? You don’t even know me.”

The young man blushed. “I swore an oath to uphold the law, miss, and that’s what I intend to do.” His expression darkened. “But in the meantime, I don’t wish to pry, but… you are in fact engaged to be married, yes?”

She gritted her teeth. “Of course I am.”

Harmon smiled with relief. “Good, good! I would have understood if that had been a prevarication in the heat of the moment to keep Mr. Natterman at bay, and I would have suggested that you locate a suitable, er, suitor to play the part, as it were…”

Myrtle smiled. “You mean that I would’ve needed a fake fiancé. Were you planning on volunteering, Harmon?”

“Good heavens, no!” The young man’s face glowed crimson. “Not that you aren’t a very – what I mean to say is, you’re quite…”

“Understood, thank you.”

Harmon gathered his composure again. “It’s very lucky indeed that you’re engaged, miss; but just the same, I expect Mr. Natterman won’t hesitate to yank this ranch out from under your feet at the first opportunity. Stay vigilant.”

He rose and moved to the door, and Myrtle got up to see him out. “I appreciate you sticking your neck like this, Harmon. Please, keep me up to speed with your search.”

The young man gave her an absurd little bow, then clumsily mounted his horse. “I certainly will – and I hope your fiancé arrives swiftly.”

Myrtle watched him trot off, and sighed inwardly once he had disappeared into the distance. So do I, Harmon.

***

The deeply tanned man with the handlebar mustache peered across the card table at Lee from under the brim of his black hat. “The play is to you, Bryant. Fold, call, or raise?”

As the train rattled down the track somewhere in the middle of Nebraska – or were they already through Nebraska? – Lee peeked at his cards again, though he hadn’t forgotten for a second what he was holding. The king of hearts and king of clubs peeked back at him, friendly fellows that they were. He scanned the community cards spread out on the table – a bunch of rags, probably no help to anyone – then studied the faces of the men on either side of him. Lee had played stud poker with this group for the last few nights as their train click-clacked across the country, and he had a fairly good idea of their tendencies at the card table… all except Mr. Handlebar Mustache, anyway. He was still a mystery.

“Bryant? Fold, call, or raise?”

Lee took one last unnecessary peek at his pair of kings, then gave a practiced sigh. “Well, I’m bluffing, but so are the rest of you boys, and I just couldn’t live with myself if I let one of you rascals walk away with a pot as big as this one.” He pushed the last of his chips into the pile and smiled widely. “I’m all in.”

Handlebar seemed unimpressed as he nudged a few chips of his own into the middle. “I’ll call. Anyone else?”

There were no other takers, and Handlebar dealt out the final card to the table – the king of diamonds. Lee kept his face still as adrenaline jolted his body – he had three of a kind now, a monstrous hand. The man idly scratched at the leathery skin of his cheek, spat into the jug at his feet, and fixed Lee with a level stare, betraying nothing of his thoughts. “Beauty before age, young buck. Flip ’em.”

Lee considered pointing out that Handlebar had gotten that saying completely reversed, but he figured it wasn’t the best time. “Gladly, old-timer.” He turned over his kings with a grin, and the men at the table muttered quietly. “Three kings, thanks to your generous river card.”

He reached forward to scoop the pile of chips to his side of the table, but Handlebar stuck out a bony finger. “Stop right there, buck.”

What’s the holdup? He’s not beating three kings – unless…

The tanned stranger slowly flipped his own hole cards – one ace, then a second, glinting up at Lee like twin daggers. With a community ace already on the table, that made… “Trip aces,” Handlebar rumbled.

That was almost all of my savings – gone, evaporated, just like that. Lee felt as if he’d been plunged into a lake of ice water. Then, just as quickly, white-hot rage boiled the cold away. So Handlebar just happened to deal himself pocket aces, is that right? Very unsuspicious…

He pushed back from the table and stood as the men on either side watched impassively. “Slick, old-timer, very slick. How many nights have you been dealing from the bottom of the deck? Did you start back in Topeka? I had a hunch there was something funny about that full house you pulled…”

Handlebar rose to his feet and slowly pulled back his longcoat, exposing the silvery butt of a pistol tucked into his belt. “Strong words, buck. Keep using words like that, and you won’t have many left.”

Lee balled his fists. “Is that so?”

Handlebar’s hand crept up to rest on the grip of his pistol, cradling it almost lovingly. “That’s so. In fact, I’m getting mighty tired of riding along with that doe-eyed little face of yours, buck. Reminds me I’m getting old – and I hate getting old. Don’t you hate getting old, boys?”

The other men grunted mild assent.

“So here’s what you’re gonna do,” Handlebar continued. “You’re gonna hightail it out of my poker game right this minute. Then, you’re gonna hightail it off this train at the very next stop. We clear on that, buck?”

Lee’s heart was thumping like a jackrabbit in his chest. What are my choices? Stick around and see if Handlebar’s all talk… or turn tail and run, with precisely four dollars to my name.

He searched the older man’s eyes for some sign of pretense, some indication that he was bluffing… but just like at the poker table, Handlebar revealed nothing.

“You’ve been one heck of a traveling companion, Handlebar,” Lee said quietly, making the man squint in confusion. “But I guess our paths diverge in… what is the next stop, anyway?”

“Wyoming,” the grizzled man at Lee’s side muttered. “Lakemont, Wyoming.”

“Sounds lovely.” He gave Handlebar one final stare, then spun on his heel and retreated to his berth, swaying back and forth as the train careened headlong toward the end of his line.

All right, Lee. Lick your wounds in Lakemont. Kick up your heels, stay for a day or two at most, make a little cash somehow… and then California awaits.

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