A Rancher’s Wager for Her Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Town of Dunbar Valley, Colorado

The final hymn vibrated through the rafters long after the last note had faded.

Olivia Hartwell remained seated for a moment, listening as the echoes dissolved into the warm hush of the little whitewashed church. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and worn hymnals, as well as pressed cotton and the lavender sachets the women tucked into their sleeves.

Around her, pews creaked as families rose. Boots shuffled against the pine floor. Voices resumed their worldly tones, no longer softened by prayer.

“Olivia.”

She turned at the whisper and found Seraphina Williams leaning over the back of the pew behind her, with cheeks that were flushed with barely contained excitement.

“If you don’t come outside this instant,” Seraphina said dramatically, “I will burst.”

At that, Olivia laughed under her breath. “That would be a spectacle Reverend Pike hasn’t prepared us for.”

They slipped out into the aisle together, joining the exiting tide of townsfolk. Mrs. Halloway reached to squeeze Olivia’s hand. Old Mr. Jenkins nodded solemnly beneath his thick brows. Dunbar Valley was not large enough for anonymity. Every Sunday felt like stepping into a woven tapestry of familiar faces.

The church doors stood open, framing the valley beyond like a painted scene. When Olivia stepped across the threshold, warmth wrapped around her shoulders. The afternoon sun lay brightly over the rolling land. The sky was a vast, unbroken blue which stretched over distant mountain ridges that shimmered like hazy sentinels on the horizon.

A breeze stirred. Horses stamped near the hitching posts. Children’s laughter was high and unrestrained in the main street.

Seraphina drew in a breath as though she could swallow the entire day.

“Now,” she said, already reaching into her reticule, “prepare yourself.”

Olivia shaded her eyes as they descended the church steps. She could feel the warmth of stone beneath her boots. “Should I be frightened?”

“You should be honored.” Seraphina unfolded a carefully preserved newspaper clipping, smoothing its creases with her fingers. “Blackberry custard pie.”

“Is that all?” Olivia asked, gasping softly.

Quickly, Seraphina swatted her arm. “You mock, but you haven’t seen the illustration.”

They moved aside to allow a family to pass, then drifted toward the edge of the churchyard where a big tree cast dappled shade over the grass. Sunlight glistened through its leaves, painting moving patterns across Seraphina’s eager face.

“It calls for fresh berries,” Seraphina continued, pointing to the printed column. “Not stewed. Fresh. Just before baking, you’re supposed to pour sweet cream over the top so it sinks between the fruit.”

Olivia leaned closer, studying the tiny ink drawing of a perfectly latticed crust. “It looks ambitious.”

“It looks divine,” Seraphina countered.

“You said that about the peach tart,” Olivia reminded her with a grin.

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It collapsed.”

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. “Only slightly.”

“It collapsed entirely,” Seraphina corrected with dramatic despair. “But this… this is different. This is refinement.”

Olivia watched her friend’s animated gestures, and the way hope seemed to gather around her like sunlight.

“When you open your bakery,” Olivia said with a grin, “you shall have a display window filled with such pies, and I’ll be standing outside pretending not to know you so I can admire them without bias.”

“You will not stand outside,” Seraphina replied, widening her grin. “You’ll sit inside with a fork and sample every attempt until perfection is achieved.”

“I hereby accept this solemn responsibility,” Olivia said.

They began walking down the dirt road that led away from the church, their skirts brushing against tall grass that swayed in the breeze. The road was lined with modest wooden storefronts. The general store with its faded lettering, the barber’s shop with a striped pole that leaned slightly askew, and the mercantile where bolts of fabric hung in the window.

A wagon rattled past, wheels bumping over uneven ground. Mr. Calloway tipped his hat as he passed.

“Good afternoon, Miss Olivia.”

“Good afternoon,” Olivia replied with a polite nod.

The town life moved around them in familiar pulses.

“I shall bring you a slice tomorrow,” Seraphina promised. “Even if it fails. You are required to taste it regardless.”

“I would taste it even if it were inedible,” Olivia promised.

They had reached the fork where the road divided. One path wound toward Seraphina’s modest home near the edge of town, and the other stretched farther west toward the Hartwell ranch, its fences visible in the distance like white threads drawn across green cloth.

As Olivia opened her mouth to say something more, a familiar voice cut her off.

“Well now. If this isn’t a sight worth attending church for.”

Her shoulders tightened before she even turned.

Asher Creed stood near the hitching post beside the mercantile, one gloved hand resting on the polished horn of his saddle. His sleek bay gelding shifted restlessly beneath him. Asher himself looked as though he had stepped from a city portrait. His coat was tailored, and his dark hair had been combed precisely back from a face too sharp to be gentle.

“Mr. Creed,” Seraphina said carefully.

“Asher,” he corrected, his gaze already fixed on Olivia. “For friends.”

Politely, Olivia nodded toward him. “Afternoon.”

He swung down from his horse in one fluid motion, landing lightly in the dust. “I was hoping to catch you before you left town.”

Seraphina glanced between them, the earlier warmth draining from her features.

“I should be getting home,” she murmured. “Ma will need me.”
When Olivia sent her a quick look in the form of a silent plea, Seraphina only squeezed her hand discreetly.

“I will bring the pie,” she whispered.

“I shall be waiting,” Olivia replied softly.

Then Seraphina was gone, her skirts disappearing around the bend. The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Asher stepped closer. “May I walk you home?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Olivia answered, keeping her tone pleasant. “The road is familiar to me.”

“All the more reason to enjoy company along it,” Asher replied, grinning.

His smile was charming enough to satisfy an onlooker, but there was something unyielding beneath it.

“I prefer solitude this afternoon,” she tried again.

Before she could step aside, his hand closed around her forearm. Firmly enough to make refusal difficult.

“I insist,” he said.

Olivia felt the heat of his grip even through the fabric of her sleeve. She became aware of the passersby, and of the way small towns observed everything. To pull away would cause a scene. To cause a scene would invite questions… and questions always found their way back to her father.

So, she allowed herself to be guided toward the ranch road.

They walked in silence at first. The sounds of town faded gradually behind them, replaced by the softer hush of open land. Grass whispered against Olivia’s skirts. Insects buzzed in the heat. Farther off, cattle lowed from the Hartwell pastures.

“You seemed in good spirits,” Asher said, gesturing over his shoulder as if the past could be seen like a physical object.

“I enjoy speaking with my friend,” Olivia replied with a small smile.

“A woman’s companionship is pleasant,” he agreed. “Though temporary.”

She glanced at him. “Temporary?”

“A woman’s true purpose begins when she leaves such frivolities behind,” Asher said.

Olivia arched a brow. “You consider baking frivolous?”

“I consider it preparation for service.”

She smiled faintly, though the expression felt fragile at its edges. The wind lifted a strand of her auburn hair and brushed it across her cheek, and she tucked it back.

“It is fortunate, then, that I have no husband to obey.”

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly around her forearm.

“Only a matter of time,” he reminded her.

The pressure was slight, but unmistakable. She turned her head and met his gaze directly. Up close, his eyes were darker than she remembered.

“Is it?” she asked.

They had reached a stretch of road where the land rose toward the Hartwell ranch. The afternoon sun angled lower. Dust clung to the hem of her pale blue skirt, and she became acutely aware of the isolation of the open field around them.

“Your birthday is soon,” he said.

“I’m aware.” She kept her voice even, though she disliked the way he spoke of it. It was as though her age were an appointment he intended to keep.

“Twenty-one is not merely a number. It is a threshold.”

A meadowlark startled from the tall grass at the edge of the road, its wings beating as it rose into the sky. Olivia’s heart gave a similar startled flutter.

Asher’s gaze moved over her face with appraisal. The look made her feel as though she were being considered for something unseen.

“It is time you begin considering marriage seriously,” he continued.

She shifted her shoulders back, reclaiming what little space she could without pulling away.

“I consider many things seriously,” she replied lightly. “Marriage is not currently at the top of my list.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, though it did not soften his features. “It should be.”

The breeze picked up again, stirring the tall prairie grass into restless waves. Olivia focused on the horizon line ahead.

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because a woman alone is vulnerable,” he replied simply.

She thought of the ranch house with its porch and sturdy beams and of the horses she had broken herself. She thought about the long afternoons spent riding fence lines beneath the open sky. She thought of the bear cub she had once hidden in the barn loft, fiercely defending it from anyone who threatened to send it away.

“I have never felt vulnerable,” she said quietly.

His gaze narrowed. “You have never been without protection.”

The implication settled over her shoulders.

She looked ahead and saw the white fence of the Hartwell property glinting in the sunlight. Protection. The word felt like another name for confinement.

They had reached the gentle rise in the road from which the Hartwell ranch could be seen in full. The porch stretched across the front of the house, the barn stood sturdy against the fields, and fences traced neat boundaries across acres of inherited land.

“My father has raised me to manage this land,” she said, continuing to walk. “I am not helpless.”

“I did not say helpless,” he replied quickly. “I mean guided.”

“And who will guide the man?” Olivia asked, unable to keep her flare of irritation down.

He smiled faintly. “Men require purpose. Women provide stability.”

The way he said it sent a subtle chill along her spine.

They reached the gate. He released her arm at last, though the warmth of his hand seemed to remain on her skin.

For a long while, neither of them moved.

Asher removed his gloves slowly, tugging at each fingertip with precision as though he had nowhere else to be.

“A fine property,” he remarked, his gaze traveling over the fields. “Your father has maintained it well.”

“He works hard,” Olivia replied awkwardly.

“As do I.”

There was a pause. She rested her hand on the top rail of the gate, waiting. He did not take the hint.

“Will you not invite me in?” Asher asked lightly. “It would be discourteous to turn a man away after he has ensured your safe return.”

She forced a polite smile. “You are not turned away. You are simply… released from duty.”

His lips curved faintly. “I find myself reluctant to be released.”

When the breeze shifted, it carried with it the scent of stew drifting faintly from the kitchen chimney. Olivia’s stomach tightened. It was almost lunchtime. Of course he had noticed.

“I would not presume upon your hospitality,” he continued, though he clearly intended to do precisely that. “But if your father were amenable, I could spare an hour.”

Spare an hour. As though he were granting them something.

“I believe my father has business to attend to this afternoon,” she said carefully.

“Business often benefits from good company.” Asher was quick to answer.

“I cannot imagine ledgers being improved by it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You underestimate the power of alliance.”

Before she could respond, the screen door of the house snapped open with a sharp clap.

“Miss Olivia!” Darla’s voice rang out across the yard, brisk and practical as a kitchen bell. “If you don’t come this instant, I shall ruin the gravy entirely!”

Olivia nearly sagged with relief.

She turned toward the porch where the housekeeper, Darla Palmer, stood with flour dusting the front of her apron like a badge of industry. A wisp of graying hair had escaped her bun and curled rebelliously against her temple.

“You promised to help me with the preserves!” Darla added pointedly.

Instantly, Olivia caught the meaning.

“Yes… of course!” she called back. “I had quite forgotten.”

Asher’s jaw tightened a fraction, though his expression remained smooth.

“It seems I am dismissed after all,” he said.

“I would not dare risk the gravy,” Olivia replied with lightness she did not entirely feel.

Darla descended one step onto the porch with her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her gaze moved over Asher in a manner that was polite yet distinctly unwelcoming.

“Afternoon, Mr. Creed,” she said, not bothering to hide the brisk edge in her tone. “We’ve enough mouths to feed without adding surprise guests.”

The message was unmistakable.

He inclined his head. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Olivia said, already stepping backward through the gate.

His eyes swept once more over the house, the land, and her as though committing it all to memory.

“I’ll return tomorrow evening,” he reminded her.

“I’ll let my father know,” she said.

“See that you do.”

Then he turned and walked down the road toward town, dust rising in his wake.

Only when he disappeared beyond the rise did Olivia release the breath she had been holding. She closed the gate with a firm click and crossed the yard quickly.

Darla met her at the door, ushering her inside quickly.

“Well,” Darla muttered as soon as the screen door shut behind them, “that one lingers like a bad smell.”

Olivia couldn’t help the faint laugh that escaped her. “Darla.”

“I speak plainly.” Darla returned to the stove, lifting the lid of a heavy pot and stirring vigorously. The kitchen was warm and fragrant as sunlight poured through the back windows. “He’s been circling this house more often than a hawk.”

Slowly, Olivia removed her gloves and set them neatly on the sideboard. “He wished to stay for lunch.”

“Oh, I’m certain he did,” Darla responded. Then, she handed her a wooden spoon. “Stir that. Slow and steady. If it sticks, we’ll taste it all week.”

Grateful for the simple task, Olivia obeyed. The stirring movement and the scrape of spoon against the pot made her feel better.

“I have preserves cooling in the pantry,” Darla continued. “And Mrs. Calloway sent word her linens need mending, so I will need to get on that since she only trusts me with her fabrics. We’ve the guest room to air out as well… your father mentioned someone calling. He’s been shut up in that study half the morning.”

Immediately, Olivia’s gaze drifted toward the hallway that led deeper into the house. Even from here, she could sense the quiet behind the closed study door.

“I should see if he needs anything,” she said.

“You should,” Darla agreed. “And mind your tongue.”

Olivia offered a faint smile. “I always do.”

She wiped her hands clean and left the kitchen, the warmth fading as she stepped into the main corridor. The house felt cooler there. Portraits lined the walls. They were all stern ancestors with unsmiling expressions. At the far end hung the largest painting. It was her mother.

Catherine Hartwell’s painted eyes seemed almost alive, caught mid-laughter by some long-forgotten artist. Even in oil and canvas, she radiated warmth.

Without meaning to, Olivia slowed. Then she continued on. Her father’s study door stood closed. She knocked lightly.

“Come.”

When she entered, Abel Hartwell sat behind his oak desk with his spectacles perched on his nose. Ledgers lay open before him in careful stacks. Columns of numbers were marching across the pages like soldiers.

He looked older there than he ever did outside. Lines etched deeply at the corners of his mouth. His once broad shoulders seemed bowed beneath invisible weight.

“Pa,” she said gently.

He did not look up immediately. He finished marking a figure, drew a firm line beneath it, then closed the ledger with more force than necessary.

She stepped farther into the room. “Is everything all right?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” he replied automatically.

The dismissal was swift. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He removed his spectacles and set them down carefully. “The family lawyer will be arriving shortly.”

“Mr. Grub?” Olivia asked, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” he replied. “When he arrives, show him directly in. I do not wish to be interrupted.”

The tone was rigid. It was the voice of a man who allowed no room for deviation.

“Yes, sir,” Olivia replied quietly.

He returned to the ledgers, already finished with the conversation. Olivia lingered a moment, hoping for an explanation or even reassurance.

Instead, he added without looking at her, “See that you are presentable.”

A faint flush crept into her cheeks. “I always am.”

“That is not the point,” he replied, glancing up at her briefly.

She swallowed whatever reply hovered at the edge of her tongue. Then, she left the study quietly, closing the door behind her.

The hallway felt longer when she stepped out into it.

Presentable. As though she were another asset to be accounted for.

She moved through the rest of her afternoon in steady motions, starting with checking the linen cupboard, and then ensuring the guest room windows were propped open to air out the stale scent of disuse. Darla instructed and Olivia complied.

Chores usually comforted her. But today her thoughts wandered to her mother.

There had been a time when this house felt different. Alive.

She could still remember summer evenings when her mother, Catherine, would fling open every window and insist they dine on the porch simply because the sunset was too beautiful to ignore. Laughter had echoed down the halls with unrestrained joy.

Her mother had ridden horses astride, scandalizing half the valley. She had taught Olivia to climb trees in her Sunday dress and had once declared that mud was merely “nature’s signature.”

And her father had laughed with her. He had been different then. Softer around the edges and quick to smile.

After the river had taken her mother from them in one cruel, thoughtless afternoon, her father hardened. Rules replaced adventure. Schedules replaced spontaneity. Silence replaced laughter.

Olivia paused at the foot of the staircase, her hand resting on the polished banister.

In the months following her mother’s death, she had searched desperately for something that still felt wild and alive. She found it one afternoon near the tree line. It had been a small, trembling bear cub caught in a crude wire snare.

She had freed it.

For weeks, it had slept in a crate, growing stronger under her watchful care. By then, the cub had followed her everywhere with its oversized paws thudding against the floorboards as it tried to keep up. She had loved it fiercely, as though saving it had meant saving a fragile part of herself.

She remembered the day her father had made her release the bear cub she had nursed back to health.

“It’s not safe,” her father had said.

“It’s not dangerous,” she had argued.

“It’s not proper.”

That had been the end of it. The word proper seemed to follow her still.

Chapter 2

Riley Grant stood at the edge of the clearing with his reins loose in his hand, staring at the structure that was supposed to pass for home. The afternoon sun shone through the trees, catching on warped planks and a sagging roofline that had not been properly tended in years. One shutter was crooked, banging lazily against the siding each time the wind stirred.

Behind him, his sister, Abigail, shifted carefully in the wagon seat.

“Well,” she said softly, but determinedly bright, “it’s still standing.”

At that, Riley huffed out a noise that might have been a laugh if it carried any humor. “Barely.”

The hunting cabin had belonged to their father. It had been a place for winter elk and quiet retreats, never meant for long-term living. It sat a mile off the main road, tucked between pine and scrub oak, as though trying to hide from the world. As a boy, Riley had thought it an adventure. A place of stories and campfires.

Now it looked like proof of everything they’d lost.

He tied the horse to the old hitching post, testing it with a firm tug before turning toward the wagon. Abigail had both hands braced at her sides, preparing to climb down.

“Stay,” he said quickly, stepping forward.

“I’m not made of glass,” she replied, though she allowed him to help her.

“You’re three months along,” he pointed out.

“And quite capable,” Abigail added with a grin.

Still, she leaned into him as he steadied her descent. She felt smaller than he remembered. Not in size, but in spirit. Grief had a way of carving pieces from a person. Her husband, Daniel, had been gone four months now, and though she carried his child beneath her heart, there were moments when her eyes looked impossibly tired.

Riley rested a hand briefly on her shoulder once her boots touched the dirt. “Watch your step.”

“Yes, sir,” she teased gently.

He didn’t smile. He pushed open the cabin door and it groaned in protest.

The smell was impossible to miss. There was a faint sourness of neglect in the air with the obvious damp wood. Sunlight illuminated a film of grime across the table and chairs. A spiderweb stretched boldly between the rafters.

Abigail stepped in behind him and drew a slow breath.

“Just needs to air out,” she said, clearly deciding to be optimistic.

It made Riley set his jaw and move immediately to the windows, forcing them open one by one. They stuck stubbornly before giving way with sharp cracks. Fresh air poured in, stirring the dust into dancing clouds.

“I should have come sooner,” he muttered.

“You only arrived back in the valley three days ago,” Abigail reminded him.

“I should have come before that,” he pressed.

Quickly, he walked out of the cabin and grabbed a rag from the back of the wagon before returning to wipe down the nearest surface with unnecessary force.

“If I hadn’t left,” he continued, “none of this would’ve happened.”

His sister went still. “Riley—”

“If I’d stayed,” he pressed on bitterly, “Zane wouldn’t have fallen into debt. We wouldn’t have lost the land.”

He scrubbed harder, as though he could scour away the past with enough effort.

“And you would be dead,” Abigail replied quietly.

At her words, he stilled. Abigail stood near the small iron stove with one hand resting unconsciously against the gentle curve of her belly.

“You forget that part,” she said. “Daniel didn’t get a choice. The influenza took him anyway. War might have taken you.”

“I made a decision,” he said, his throat tightening. “And everything fell apart after.”

“Everything was already falling apart,” she replied softly. “You were angry. Zane was reckless. Father had been gone three years. You did not cause this.”

He turned away. He could almost see it in his mind… the land they once owned. Rolling fields. A proper house with wide verandas. A barn that had been full of the sounds of healthy cattle and strong horses.

It was all gone. Lost over a card table and a false name.

Quickly, he shoved the thought aside.

“We’ll start with the bedroom,” he said briskly.

The single bedroom sat off to the left, barely large enough for a narrow bed and a small chest. The mattress was thin and sagging. The quilt atop it was faded and frayed.

Riley set to work without another word, hauling the mattress outside to beat the dust from it. He dragged in fresh straw from the wagon and layered it carefully beneath the ticking to give it more support. He checked the frame for loose boards and hammered them back into place with decisive strikes.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered as he worked. “You shouldn’t have to stay here.”

After clearing out some of the debris, Abigail stood in the doorway, watching him. Her raven black hair cascaded down her shoulders, brushing the tops of her hands where she rested them on her growing bump.

“I am grateful,” she said gently. “Truly.”

“For this?” He gestured sharply at the cracked wall.

“For you,” she replied.

He drove another nail in harder than necessary.

“You should be in a proper house,” he went on. “With room for the baby. With neighbors close by.”

“Misty’s house is close enough,” she reminded him. “She’s insisted I stay with her until we’ve made this livable.”

He paused, leaning back on his heels. “You shouldn’t have to rely on charity.”

“It is not charity,” Abigail said firmly. “It is friendship.”

He rose and moved to adjust the curtain rod, which had half fallen from the wall.

“I’ll fix it,” he said. “This place. All of it. It’ll be better.”

Abigail watched him for a long time, as though thinking about the promise.

“I know you will,” she said softly. Then, with a determined lift of her chin, she added, “But perhaps we can help it along.”

He glanced at her. “Help it along?”

“Yes,” she replied. “With curtains that are not older than we are… and maybe a rug. Or at the very least something that doesn’t look like it was left behind by trappers with questionable taste.”

A faint breath of amusement escaped him at her comment.

“You’re tired,” he said instead.

“I’m pregnant,” she corrected calmly. “Not fragile. I refuse to sit here staring at these walls while you carry every burden alone.”

He hesitated. Her cheeks were flushed from what little work she had done, and there was a fine sheen of perspiration at her temple. She did look tired. Still, there was determination in her eyes.

“We’ll go into town,” he relented. “Get what we need.”

“And perhaps what we don’t,” she added lightly.

He nodded once. “Go and get ready.”

***

The wagon wheels bumped along the uneven road toward town. Pine trees whispered along the edge of the trail. Riley kept his gaze fixed ahead, one hand on the reins.

Beside him, Abigail sat upright despite the fatigue that touched the corners of her mouth. She rested one hand absently against her belly, her thumb tracing small circles as though soothing the child within.

He noticed the way she shifted every so often and guilt settled in his chest.

If he hadn’t left. If Zane had been stronger. If either of them had seen through the lies before the land slipped from their hands… maybe Abigail wouldn’t be in that position.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Abigail said quietly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You have that look,” Abigail replied, glancing over at him.

“What look?” Riley asked.

“The one where your brow knots and your shoulders turn to stone,” she replied.

Riley huffed out a response and kept his eyes on the road until town came into view.

Dunbar Valley was livelier than it had been that morning. The general store’s porch held a small gathering of men discussing cattle prices. A pair of children chased each other near the hitching post.

Carefully, Riley brought the wagon to a stop and climbed down first. Then, he helped Abigail to the ground.

“Slowly,” he murmured.

“I know how to descend from a wagon,” she said with an amused smile.

Inside, the general store was warm. It was filled with the mingled scents of flour sacks, leather harnesses, coffee beans, and soap. Shelves were lined high along the walls, stocked with everything from lamp oil to bolts of fabric.

Abigail’s eyes brightened at the sight of patterned cloth near the counter.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Riley watched as she ran her fingers gently over a bolt of pale-yellow cotton.

“That one,” she said. “It reminds me of spring.”

“It’s March,” he pointed out.

“All the more reason,” Abigail replied with a playful eye roll.

He found himself studying her face and the way the color returned when she allowed herself small joys.

“Two yards?” the shopkeeper asked.

“Three,” Abigail replied before Riley could object. “And that gingham there.”

Riley cleared his throat. “We need a kettle. Nails and soap too.”

“And sugar,” Abigail added. “We cannot survive on bitterness alone.”

They gathered what they could afford. It was all modest purchases and practical things. A simple woven rug. A small tin lamp. A secondhand rocking chair that Abigail insisted would be perfect near the window.

Riley paid from the small stack of bills folded carefully in his pocket. It was his war pension money, and it was dwindling steadily. There wasn’t nearly enough of it.

As they stepped back onto the porch, the late sun dipped lower. That was when Riley heard a female voice.

“Abigail?”

A young woman with chestnut hair pinned loosely beneath her bonnet hurried toward them, skirts lifted slightly to avoid the dust.

“Misty,” Abigail breathed.

They embraced carefully, mindful of her condition. Riley watched from the sidelines.

“I heard you were back,” Misty said, her voice thick with sympathy. “Oh, Abigail… I am so sorry about Daniel.”

The name caused Riley to tear his gaze away. It felt odd to have somebody else uttering his name. It only made the grief feel worse.

Abigail’s composure wavered just slightly before she gathered herself again. “Thank you.”

“He was a good man,” Misty added, tilting her head to the side.

“He was,” Abigail agreed softly.

They stood close with their hands clasped. Riley stepped back, giving them space.

“How are you managing?” Misty asked gently.

“We’re settling in at the old hunting cabin,” Abigail replied. “The one our family owns.”

In response, Misty’s brows drew together. “That place hasn’t been used in years.”

“It will do,” Abigail said with a small smile.

That was when Misty glanced toward Riley. “You must let me help. Truly. I have space… and company is better than silence.”

“That is kind of you,” Abigail said.

“It is not kindness,” Misty replied firmly. “It is necessity. I refuse to let you hide away in the woods.”

Grateful for Misty’s warmth, Riley watched the exchange.

“You two catch up,” he said quietly to Abigail. “I need to stop by the saloon.”

***

The saloon doors swung inward with a high-pitched creak. The scent of whiskey and sawdust met him instantly. A piano sat silently in the corner, though a few men sat at tables, nursing drinks and murmuring over cards.

Riley removed his hat and approached the bar.

A broad man with a bristling mustache met him there. He squinted at him.

“Well I’ll be,” he said. “Grant?”

“Afternoon, Gus,” Riley replied, giving the bar keep a nod.

“Haven’t seen you in years.”

“I’ve been away,” Riley said.

“So I heard.” Gus leaned forward. “Are you back for good?”

“For now, I am,” Riley said.

The response felt strange being spoken aloud. It was as though his words carried more permanence than he had intended.

Gus gave a single nod. Behind him, shelves of cloudy bottles caught the afternoon light.

“What can I get you?” Gus asked, reaching for a rag to wipe down the already scarred counter.

“Information,” Riley replied.

One thick brow climbed slowly toward his hairline.

“I’m looking for work,” Riley said. “Ranch hands. Repairs. Anything, really… I am willing to do anything.”

Gus paused in his wiping and gave Riley a long look. Riley could feel him taking in the broadness of his shoulders and the faint stiffness in the way he shifted his weight.

“Are you still good with horses?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” Riley replied.

The answer came without hesitation. Horses had never left him. Even in mud and gunfire, he had found himself remembering the pattern of beating hooves and the warm breath of a gelding against his palm.

“What about cattle?” he asked.

“Them too,” Riley replied.

The barkeep leaned both forearms on the counter, studying him more closely. “You been keeping at it, or you rusty?”

Riley flexed his fingers unconsciously. There was a faint tremor there some days. It was a remnant he did not speak about.

He jerked his chin toward a shelf where a few folded notices sat pinned. “Couple of places might need help. The Dawson spread’s short two men. Old Man Fletcher’s been complaining about his fence lines.”

Riley nodded along as he listened.

“And Abel Hartwell,” Gus added after a moment. “He’s been quiet lately. Could be he needs strong hands.”

That was what finally got Riley’s attention.

“Abel Hartwell,” he repeated.

“Used to run one of the finest operations in the valley,” Gus said. “Still respectable.”

He didn’t need any reminders. Riley remembered Abel well. He was tall, with a laugh that had once filled a room. He had been a friend to Riley’s father. They’d shared cattle drives and long evenings talking strategy over coffee. It had been years.

He also remembered his daughter. Olivia.

She was twelve years younger than him. She must be around twenty-one years old now.

“Does he pay fair?” Riley asked.

He kept his tone neutral, but the question mattered more than he let on.

Gus scratched at his jaw. A fly buzzed near the edge of the counter, and he flicked it away with the rag.

“Fair enough, I suppose,” the barkeep said finally.

Riley gave a single nod. That was enough. He had not come back to Dunbar Valley expecting generosity.

“I appreciate it,” Riley said.

Gus gave a grunt that could have meant you’re welcome or don’t mention it.

Suddenly, the saloon felt close. It was thick with heat and memory. The mutters of men at the card table rose and fell in quiet waves. Someone laughed too loudly at something not particularly amusing.

He turned from the bar. The sawdust scattered across the floor shifted under his boots as he moved toward the doors.

Work first. He would speak to Hartwell in the morning.

The saloon doors swung inward abruptly.

Bright sunlight flooded the dim room. For a second, the figure in the doorway was nothing more than a silhouette of a man. The doors thudded shut behind him.

“Well, would you look at that.”

Riley froze at the familiarity of the voice. The cadence tugged at memory before the face did.

“Thompson?” he asked.

The man stepped forward into the lamplight, and recognition hit fully.

Thompson Carval looked older, but the bones of him were the same. He had a strong jaw and quick eyes that missed very little. His hair, once perpetually falling into his face during boyhood scuffles, was now neatly trimmed beneath a dark hat. A polished star-shaped badge caught the light at his chest.

Deputy Sheriff.

For a second, Riley saw not the badge but the boy who had raced him bareback across open pasture, and who had once sworn they would both own spreads twice the size of their fathers’.

“Grant,” Thompson said, a grin breaking wide across his face. He had always referred to Riley by his last name.

He crossed the distance in long strides and clapped a hand on Riley’s shoulder.

“You’re alive,” Thompson grinned widely.

“Last I checked,” Riley replied.

Thompson leaned back as if to get a better look at him. “You look older.”

“I feel older,” Riley replied with a chuckle.

“War will do that,” Thompson said, laughing.

Riley took in the polished badge pinned to his vest. “Deputy Sheriff?”

“Since last year,” Thompson said proudly. “Figured someone had to keep this place from falling apart.”

All of a sudden, Riley felt a warmth stir in his chest. It was close to genuine happiness.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

For the first time since stepping back into Dunbar Valley, Riley felt the faintest thread of possibility weaving through the bitterness.

Work. Alliances. Old friendships.

He had nothing but determination and a pension barely stretching far enough… but he had come back. This time, he would not leave empty-handed.