Chapter 1

Valentine, Nebraska, 1939

The afternoon light fell through the study window in dusty golden bars, illuminating worn ledgers and faded maps. Emma Perkins stood perfectly still, hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone white as fresh snow.

She could hear every sound with preternatural clarity—the ticking of the mantel clock, the distant lowing of cattle, her own thundering heartbeat. But her father’s words seemed to come from somewhere far away, muffled and strange, as though she’d plunged underwater.

“The arrangement is made,” Thomas Perkins said—not unkindly, but with the flat finality of a man stating an immutable fact. “You’ll leave Thursday morning.”

Emma’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. She tried again.

“Father, I don’t understand. You promised I could teach. Miss Brennan said the schoolhouse in Denver—”

“Denver.” Her father laughed—a short, bitter sound. “With what money, girl? You think dreams fill empty stomachs?”

He crossed to the window, his broad shoulders blocking the light. Thomas Perkins had once been a prosperous man. The Perkins Ranch had stretched across two thousand acres of prime Nebraska grazing land, supporting three hundred head of cattle and a dozen hands. But the Great Depression had been merciless, and the drought that followed had broken something fundamental in the land and in her father.

They’d lost half the herd. The Federal Land Bank had come calling, and Thomas Perkins, proud man that he was, had found himself with only one asset left to bargain with: his daughter.

“Caleb Kincaid is a good man,” her father said, still staring out the window. “Solid. His ranch is thriving—water rights secure, cattle healthy. He needs a wife, a mother for his children.”

“He needs a servant,” Emma whispered. “An unpaid nursemaid.”

Now Thomas turned, and she saw something flash in his eyes—shame, perhaps, or anger at her for speaking the truth aloud.

“You’ll have security. A home. Children of your own in time. That’s more than most women can say.”

“Most women get to choose.”

The words hung between them like a slap. Emma felt tears prickling behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She’d learned early that tears were currency wasted on her father. Thomas Perkins was a practical man, a rancher’s man who measured worth in tangible things—acres, cattle, water, grain. Sentiment was for those who could afford it.

“I don’t even know him,” Emma said quietly.

“You will.” Her father’s tone softened slightly. “He’s coming for supper tomorrow night. You’ll meet then.”

“How generous. A whole evening to become acquainted with my future husband.”

“Emma.” Warning in his voice now. “This isn’t some romantic novel. This is survival. His and ours. The marriage contract includes enough to save this ranch, to pay off the bank, to keep your mother and brothers fed through next winter. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She understood perfectly. She was being sold. Oh, they’d wrap it in prettier words—arrangement, agreement, beneficial union. But the truth was as stark as winter bones. Her body, her future, her very self in exchange for her family’s survival.

“Does Mother know?” Emma asked.

Something flickered across her father’s weathered face.

“She knows what needs to be done.”

Which meant yes, and meant Mildred Perkins had cried herself sick over it, and meant Emma’s two younger brothers—eleven-year-old Tommy and nine-year-old Elias—would grow up on land purchased with their sister’s freedom. They’d probably never even understand the true cost.

“What about what I want?”

The words came out smaller than Emma intended—the voice of the child she’d been before the world taught her that wanting was a luxury. Her father crossed to her then, and for a moment she thought he might embrace her, might offer some comfort in this impossible situation. Instead, he placed one rough hand on her shoulder, squeezed once, and said, “Want is for the wealthy, daughter. We do what we must.”

He left her there in the study, surrounded by maps of land that would remain in the Perkins name only because she was willing to sacrifice hers.

The rest of that day passed in a strange fog. Emma moved through the familiar rooms of the ranch house—the only home she’d ever known—as though seeing them for the first time and the last time simultaneously. The kitchen where she’d learned to bake bread at her mother’s side. The parlor where she’d practiced her letters, dreaming of the day she might teach other children to read. The porch where she’d sat on summer evenings watching lightning dance across distant mountains and imagining a future that had looked nothing like this.

Her mother found her there as twilight fell, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and burning orange.

Mildred Perkins was a small woman, fine-boned and delicate, though years of ranch life had weathered her hands and lined her face. She’d been beautiful once—Emma had seen the daguerreotype from her parents’ wedding day—but hardship had a way of eroding beauty like water wore down stone.

“I wanted better for you,” Mildred said quietly, settling onto the porch step beside her daughter. “I wanted you to choose. To marry for love the way young women in those novels you read always do.”

Emma said nothing. What was there to say?

“Caleb Kincaid lost his wife three years ago,” her mother continued. “Fever took her, sudden and cruel. Left him with three babies, the youngest not yet walking. People say he hasn’t been the same since. Works himself near to death trying to fill the silence.”

“How convenient for him.”

“Emma.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I know this isn’t your doing.” Emma drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them like a child seeking comfort. “I just thought I’d have more time. More choice. More...” She trailed off. “More.”

Mildred reached over and took her daughter’s hand. Her grip was strong despite her small size—a lifetime of ranch work left its mark.

“Listen to me. I know this isn’t the future you imagined. But Caleb Kincaid is not a cruel man. I’ve made inquiries. He’s fair, hardworking, respected in Valentine. His ranch prospers. His children are said to be sweet-natured.”

“You’re describing a horse I might purchase, Mother, not a man I’m to marry.”

A sad smile crossed Mildred’s face. “When I married your father, I barely knew him. Three weeks of courtship and most of that chaperoned. I was terrified on my wedding day, certain I’d made a terrible mistake.” She paused, staring out at the darkening land. “But we built something together. It wasn’t the romance of novels, but it was real, solid. We made a life, Emma. We made you.”