Chapter 1

The train came out of the red-rock cut at dusk, breathing steam like a wounded animal that refused to lie down. Its iron wheels shrieked as it slowed for water, lanterns swaying and carving long yellow scars across the desert floor. The whistle echoed once—low and hollow—then faded, leaving only the hiss of heat and pressure.

The riders waited where the land dipped, half-swallowed by mesquite and stone.

At their head sat Ione Beaumont, reins loose in one gloved hand, posture relaxed enough to look careless. It was a posture earned through survival. Beneath the brim of her black hat, her green eyes were alert and calculating, weighing distance and timing with merciless clarity. Men often mistook her beauty for softness. Those who did rarely lived long enough to reconsider.

Seven riders waited behind her. They followed her because she planned relentlessly and never spent lives carelessly.

“Clean and quiet,” Ione said. “We take the strongbox and vanish. No shooting unless I give the word.”

They moved as one. Spurs whispered. Hooves pressed into sand instead of striking stone. The train loomed closer, steel sides glowing faintly with heat, coal smoke thick and bitter in the air.