Chapter 1

The wagons stopped in a shallow bend of a creek where cottonwoods leaned close enough together to pretend at shelter. The prairie rolled away in all directions, pale and endless beneath a hard blue sky. It looked peaceful in the way a held breath looks peaceful.

Thomas Halley wiped his brow with his sleeve and grinned at Moira.

“Reckon we’ll rest here an hour,” he called. “Water the oxen. Let the little one cool down.”

Moira shifted the baby on her shoulder and smiled back. Thomas always tried to make rough places sound temporary. That was his gift. He walked toward her, boots kicking up dust, and for a moment the world felt small and manageable—just husband, wife, child, and a horizon they would conquer together.

An arrow took him in the back.

Moira heard the sound—a violent hiss—and saw Thomas jerk forward mid-step. The grin vanished from his face as if wiped away. He looked down, confused, at the dark shaft protruding from beneath his ribs.

“Tom?” she whispered.

He tried to turn toward her.

The second arrow buried itself high in his chest. The force spun him halfway around. Blood bloomed across his shirt. His hand went to the wound, fingers slick and red.

On the ridge above the creek bed, three riders appeared—faces streaked in red and black, bows already drawn again.

Thomas took one staggering step toward his wife.

The third arrow drove straight into his throat.

The sound he made was small and broken. Blood poured down his neck. His eyes found Moira’s—wide now, full of warning, apology, love. He tried to speak her name. Only a wet choke came out.

He fell to his knees, then into the dust.

And did not rise.

Moira’s scream ripped across the creek bed.