Her Disguised Mail-Order Groom (Preview)

Chapter One

“Lottie!” Wyatt’s voice carried across the yard as he ran toward her, his boots kicking up clouds of dust in his wake. “Mr. Montgomery’s ridin’ up the north trail!”

Loretta O’Rourke stood on the weathered porch of the ranch house, her calloused fingers gripping the railing as her eyes drifted across the prairie that stretched endlessly in a sea of gold and green, broken only by the serpentine cottonwoods marking Morgan’s Creek in the distance. The Montana sky bled with the colors of fiery promise –deep reds and opulent golds that stretched across the prairie like a banner unfurled for battle, much like the colors Loretta’s papa used to describe in his bedtime stories. Now, those stories were all she had left of him –that and the sprawling Blackstone Ranch that stretched as far as the eye could see across the windswept prairie of 1875.

The view had not changed since her father had first staked his claim there, though everything else had. She took a deep breath and noticed the scent of sage mingled with that of fresh-cut hay and sweet alfalfa, carried on a wind that promised coming storms. Wood smoke curled lazily outward from the kitchen chimney, bringing with it the savory aroma that spoke of home.

Loretta’s heart raced, beating most erratically beneath her buxom frame as she lifted her eyes toward the road where she noticed Calvin Montgomery’s approach stirring up more than just prairie dust. Each hoofbeat rippling through the ground seemed to echo the pulse of her racing heart. She could not quite stifle the shudder that passed through her, though she shrugged it off, smoothing her skirts with practiced ease and brushing a stray lock of mahogany hair from her damp temple. To anyone watching, she was composed –a pillar of resolve –but inside, her thoughts spun like a colt penned in too small a corral.

The screen door creaked, drawing her attention. Sylvia, Wyatt’s gangly twin sister, stood in the shadowed doorframe, wiping her hands on her apron, her youthful energy barely contained and  laced with unease. “He’s come courtin’ again, hasn’t he?” she sneered. “That snake in boots!”

“I reckon he’s come to make good on his threats, Lottie,” Wyatt muttered, his voice cracking between boyish tenor and manly bass. “If that man so much as lays a hand on you, I’ll-”

Sylvia cut her brother off as she tugged on her apron strings. “You don’t think he’ll really do something, do you, Wyatt?”

“Sylvia, take that stew off the fire and make yourself scarce!” Loretta commanded. Sylvia obeyed hastily, disappearing into the house, heeding the authoritative tone in her older sister’s voice.

Loretta turned her attention to her brother next, noticing the tenseness in his growing muscles. At fifteen, he was already showing  signs of the man he would become, and his protective instincts toward his sisters grew stronger with each passing day, much like his shoulders which seemed to broaden with each day’s labor. His forest green eyes, so like their mothers, held a wariness beyond his years.

Her tone was calm when she spoke, despite the erratic beat of her heart. “Wyatt, no matter what happens, don’t do anything rash. Remember –we handle our problems with our heads, not our fists.”

A growing rumble of hoofbeats announced Calvin Montgomery’s arrival before his broad-shouldered silhouette emerged on the hill. The sight was almost regal –the dying light catching his angular face, chiseling him out of the dusky backdrop. The magnificent, black stallion beneath him seemed almost small compared to his rider’s size. The horse snorted, restless and sleek with sweat, rearing slightly as his rider pulled him into a sharp halt at the base of the house.

“Evenin’, Miss Loretta,” he called, his voice smooth and slow, like molasses poured over a blade as he removed his hat with a motion that rippled across his broad shoulders. Dismounting in one swift motion, he loomed larger than life, his vest pulling taut across a chest built for conquest. His grey eyes, cold as January frost, locked onto her, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Loretta noticed how his smile did not reach his eyes –it never had in all the time she had known him. At twenty-eight, he carried himself with the confident swagger of a man who had never been denied anything he truly wanted, each movement a reminder of the coiled strength beneath his tailored vest and polished gun belt.

“Mr. Montgomery,” Loretta returned evenly, ignoring the wild thrum of her heart. She stood her ground, but the weight of his presence seemed to press down on her, making the air thick and oppressive. Despite their long acquaintance, she had always refused to use his Christian name. She did not like the man, but more than that –she did not trust him. “This is rather unexpected. I am afraid I’m not receivin’ social calls at the moment-”

“You’re lookin’ lovely as ever,” he cut in, his gaze crawling over her in a way that made her skin prickle most alarmingly. “Even black suits you just fine.” Calvin climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, each board creaking in protest under his heavy boots and sturdy frame. The wooden railing shuddered lightly as his massive hand gripped it, almost as though testing the strength of the house itself.

Loretta forced her voice to remain steady, though her palms had begun to sweat. “Black is the color of mourning and respect, Mr. Montgomery. Somethin’, I trust you understand.” The words hung in the air like a challenge.

“Now, Loretta,” he retorted, his powerful frame taking up all the available space in front of her, crowding her deliberately. “Your pa and mine had an understandin’ about joining our ranches. Don’t pretend like you’re not aware.” His voice was honey-sweet, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

“My father,” she said carefully, noting how Calvin’s jaw clenched at the use of the word father, “wished for an alliance between our families, that’s true, but he would never have forced my hand in marriage, especially not before a proper mourning has passed.”

Behind her, she could sense Wyatt stiffen, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the edge of the doorframe. Behind the screen door, Sylvia stood motionless, her eyes wide with a combination of fascination and dread, her flat chest heaving with excitement at the unfolding drama. The girl lived for moments like these, much to Loretta’s concern. The twins’ unease added palpable weight to the already charged atmosphere. Calvin’s eyes flickered towards the boy. “Your brother there’s got fire in him, just like your pa did. Shame he won’t be much use against the likes of me,” he took another step closer, the leather of his worn boots scuffing against the worn planks. A faint aroma of bourbon drifted towards Loretta, mingling with the sweat and dust clinging to his shirt as his massive hands gripped the porch railing on either side of her –trapping her.

Loretta straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze despite the stench that made her stomach churn. “Wyatt’s got more backbone than most men twice his age,” she said, her voice firm. “And he knows the difference between courage and recklessness.” The words were more intended as a warning to Wyatt, but Calvin chuckled.

“Recklessness is what keeps men like me alive, Loretta. Maybe it’s time you realized that your ranch, your land, your family –it all needs a man’s hand to guide it.”

The hidden meaning behind his words were not lost on her. “Perhaps,” Loretta said coolly, her hazel eyes narrowing, “but not your hand.”

The flash of anger in Calvin’s eyes was brief but unmistakable, like a storm cloud passing quickly over the calm façade. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a threatening murmur. “You’d do well to reconsider. Blackstone’s future depends on it,” he said as one large hand shot out, faster than she had expected for a man his size, and caught her chin, forcing her to look at him for a moment that to Loretta, felt like a lifetime. Her cheeks burned as her face flushed in anger and indignation, but she held her ground. She would be damned before letting him see her scared. “Blackstone’s future depends on its family, Mr. Montgomery. And we don’t need another predator circlin’ the herd.” She forced the words out, struggling to move her jaw against his firm grip.

His fingers tightened briefly before releasing her, a single muscle working strenuously in his jaw. His lips twisted into a snarl, but before he could speak, the creak of the door broke the moment. Wyatt stepped out, their father’s Winchester file in hand, the weight of his resolve more striking than his still-developing muscles. “Leave,” The boy said simply, his voice low and steady.

Calvin stepped away, amusement dancing across his face. “I’ll leave,” he said, his grey eyes turning to steel. “But this ain’t over, Loretta,” he growled as he placed his hat on his head, covering his dirty ash-blonde hair. He smiled at them, the corners of his mouth curling upwards as his eyes remained cold and dangerous. “Don’t think you can keep me from what’s mine. Your pa wanted it, my pa wanted it, and this whole territory knows it’s meant to be. And I always get what’s mine.”

The threat hung in the air like gun smoke as he turned his back on them and strode back toward his horse. His movements reminded Loretta of a grizzly bear –moving with a deadly grace that is beautiful in its power and terrifying in its potential for violence. The sound of his boots thudding down the porch steps was almost as loud as Loretta’s heartbeat. The horse snorted and sidestepped as he mounted, sensing its master’s mood, but Calvin’s harsh grip brought it under control with brutal efficiency.

Loretta did not allow herself to exhale until the horse’s powerful strides had faded into the twilight. Even then, her hands trembled as they clutched the railing, knuckles white against the weathered wood. Sylvia burst onto the porch, her hands vibrating with nervousness and excitement as she reached for her sister’s arm.

“Lottie, are you all right?” her voice quivered, and Loretta noticed something new within her wide, green eyes –wariness perhaps? “You were amazing, standin’ up to him like that! I-”

Loretta silenced her sister with a faint shake of her head. “Go inside, Sylvia. Start settin’ the table for supper.”

Sylvia hesitated for a moment but relented, though she cast one last, defiant glance towards the horizon. “That man’s a devil,” she muttered before disappearing through the screen door.

Loretta turned her gaze to Wyatt, who still stood rigidly, the rifle cradled in his hands like a sacred artifact. The protective young man was no longer staring at the trail, but at her, his youthful face taught with something deeper than concern. “I should’ve run him off,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.

“No,” she replied firmly, crossing the porch to him. “What you did was enough. You didn’t let him bully you, Wyatt. That takes courage –not brute force. I am proud of you.” The boy’s shoulders sagged slightly, and his head dipped slightly.

“I hate the way he talks to you. The way he looks at you –is like he owns you, like he can just take whatever he wants.”

Loretta’s chest tightened, both from her brother’s heartfelt words and the unrelenting truth of them. she reached out and cupped the side of his face, her rough fingertips brushing against his cheek. “You and Sylvia are my strength, Wyatt. I can stand against him because I know what I’m fightin’ for.”

Wyatt nodded, the faintest glimmer of relief softening his expression. Still, his gaze drifted toward the horizon, as if daring Calvin Montgomery to return. He reminded Loretta of a young wolf guarding his den, and she had to swallow hard to force the lump that had formed in her throat back down.

Dinner was a quiet affair, though not without its usual quirks. Sylvia’s chatter about a mischievous colt at the stables brought a faint smile to Wyatt’s lips, and Loretta felt more warmed by their simple exchange than by the stew. These moments –these small pieces of normal life, were what she fought to preserve. The hours crawled by, marked only by the rhythmic calls of crickets and the occasional lowing of cattle. When Loretta finally retired to bed, Sylvia peeked in, appearing in the doorway like a ghost in her white nightgown.

“Lottie? Are you still awake?” The innocence and vulnerability in her young voice broke Loretta’s resolve and she gently patted the bed beside her. Sylvia came in, all long limbs and uncertainty. “Are you not afraid?” she asked carefully, “of what Calvin might do?”

“No,” Loretta declared bravely. “I am only afraid of failing you and Wyatt, of losing what papa had built.”

Sylvia frowned, twisting the hem of her dress as she perched on the edge of Loretta’s bed. “But what if he doesn’t give up? What if he … hurts us?” her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He won’t,” Wyatt cut in as he leaned against the doorway. “Not while I’m here.”

Loretta glanced back and forth between them, her heart swelling with equal parts pride and worry. “We’ll face it together, no matter what comes.”

After they had bid each other good night, Loretta reached for an envelope on her nightstand, taking the paper within into her hands to read it once again. The paper was soft from wear as her fingers had traced over the carefully written words yet again.

To Whom It May Concern,

I write to you from the Blackstone Ranch in the Montana Territory, seeking a gentleman of good character and strong constitution who might be interested in a marriage of mutual benefit and, God willing, eventual affection.

I am twenty-seven years old, capable, and healthy, trained in all manners of ranch work, as well as the gentler arts of keeping a proper home. I am offering partnership in a prosperous cattle operation of 1,000 acres, currently running five hundred head of prime beef cattle, with room for expansion. The ranch itself includes a well-maintained two-story home, adequate outbuildings, and some of the finest grazing land in the territory.

The gentleman I seek should be experienced in ranch management, of sound moral character, and willing to take on the responsibility of not just a wife, but also guardianship of my two younger siblings –twins of fifteen years who are hardworking and well-mannered. He must be willing to protect what is ours and help it grow –not seek to simply possess it.

I am not looking for a man who merely wants land and livestock. I seek a partner who understands that marriage, like a ranch, requires tender care and hard work in equal measures. Someone who can be both gentle with family and firm with those who threaten what we have built.

If you believe you might be such a man, please respond to Miss L. O’Rourke, care of General Delivery, Morgan’s Creek, Montana Territory.

Yours Sincerely,

Loretta O’Rourke

The words carried with them the weight of hope, yet they felt so fragile, as if they might dissolve under the force of her doubts. Loretta had agonized over each and every word, trying to strike the right balance between practical and personal. She had not mentioned Calvin or the increasing pressure she was under –that would simply not be proper, and besides, any man worth his salt would surely understand the situation when he arrived. She had also debated whether to include her age, knowing that twenty-seven might scare off some prospects, but, in the end, honesty had won. Better to have fewer responses from honest men than a flood of letters from fortune hunters and scalawags.

However, the most difficult part had been deciding whether to mention the twins. Some of her friends in town had advised against it, saying no man would want to take on ready-made responsibilities on top of the demanding ranch work. But Loretta felt that any man who would be scared off by Sylvia and Wyatt was not the kind of man she needed –or wanted –anyway. The right man would understand that they came as a package –the spirited girl with stars in her eyes, the serious boy trying so hard to be a man, and herself –somehow both mother and sister to them since their father’s passing, and on top of that –the impressive, yet in need of hard work, Blackstone Ranch.

Loretta sighed, that was quite a large package deal indeed. She closed her eyes as she folded the letter once again, sending a silent prayer for a man –the right man –to come to their rescue.

Chapter Two

Six Months Later

“Pass that coffee, would you, Mr. McCade?” Luke Callahan asked, his lean face creased in a friendly smile. He was a handsome man, Gunner had thought –the kind of looks a courtship correspondence bride would be pleased to find waiting for her. Sandy hair, clear blue eyes, and an immaculate clean-shaven jaw. Everything Gunner was not, with his perpetual dark stubble, amber eyes, broken nose, and the small scar that carved a white line through his left eyebrow. Gunner carefully eyed the man sat across from him. They had been traveling together for the last three days. Gunner had joined their procession quietly, offering no more than the impression of a drifter with little to lose.

He wasn’t lying, not completely.

Luke Callahan was the only one who had truly taken him in, striking up conversations about everything from weather to the future. Too earnest for the West, Gunner thought. Too bright eyed.

“You ever been to Blackstone Ranch, over by Morgan’s Creek?” Luke asked, his tone casual but his interest obvious.

Gunner adjusted his hat, shadowing his expression. “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

“That’s where I’m headed.” Luke said, his voice tinged with pride and his smile wide. “There’s a woman there – Loretta O’Rourke. She’s got a fire to her, and a heart just as big.” He chuckled, looking out into the wide-open plains that stretched as far as the eye could see. “She’s the reason I came this way. If things go right, maybe she’ll be the reason I stay.”

“That brew is strong enough to float a horseshoe,” Gunner had replied while passing the tin cup. “Just the way coffee is supposed to be.” The mention of Loretta sent a ripple through him, though his face betrayed nothing. He had heard of Blackstone Ranch, and more importantly, he had heard stories of Loretta’s supposed fortune.

“You talk like you’ve already won her over,” Gunner said.

Luke smiled, pulling a stack of letters from his coat pocket. “I like  to think I’ve got a chance. A woman like that – she’s worth the risk.” He had touched the letters reverently. “Can you imagine? A woman who not only inherited her daddy’s ranch, but managed to keep it runnin’ this past year since her husband passed? Most would’ve sold up and moved East.”

“Sounds like quite a woman,” Gunner had remarked, noting how Luke’s eyes softened at the mention of his intended. Then, the distant thunder of hooves approaching shattered the peaceful quiet surrounding them.

The wild Montana wind whipped across the valley, carrying with it the sharp bite of sage, the sting of gun smoke, and the sweet perfume of early summer wildflowers. Purple lupines dotted the buffalo grass, their delicate blooms crushed between boots and hooves as the attack unfolded. Overhead, a hawk wheeled in slow, deliberate circles, its cry swallowed by the chaos below.

The air, so clean and brisk just moments ago, now reeked of gunpowder and sweat, thickened by the coppery scent of blood. Gunner McCade’s fingers tightened around his Colt Peacemaker –the worn walnut grip already slick with sweat. His broad shoulders pressed against the weathered oak of the Conestoga wagon he had ducked behind for cover, splinters catching on his buckskin jacket as, yet another bullet tore through the wood. The sharp crack of the shot echoed, drowning out the frantic cries of settlers scrambling for cover.

The wagon-train had been following the Bozeman Trail northbound when they were attacked –six wagons strung out along the narrow valley –easy pickings for men who knew the territory well.

The first shot had taken the wagon master clean off his horse, his white beard turning to crimson as he toppled. The coffee pot shattered, dark liquid hissing in the campfire as chaos erupted around them. Horses screamed, their high-pitched terror mixing with the crack of rifles and the metallic shriek of wagon wheels as settlers tried to save themselves.

“Stay down!” Gunner barked at the settlers. The caravan erupted into chaos, with women screaming and men fumbling for weapons.

“Gunner McCade!” Jack Rawlins’s voice rang out above the chaos, cutting through the panicked cries. “You didn’t think you could run forever, did you?”

Luke shot Gunner a sharp look. “They’re after you?”

Gunner’s grip tightened on his revolver. “Looks that way.”

“Care to explain? Luke asked, even as bullets flew past them.

“No time.” Gunner said, his tone clipped.

“Where is the money, Spitfire?” The familiar drawl of Jack Hawkins carried across the ravine. Gunner could picture him clearly in his mind, sitting tall in the saddle, that stupid silver-trimmed hat pushed back on his head, tobacco juice staining his sandy beard. “Give it up and maybe we’ll let the rest of these fine folks live!”

“Still wearin’ that ridiculous hat, Jack?” Gunner called as he tried to draw fire away from the settlers. “Thought at least you’d have better taste by now!” The bounty was buried three counties back, sewn into the lining of an old Confederate greatcoat and cached beneath a lightning struck oak. Those bastards had left him to rot in Yuma Territorial Prison while they had made off with their share. Two years he had spent breaking rocks in that God forsaken desert hell, watching scorpions skitter across his cell floor at night, the guards’ lanterns casting demon-like shadows on the walls.

“Always with the smart mouth,” Mexican Pete drawled from somewhere to the right. The former vaquero’s spurs jingled as he moved through the grass. “Should have cut out your tongue when we had the chance, cabrón!”

“Come over here and try it. I dare you!” Gunner squeezed off a shot in the direction of the voice. “Might go better than last time –or did you forget who put that limp in your step?”

The answering volley of gunfire splintered the wagon beside him.

“You always were a fine shot, Spitfire,” Hawkins called, and Gunner could hear the cruel smile in his voice. “I’m feelin’ generous McCade! Hand over what’s mine, and I might just let these fine folks live!”

The settler’s fearful murmurs rose, and Gunner’s jaw tightened. “Your share?” Gunner’s laugh was as bitter as trail dust. “That money belonged to the widow in Tombstone – the one whose husband your gang murdered! I was just returning’ what was stolen!”

Jack laughed, the sound cold and sharp. “That’s right partner. And you’re going to dig it up for me. Right now!”

Luke moved to Gunner’s side. “You know each other?”

“Used to,” Gunner muttered. “Now he’s just a reminder of bad decisions.”

Another shot rang out, cutting through the conversation. Gunner ducked and fired back with careful precision. The settlers scrambled and scattered, some taking cover while others fled into the open. Jack’s gang spread out, their bullets kicking up dirt and splintering wood. Gunner’s focus narrowed, and he fired a few quick shots, aiming to buy the settlers more time.

Through the gap between broken planks, Gunner caught sight of Luke Callahan sprawled in the buffalo grass, letters spilling from his coat pocket like pale butterflies as he clutched his side. “Damn it,” Gunner growled, rushing to Luke’s side

“Last chance, McCade!!” Hawkins’s voice turned hard. “Or we start burnin’ wagons!”

The threat was not idle, Gunner knew that much. He had witnessed with his own eyes how Hawkins burned out an entire village just to flush out one man. The smell of smoke mixing with gunpowder hung thick in the morning air. One wagon was already ablaze, barrels of sugar and flour exploding in the heat with dull, thunderous booms. A Bible tumbled from the inferno, its pages aflame like a fallen angel’s wings –the gold-leafed edges melting into bright rivulets. Luke’s breathing was shallow as he forced the words out, “Blackstone Ranch… Loretta…”

“Save your strength,” Gunner said, his voice rough.

Luke shook his head, his gaze locking onto Gunner’s. “Promise me… you’ll get there.”

Gunner surged upwards, his muscles bunching beneath his sweat-soaked shirt as he squeezed off his last three shots in rapid succession. The first caught one outlaw in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second found another bandit’s torch hand, sending the burning brand spinning into the grass. The third –his last bullet –took Mexican Pete in the leg as the man tried to rise from behind his fallen horse. He had not earned the nickname “Spitfire” for nothing. But it was not enough. It would never be enough in the lawless, wild west.

“You’re slippin’ Spitfire!” Hawkins called out. “Time was you got them all!”

“Time was you weren’t such a back-shootin’ snake!” Gunner shouted back, ducking as more bullets chipped the wagon wood around him and the cries of the settlers turned silent. Gunner felt a lump of anger and disappointment form in his throat “What happened to code, Jack? No women, no children!”

“Code don’t pay as well as bounties!” Hawkins spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Besides, you broke the code first, runnin’ off with our share!”

Silence fell over the scene, heavy as a wool blanket, broken only by the crackle of flames and the soft thud of boots as his former gang members picked through the wreckage. The morning sun cast long shadows through the valley, turning the scene into a nightmare of twisted metal and scattered dreams. A single wagon wheel spun lazily, its axle creaking in a mournful dirge.

Luke Callahan’s letters lay scattered in the blood-stained grass, and Gunner’s fingers brushed the bundle of correspondence as he army-crawled forwards. The paper was soft from repeated handling and the feminine script flowing across the pages smelled faintly of lavender. Miss Loretta O’Rourke’s words painted a picture of a woman widowed, both practical and passionate about her ranch –and in desperate need of aid. Gunner stayed silent as he crawled, aiming for an abandoned wolf den. He knew they would not find him there, he just needed to wait it out.

“Check the bodies!” Hawkins ordered. “He’s got to be somewhere!”

Gunner’s hand moved to the identification papers in Callahan’s coat. The dead man was about his height, similar build. Different coloring, but who would know? The gang was looking for Gunner McCade, with his dark hair and amber eyes, not Luke Callahan, respectable rancher from Kansas with sandy hair and summer-sky-colored eyes. And Morgan Creek was still three day’s ride through Crow territory –giving him plenty of time to perfect his story. “Sorry, kid.” He murmured as he passed Luke, pocketing the documents.

“He ain’t here!” someone shouted. “The bugger must’ve slipped away during the volley!”

“Mount up!” Hawkins’s voice carried an edge of frustration. “He can’t have gone far –we’ll track him!”

“Send word ahead. Five hundred in gold to anyone who spots Spitfire McCade. I want eyes on every trail and town between here and California!”

As their hoofbeats faded into the distance, Gunner emerged from behind the wagon, his sore and strained muscles protesting every movement. At six-foot-four, he had never been good at staying still, and the cramped position he had been hiding in had left him stiff. Luke Callahan’s papers that were tucked securely in his vest pocket, pressed against his heart like an accusation.

“Just temporarily,” Gunner muttered to himself as he gathered what supplies he could salvage from the carnage –hardtack from an unburned wagon, a canteen still miraculously full, and ammunition from the fallen bandits. “Get to Morgan Creek, make the widow believe I’m Callahan, find her bounty, and be on my merry way to California.”

The sound of approaching hoofbeats sent him diving for cover, but it was just a loose horse –Luke’s bay gelding, still saddled and spooked. Gunner caught its reins, soothing the animal with practiced hands. The horse stamped impatiently, eager to get away from the smell of blood and smoke. Gunner swung into the saddle, adjusting his gun belt, and checking his scavenged ammunition. The sun was climbing higher, and Morgan Creek was three days’ hard ride through territory where a man could lose his scalp as easy as his way.

“’Course,” he said to himself, turning the horse north, “could be that Miss O’Rourke would shoot a man who showed up claimin’ to be her intended.” He touched the letters in his pocket. “Seems like the practical thing to do, way she writes –smart woman like that, runnin’ her own ranch…” He smiled despite himself. “Might be worth gettin’ shot at just to meet her.”

The bay gelding picked its way carefully through the lupines, their purple heads nodding in the Montana wind. Behind them, the wagon train burned, sending black smoke curling into the summer sky like a signal. Ahead lay Morgan Creek, Blackstone Ranch, and a widow who had written about wanting a partner, not a romance. Gunner McCade –now wearing a dead man’s name –turned his borrowed horse toward the northern horizon and whatever justice or judgement awaited him there. He rode toward the promise of a new beginning, the weight of Luke Callahan’s identity heavy on his shoulders.