A Bride for the Disguised Rancher (Preview)

Chapter One

The train platform at Rawlins station was bustling with activity, the shouts of passengers calling out final farewells rising above the hissing steam of the locomotive. Mothers embraced their children one last time, husbands kissed their wives on the cheek, and young couples exchanged teary promises to write. The air was thick with coal dust and the distress of parting families.

Livia Stroud stood apart from the crowd, clutching her worn leather suitcase with both hands. She hadn’t expected her family to see her off. Her parents had been too ashamed to come, and her sister Clara had been too weak to leave her bed. Even so, the loneliness of her solitary departure cut deeper than she anticipated. She glanced around at the other passengers, their tearful goodbyes a stark reminder of the life she was leaving behind.

No one waved to her. No one lingered to watch the train pull away.

When the conductor called for passengers to board, she adjusted her grip on the suitcase and stepped forward. Her traveling dress was neat, the high collar fastened tightly against her throat, but her trembling hands betrayed her nerves. A few other passengers brushed past her in the narrow aisle, the scent of cologne and perfumes mingling with the lingering coal dust in the air.

She found her seat by the window and placed the suitcase at her feet. Outside, the platform was a blur of motion as passengers found their compartments, their goodbyes turning into final waves. She kept her gaze fixed on the activity beyond the glass, but she could feel the weight of solitude already pressing down on her.

When the train finally jolted forward, she closed her eyes, willing her breath to steady. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks was a soothing sound, but her thoughts were anything but calm as she recalled her last moments with her family, just the night before.

***

The house was steeped in shadows, the oil lamp on the small table casting flickering light over Papa’s hunched form. He hadn’t moved from his chair since Livia had called him to supper, his broad, calloused hands folded tightly together on the table. His head hung low, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

She hesitated in the doorway, clutching her shawl tightly around her as she watched him. before stepping into the dimly lit room. “Papa.”

He didn’t lift his head immediately, but his hands unclasped slightly with a tremor she wasn’t used to seeing in him. Finally, he looked up, his face lined and weary. The years had not been kind to him, and the past few months had aged him even further. His hair, once dark and thick, was now heavily streaked with gray, and his usually steady eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with sorrow.

“You’re doing a brave thing, Livia,” he said hoarsely, quietly. “Braver than I ever did.”

She blinked, startled by the rare show of emotion from a man who had always kept his feelings tightly locked away.

“Papa, don’t say that,” she whispered, moving closer to sit across from him. “You’ve done everything you could for this family.”

He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “Everything? If I had done everything, you wouldn’t have to leave. If I were a better man, a stronger one, I’d have found Tom. I’d have found help for Clara. I wouldn’t be watching my youngest child walk out that door because I can’t keep this family afloat.” His voice caught, and he fell silent.

His words cut through Livia like a blade. “Papa, you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened,” she said softly. “None of this is your fault.”

“It’s my duty to provide for this family,” he said, his voice breaking. “I failed Tom. I failed Clara. And now I’m failing you.”

Livia reached out, her smaller hand covering his rough, work-worn one. “You didn’t fail me, Papa. You gave me everything—strength, courage, and a sense of duty. You taught me to fight for the people I love. That’s why I’m doing this. Because of you.”

He stared at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, but then he turned his hand over to hold hers tightly. “You’re the light of this family, Livia. You’ve kept us together when I couldn’t. And now… now you’re giving up everything for us.”

His voice cracked, and he looked away, ashamed. “I’ll never forgive myself for letting it come to this.”

She squeezed his hand, her own trembling. “You didn’t let it come to this. Life isn’t fair, but we survive it. That’s what you’ve always taught me. We survive.”

His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

“You don’t have to let me go,” she said softly. “I’ll come back. When Clara’s well and the store is running again, I’ll come back.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but the look in his eyes told her he didn’t believe it. “You’ll always have a home here,” he said finally. “No matter what happens.”

Livia nodded, her throat tight as she fought back tears. She couldn’t cry now. If she cried, she’d never be able to leave.

Papa stood suddenly and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind him. She waited to hear the strike of the match against the brick wall, imagining the sharp smell of sulfur as it ignited, and she watched for the wisp of cigar smoke to waft under the door.

Unable to wait for him to come back inside, unsure if she would be able to say goodbye to him, she went to the small living room, where Mama was attempting to darn a sock by firelight. Her hands moved slowly, methodically, as if the task were the only thing keeping her awake. She didn’t turn when Livia entered the room.

“Mama,” Livia said gently, approaching her.

Her mother paused, her shoulders stiffening. For a moment, she seemed to brace herself, and then she turned, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes, once lively and full of warmth, were now dull and tired, ringed beneath by dark shadows that made her look far older than her years.

“You shouldn’t have to do this, Livia,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “You shouldn’t be the one to carry this burden.”

Livia stepped closer, dropping to her knees beside Mama’s chair, placing a hand on her thin arm. “Mama, please don’t do this. I’m not leaving because of a burden. I’m leaving because I want to help.”

“You’ve already helped enough,” Mama whispered. “You’ve done more than your share. Taking care of this house—of me, of Clara… it’s not fair. You should have your own life, your own dreams.”

Livia’s chest tightened. “I do have dreams, Mama. And this is part of them. Clara needs a doctor. We need help. This is the only way.”

Mama shook her head, her lips trembling. “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself.”

“I’m not sacrificing myself,” Livia said firmly. “I’m fighting for us. For Clara. For you. I’ve made my choice. Please, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Mama’s shoulders sagged, and she reached out, pulling Livia into a tight embrace. “You’ve always been so strong,” she murmured, her voice thick with tears. “Stronger than me. I don’t know what we’ll do without you.”

“You’ll manage,” Livia whispered, holding her mother close. “You’re stronger than you think.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, neither willing to let go. Finally, Mama pulled back, cupping Livia’s face in her trembling hands. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise, Mama,” Livia said, though she wasn’t sure how she’d keep it.

***

The train carriage jerked bringing Livia back to the present. A young boy, across the aisle, called for his mother after falling from the seat.

Livia glanced over at the flustered young woman as she tried to comfort her son while holding a baby in her arms. The baby started to wail, and the little boy, not to be outdone, joined in. Livia became aware of two older women muttering about the noise, tutting and tsking away.

Livia leaned across to address the woman and smiled gently. “May I help you, ma’am?”

Although

***

Now, as the train rumbled westward, the mountains that guarded Rawlins were shrinking in the distance, their peaks disappearing behind the wide, open expanse of the territory’s plains.

Livia had always thought of Rawlins as small, but now, as the land stretched endlessly before her, she realized how sheltered she had been. Here, there were no boundaries, no protective walls to keep the world at bay. The vastness of it all made her feel small, as if the world could swallow her whole.

The thought made her shudder, and her heart sank into her shoes as she realized just how far she was from home, from the tiny room she had shared with her sister.

Clara had already fallen asleep last night by the time Livia had come to bed. Her older sister’s shallow breathing filled the quiet space, frail body cocooned beneath the worn quilt. The lamplight cast a soft glow over her face, highlighting her gaunt cheeks and the dark hollows under her eyes.

This is the last night I’ll stay by your side, dear Clara.

Livia knelt by the bedside, heart aching, and brushed a stray strand of hair from Clara’s forehead, fingers pausing for a moment.

“You’re the reason I’m doing this,” she whispered. “You’re the reason I have to go.”

Clara didn’t stir. The only sign of movement was the rise and fall of her thin frame with each labored breath.

“I wish I could stay,” Livia continued, her throat tightening. “I wish I could fix everything without leaving. But I can’t. This is the only way, Clara. I’m going to make sure you get better. I’ll make sure you have the doctor you need, the medicine you need. I’ll make sure Mama and Papa don’t have to worry anymore.”

She paused, tears slipping down her cheeks. “And when you’re better, I’ll come back. I’ll come back, and we’ll be together again. All of us. Like it used to be.”

Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. She couldn’t let herself fall apart. Not now.

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Clara’s temple. “Hold on,” she whispered. “Just a little longer.”

She’d risen slowly, legs trembling beneath her. For a moment, she stood there, looking down at her sister, memorizing every detail of her face. Then, with a final glance, she turned and left the room.

By the time dawn broke, she had already been dressed and ready, standing by the door with her suitcase in hand. The house was silent, her family still asleep. The weight of what she was about to do pressed heavily on her chest.

She’d stepped outside, the cool morning air biting against her cheeks. As the first rays of sunlight lit the horizon, she took one last look at the house, the only home she had ever known.

“I’ll come back,” she’d whispered to herself. “I have to.”

***

The platform at the station only three stops away from Livia’s final destination was a blur of movement, the platform swarming with travelers, porters, and families parting ways.

“Excuse me, miss,” came a cheerful voice. “Is this seat taken?”

Livia turned to see a woman standing in the aisle, her face glowing with a bright smile. She appeared a few years older than Livia, with a confident air that made her seem immediately approachable. She carried a small valise in one hand and a larger carpetbag slung over her shoulder, and her green traveling dress was neat and freshly pressed.

“No, it’s not,” Livia said softly, gesturing to the seat beside her.

“Wonderful! Thank you.” The woman placed her bags neatly on the rack above, then settled into the seat with a graceful efficiency. She smoothed her skirts and turned to Livia, her grin warm and inviting. “I’m Margaret Cromwell, but you can call me Margaret. Just returning home to Douglas. And you?”

“Livia Stroud,” she replied hesitantly. “I’m heading to Douglas as well.”

Margaret’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Oh, it’s a lovely place. Small, yes, but full of good people. Have you been before?”

Livia shook her head. “No, I… I’m moving there.”

Margaret nodded, her gaze softening. “Starting fresh, then? That’s good. There’s something about the west—it has a way of opening up the world, giving you room to grow.”

Livia offered a small smile, her nervous energy slowly ebbing under the cheerful woman’s warmth. “Have you lived there long?” she asked.

“All my life,” Margaret said proudly. “Well, except for trips like this one. I’ve been visiting my sister in Laramie for the past month, but I’m glad to be heading back. My husband will be waiting for me at the station.” Her smile widened at the mention of her husband. “I love my sister dearly, but I missed him so!”

She obviously had deep affection for her husband. It brought a pang of longing to Livia’s chest. She forced herself to focus, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

“What about you, Miss Stroud?” Margaret asked lightly. “Do you have someone waiting for you in Douglas?”

Livia hesitated, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her skirt. “Just—just Livia is fine. And… yes. I’m… to be married.”

Margaret’s expression brightened, and she leaned slightly closer. “That’s exciting. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Jackson Holt,” Livia said quietly, making an effort to keep her voice steady.

Margaret’s brows lifted, and something flickered in her gaze—recognition. Her smile didn’t fade, but she nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, Jackson Holt.”

Livia leaned forward eagerly. “You know him?”

Margaret nodded again. “I do.”

“And?” Livia pressed, hope and anxiety battling in her chest.

Margaret reached over, patting Livia’s hand gently. “He’s a good, hardworking man. You’ll find no better than Jackson Holt.”

The certainty in her voice settled the war in Livia’s chest. She offered a tentative smile, grateful for the reassurance.

Yet her doubts hadn’t entirely dispersed. She still had to meet the man, after all, and though they’d corresponded for a time, she couldn’t be sure how he might appear in person.

The rest of the journey passed in companionable conversation. Margaret’s stories of Douglas painted a vivid picture of life in the small town—the bustling market days, the close-knit community, the beauty of the surrounding land. Livia found herself drawn into Margaret’s warmth, her fears momentarily overshadowed by the easy good nature of her new acquaintance.

When the train finally pulled into the Douglas station, Margaret gathered her bags with ease. As they stepped off the train together, Livia noticed a tall man in a dark suit already waiting on the platform. His face lit up when he saw Margaret.

“There’s Elijah,” Margaret said with a grin, glancing back at Livia. “He’s the town preacher; did I mention that? Don’t be surprised if he’s the one to marry you and Mr. Holt.”

“Oh…” Livia wasn’t sure what to say. Now that she’d finally arrived, the reality of her impending marriage had become a lot more tangible.

Margaret offered her a comforting smile. “You’ll be all right, Livia. Give it time. The west has a way of growing on you.”

“Thank you,” Livia said, but her new friend had already trotted into her husband’s embrace and didn’t hear.

Livia smiled faintly, a bittersweet twinge in her heart. The couple obviously loved one another. Would her own marriage to Jackson Holt hold even a fraction of that tenderness?

As Margaret and her husband—Reverend Cromwell, presumably—disappeared into the crowd, Livia squared her shoulders and looked toward the station entrance. The platform was quieter now as the last handfuls of passengers boarded the train or disembarked into the arms of happy relatives.

She clasped the handle of her suitcase tighter, scanning the area for the man and wagon which the letters had said would take her to her new home.

Her heart thudded in her chest, but Margaret’s words echoed in her mind: You’ll be all right.

For now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Two

Jackson Holt stood at the edge of his porch for a moment after returning to the house for breakfast. One hand gripped the rough wood of the railing as his sharp gaze swept across the vast expanse of land stretching before him. The morning sun had just begun its climb, painting the rolling Wyoming Territory hills in gold and bronze hues. Shadows stretched long over the pasture, cattle dotting the landscape like moving pieces of a living tapestry.

It might have been a sight to soothe another man’s soul, but for Jackson, it was a reminder of the weight he carried. This ranch, built by his father with little more than grit and determination, had once been a source of pride. Now, it served a dual purpose: sanctuary and battleground.

He stepped down from the porch, dust kicking up under his boots as he headed to the pasture. A breeze rustled the prairie grass, stirring the hem of his duster, and he looked up sharply, shoulders tensing under the crisp linen shirt. It hid a lean, muscular frame forged by years spent outdoors, wrangling cattle, mending fences, and handling the kind of hard labor that shaped a man from the inside out. The work had left his hands calloused, his skin tanned, and his body honed to a practical strength.

To the men who worked for him, Jackson was the stalwart leader who held the ranch together. To the outside world, he was a quiet, steady rancher, respected by all, liked by few—a man who asked for nothing but his peace.

In truth, that was all a façade. The Holt Ranch had become the heart of an undercover operation to bring down Victor Blackwell, the corrupt cattle baron whose reach was poisoning the honest folk of Douglas.

Jackson shifted, his hand brushing against the brim of his hat. There was work to be done, as there always was. But today wasn’t like any other day. Today, Livia Stroud was arriving—the woman who would be his wife before the week was out.

The idea was as unsettling as it was necessary, and he quickly pushed it to the back of his mind. Chores took priority, chores like today’s work of checking the pasture where some horses had already been turned out.

After walking the fence line, pausing frequently to scan the boundaries, Jackson rounded the corner of the barn, just as a gruff voice called out from behind him. “Jack, you’re gonna burn a hole in the horizon if you keep stoppin’ and starin’ like that!”

Jackson turned to find Henry Carter leaning against the barn door, his weathered face creased in a knowing smirk.

“Morning, Henry,” Jackson replied tensely.

Henry gave him a long look, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re wound tighter than a fiddle string. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing new,” Jackson replied, brushing past him into the barn.

Henry chuckled, following behind. “Liar. It’s the girl, isn’t it?” he prodded, his voice tinged with amusement. “She’s on her way, and you’re nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Jackson paused, setting a firm hand on the edge of the workbench. He let the moment hang, his jaw tightening.

“I’m not nervous,” he finally muttered, picking up a coiled length of rope and examining it as though it held all the answers to his troubles.

“Sure, you’re not,” Henry snorted. “That’s why you’ve been up since before dawn, with ants in your pants. Mae done told me.”

Jackson ignored the jab, busying himself with the saddle he’d started cleaning before breakfast. His movements were deliberate, his fingers deft as they worked the leather, but his mind wandered.

He didn’t need Henry pointing out what he already knew—he wasn’t ready for this. Not for Livia Stroud, and not for the complications her presence might bring. Yet, here he was, about to bind his life to hers, for the sake of appearances.

“She gets here today,” he admitted at last, quieter, resigned.

Henry leaned against a stall door, folding his arms across his chest. “And you ain’t sure about it.”

Jackson straightened, turning to face the older man, but his expression was unreadable, the faint lines around his eyes giving away nothing.

Finally, Henry let out a huff. “Any man says he’s sure about gettin’ hitched is a liar. Any man who ain’t sure about gettin’ hitched is a darn fool.”

He glanced out the open barn door toward the ranch house, doubtless checking that Mae, his wife of many years, wasn’t listening.

“It’s not about being sure,” he continued. “It’s about doing what needs to be done.” He tilted his head at Jackson, his gaze softening. “You’ve always been good at takin’ the weight of the world on your shoulders, Jack. Just don’t forget—there’s more to livin’ than duty.”

The words hung heavy in the air, but Jackson didn’t respond. Duty was all he had left. He gave a brief nod and returned to the saddle, rubbing with slightly more vigor.

Once that was done, he went out to the pasture to check the horses. He took on task after task until they began to blur together, a buffer against the uncertainty of inviting a woman into his life.

By midday, the ranch chores were done. He had thrown himself into every task with a focus that left no room for distractions. Every swing of the hammer, every loop of the rope, every stride across the pasture—it all served to keep his thoughts from drifting to the train station in Douglas and the stranger who would soon become his wife.

Yet no matter how hard he worked, the image of her photograph—the faint lines of her face, the resolve in her eyes—hovered at the edges of his mind. Livia Stroud had been clear in her letters: she was coming out of necessity, not romance. Her sister was ill, her family drowning in debt. She needed a lifeline, and he’d offered her one in the form of his ranching profits on which they could comfortably live.

It was a business arrangement, plain and simple. But as Jackson brushed a hand over the fencepost he’d just repaired, a knot of unease tightened in his chest. Could she play her part convincingly if it was just business? And more importantly, could he keep her safe in the dangerous world he inhabited?

***

The train station in Douglas bustled with activity, alive with voices and footsteps, luggage being shuffled along, and the faint whistle of a departing train. Jackson stood to one side, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the platform in the late afternoon sun. He’d left the wagon and his pinto mare Bonnie hitched up on the side of the street behind him.

He scanned the crowd, sharp eyes narrowing as he searched for one Livia Stroud. The heat of the day clung to him, the brim of his hat shading his face as he watched passengers disembark.

Then he saw her.

To hell in a handcart. He hadn’t expected her to be so—so pretty.

There was no mistaking her. She was petite, wearing a modest, neatly-pressed traveling dress, and a small suitcase was clasped tightly in her hand. She was pacing the platform with measured, deliberate steps, scanning the crowd with an expression of wary determination.

“Miss Stroud?” Jackson called, stepping forward.

She turned to him at once, and for a moment, their eyes locked. Then she came trotting over to him. She was smaller than he’d expected, yet her posture was straight.

“Mr. Holt,” she replied quietly, but he heard the firm note in her voice, and the steady gaze of those green eyes told him that her calm demeanor had nothing to do with timidity.

Jackson removed his hat, nodding in greeting. “Welcome to Douglas, Miss Stroud.”

“Thank you,” she said, her grip tightening on her suitcase.

He stepped forward and reached for it, but she hesitated before letting go. He noticed it, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he merely hefted the case with ease and gestured toward the wagon parked nearby. “This way,” he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

As they walked, Jackson allowed himself a closer look at his soon-to-be bride. She moved with a confidence that caught his attention, keeping her chin slightly lifted. Yet he could sense weariness there. Her dark brown hair, swept neatly back, framed a face that held traces of exhaustion beneath its poise. Yet her green eyes were sharp, as if she were cataloging every detail of her surroundings.

They reached the wagon at the other end of the platform, and he helped her up into the front seat, his hand briefly brushing hers. Her gloved hand was small, nothing like his large, rough ones. The touch stirred something unexpected—a flicker of keen awareness of the woman in front of him.

He quickly tamped it down.

He set her suitcase in the wagon bed, then clambered into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins, clicking to Bonnie. She started walking with a spritely step, and soon  the rhythmic creak of the wagon wheels filled the silence between them.

Livia sat stiffly beside him, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The silence pressed down until it was nearly unbearable.

Finally, Jackson decided to speak. “You’ve traveled far,” he said quietly.

“I have,” she replied politely, but she sounded distant.

He glanced at her briefly, noting the way her eyes were fixed on the horizon. “Your family… they must be relieved you’ve found a solution to your troubles.”

Her expression softened for a brief moment before she recovered herself. “They’re depending on me to make this work. To make this—this arrangement a success.”

Jackson nodded, a flicker of respect rising in him. She was here out of an obligation to her family, entering into marriage for their good, not primarily her own. Just as he was doing this, however covertly, for the greater good. They were more alike than he’d first guessed from their correspondence.

Yet that similarity did nothing to provide Jackson with the right words. The silence between them remained heavy. He tried to focus on the road, guiding Bonnie along the well-worn trail, yet he couldn’t help but steal a glance at her every so often. There was a quiet strength about her, a determination that intrigued him despite himself.

“You been this far west before?” he asked, trying again.

Livia shook her head. “No. It’s… different than I imagined.”

“Different how?” he pressed.

She hesitated before answering. “The air. It’s cleaner. The sky feels bigger. But it’s also… harsher.”

Jackson grunted in agreement. “It can be unforgiving. You’ll need to adjust.”

“I intend to,” she said firmly, her chin lifting again.

Jackson couldn’t help the faint twitch of his lips. She might look fragile at first glance, but there was steel in her words, and in her eyes.

Yet he wondered whether that steel would hold if she fully understood what she was stepping into.

How long can I keep the truth hidden after we’re wed?

The ranch came into view just as the sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows over the barn and corral. The sprawling land stretched wide, the house standing proud in the center against the endless sky.

“This is it,” Jackson said simply as the wagon pulled up to the porch.

Livia climbed down with his help, her small hand resting in his just long enough for him to steady her. She stood for a moment, taking in the sight of her new home. Her expression was unreadable as she took in the house, the barn, and the wide-open fields beyond.

“It’s… beautiful,” she said at last, quietly.

Jackson felt a flicker of pride. He studied her for a moment before nodding. “It’ll serve.”

He fetched her suitcase and carried it to the porch to set it down. Movement out of the corner of his eye told him that Henry was hovering at the entrance to the barn, no doubt waiting to see the future Mrs. Holt.

Ignoring the man, he turned to Livia. “Mae’ll show you around.”

She gave a small nod, clasping her hands tightly in front of her once again. “Thank you.”

Without another word, Jackson went to the wagon and began leading Bonnie to the barn. He needed space to gather his thoughts. This was the beginning of a partnership, nothing more. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that Livia’s arrival had set something in motion that he couldn’t fully control.

He was halfway to the barn when he spotted Cole riding toward him at a brisk trot, emerging from the nearest field behind the house. The young ranch hand reined in his horse near the corral, his face grim. “Boss.”

He dismounted quickly, his face shadowed with concern, and tipped his hat briefly before pulling a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handing it to Jackson. “Sheriff Olson came by earlier,” he said. “He left this for you. Said it was important.”

Jackson unfolded the paper anxiously, scanning hastily written note. It was a warning. Victor Blackwell’s men had been spotted near town, and one of them had been asking questions about the Holt Ranch.

The familiar knot of tension tightened in Jackson’s chest. “Did he say anything else?” he asked, keeping his voice steady

Cole shifted uneasily. “Just to watch your back. Said they might be lookin’ to stir up trouble.”

Jackson folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. His jaw tightened as he glanced across the back fields. The sun was very low in the sky now, blood-orange. “Tell the men to keep an eye on the east pasture,” he said. “If anyone sees anything out of the ordinary, I want to know immediately.”

“You got it, boss,” Cole replied with a grim nod. He mounted his horse again and rode off toward the bunkhouse, leaving Jackson alone with his thoughts.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. With Livia’s arrival, the ranch would be under more scrutiny than ever. If Blackwell’s men were sniffing around, it could mean trouble—not just for Jackson, but for everyone under his roof.

He glanced back toward the house, where the faint glow of lamplight flickered through the windows. Livia had no idea what kind of danger she was walking into.

He ran a hand over his face, his rough palm a reminder of the hard labor that had shaped him. He couldn’t afford distractions, couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not with so much at stake.