A Trail of Grit and Iron (Preview)

Chapter One

The sun rode high over the Texas plains, painfully bright and agonizingly hot. Dust hung in the air, clinging to sweat-slicked skin and settling over the canvas tops of the wagons. Sam Ward rode flank on a bay gelding, eyes scanning the horizon where heat shimmered in wavering lines. He carried his rifle laid across the horse’s withers, thumb brushing the smooth, familiar wood. It was so quiet it set him on edge, the sparse wildlife completely invisible. The oxen and mules plodded along with steady resignation, hooves thudding against the hard-packed earth.

Somewhere behind the lead wagon, a child began to fuss, the sound sharp against the muted rhythm of wheels and hooves. The driver muttered something low, the kind of gentle scolding meant to hush without frightening. Sam only listened with half an ear. His gaze never stopped moving.

That was his job. Keep watch. Stay alert. Protect.

He’d worked enough of these routes to know how quickly they could turn bloody. Freight wagons hauled what towns needed: tools, seed, salt, sometimes rifles or whiskey if the merchants were bold enough.

Cargo that valuable drew wolves, and not the four-legged kind. Rustlers were getting craftier with every passing year, watching the roads, waiting for the moment when men grew careless.

Sam wasn’t careless. He couldn’t afford to be.

“Ward!” one of the other guards called, riding up alongside. It was Tom Burrows, older by ten years, with a tobacco-stained grin and a reputation for cutting corners. “You’re starin’ holes in the horizon again. Nothin’ out there but dust.”

Sam shifted in the saddle but didn’t look away from the rolling grasslands. “Ain’t it our job to keep an eye out?”

Burrows chuckled, spat over his shoulder, and let his horse fall back. The man had a gambler’s ease, never taking anything too seriously. Sam envied it, in a way, but knew it for a weakness. Easy men got sloppy, and sloppy men ended up dead—or worse, they got others killed along with them.

The wagons creaked forward, four in all, each loaded with freight bound for Millfield. Merchants walked or rode alongside, keeping an anxious watch on their goods. Families sometimes tagged along, too, using the caravan’s strength as cover for their own journey.

This time, it was a small family from Lampasas, a husband, wife, and a boy of eight or nine. The father had spoken little since they set out, the kind of man who kept his hat low and his hand near the reins. Sam respected that.

Still, his eyes kept coming back to the boy. The lad rode perched in the back of the second wagon, boots dangling, staring wide-eyed at the endless sweep of grass. Sam remembered being that age, though the memories came hazy and sharp at once. A younger self who believed the world was bigger than any sorrow, bigger than any hunger.

That boy had disappeared long ago, lost in an orphanage where laughter was beaten out of children with scripture and chores.

A crow wheeled overhead, its shadow flickering across the wagon tops. Sam tightened his grip on the rifle. Crows weren’t a good sign. It was said they brought death on their wings.

“Ward!” Burrows again, this time from the rear. “You gonna keep glarin’ at shadows all day, or you plannin’ to eat when the cook rings the pan?”

Sam ignored him. Out past the swaying grasses, he thought he’d seen a flicker of movement—a horse, maybe, ducking low into a dry creek bed. He blinked against the glare, but the horizon showed nothing but grass. Grass and dust.

Still, his gut didn’t settle. Danger was out there. He could feel it pressing against the silence, waiting.

He nudged the bay forward until he was closer to the lead wagon, where the trail captain rode. John Henderson was a broad-shouldered man with sun-creased skin and a steady presence that steadied others in turn. Sam tipped his hat in greeting.

“You see somethin’?” Henderson asked quietly, eyes narrowing.

“Maybe.” Sam scanned the ridge again. “Could be we’re bein’ followed. Can’t say for certain yet. If we are, they’re professionals.”

Henderson gave a slow nod. “We’ll keep sharp. Best you ride wide on the left. If somethin’ breaks, I want you on it first.”

Sam touched his hat brim in acknowledgment and turned his gelding toward the open stretch of trail. Somewhere beyond the bend, trouble waited. He couldn’t say how he could tell it. He just knew.

He resettled the rifle. A man watching him would have thought he was nervous. Sam just wanted to ensure his weapon was a breath away from taking care of a problem if it came.

When it came.

The wagons rolled into a stretch of low ground where the grass grew tall along both sides, hiding the banks of a dry creek bed. Sam’s pulse ticked faster. He didn’t like gullies, not with the sun steadily dropping. There were too many places for men to lie hidden.

He popped the safety latch off his rifle. His gelding tossed its head as if it felt the same unease.

The first shot came sharp as a whipcrack. A splinter of wood burst from the lead wagon’s sideboard. Then another shot, and another, until the air thundered with gunfire.

“Ambush!” Henderson roared, jerking his horse hard left. “Guns up! Hold your ground!”

Rustlers broke from the creek bed, horses lunging, bandanas pulled high over their faces. At least a dozen, maybe more, rifles flashing in the late sun. They came in two groups, one pressing the front of the train, the other circling wide for the rear.

Sam was already moving. He spurred the bay into a run, swinging the rifle to his shoulder. The first rustler he aimed at never saw him. Sam squeezed off a single shot, neat and clean, and the man pitched sideways off his horse onto the ground.

The boy in the wagon screamed. Oxen bellowed, drivers cursed, and the sharp tang of black powder rolled over the train.

Sam’s horse veered left, instincts guiding both rider and beast. He dropped the rifle to the saddle strap and drew his revolver in one smooth motion, snapping off two quick rounds. One rustler spun back in the saddle, clutching his shoulder. Another peeled away, spurs digging into the sides of his mount.

Burrows, who’d been mocking Sam not an hour ago, was suddenly at his side, firing wild and shouting obscenities. “Drive ’em back, damn you! Don’t let ’em close!”

Sam didn’t answer. His focus narrowed until there was only the horse beneath him, the revolver in his hand, and the targets ahead. He put a bullet into the leg of a horse bearing down on the second wagon.

The animal shrieked and collapsed, spilling its rider hard into the dirt. The man tried to rise, but Sam kept his barrel trained on him until the bandit crawled backward into the scrub.

From the rear came another chorus of shots, answering fire from the guards posted there. Sam caught sight of Henderson rallying the drivers, his booming voice carrying over the din.

“Circle up! Circle the wagons!”

Sam spurred toward the left flank where two rustlers were cutting in hard. One leveled a shotgun at the wagon with the family. Sam leaned low, fired once, and saw the scattergun blast go wide as the rider jerked back with a bullet through his arm.

The boy ducked into the wagon bed, eyes wide with terror. His mother clutched him tight, mouth moving in prayer. Sam caught only fragments of her begging before the next rush came.

A rider thundered straight at him, horse’s nostrils flaring, pistol raised. Sam yanked his gelding sideways and fired point-blank. The man toppled backward, boot catching in the stirrup, body dragging as the horse bolted away.

The chaos swirled, shouts, smoke, the acrid stench of powder. Sam fired until his revolver clicked empty, then dropped the spent weapon back in its holster and swung his rifle free. He worked the lever smooth as breath, shot ringing out in steady rhythm. Every round found its mark, not always killing, but always ending the threat.

And then, just as sudden as it had begun, the rustlers faltered. Two of their number lay dead. Several more were wounded, horses panicked and scattering. Henderson’s men had driven the rear attackers back into the creek bed, leaving only a handful still pressing the fight.

Sam slid from the saddle, bracing against the wagon wheel as he fired again. A rustler ducked behind scrub brush thirty yards out, rifle barrel peeking out of the grass. Sam waited, patient, until the man leaned too far. Then Sam shot him through the hand, sending his weapon spinning onto the trail.

The man cried out, clutching his wrist.

“Pull back!” one of the raiders shouted. “Back! Back!”

And just like that, the fight broke apart. The rustlers turned their horses, retreating in a scramble of hooves. Dust rose thick in their wake, swallowing them whole.

For a moment, all Sam could hear was his own breath, ragged in his chest. His gelding stood trembling, flanks streaked with sweat. Sam mounted the animal again and he steadied beneath Sam’s hand.

The wagons were a mess. One wheel shattered, canvas torn, oxen lathered and skittish. Two guards were down, one dead, another groaning as men scrambled to stanch the bleeding.

The boy peeked over the wagon edge, eyes wet with tears but burning with a strange kind of awe. “Mister,” he whispered, “you shot ’em like you knew right where they’d be.”

Sam only nodded, wiping sweat and powder from his brow. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt the sorrow of every body in the dirt, rustler or guard, it made no difference. Death was terrible no matter whose side it favored.

When the dust began to settle, the sounds of battle gave way to groans, coughing, and the nervous snorts of animals. The rustlers had scattered, leaving behind two dead, one badly wounded, and another crawling through the dirt with blood streaking his arm.

Sam kept his rifle steady as he stepped toward the crawling man. The rustler’s pistol lay several feet away, where it had fallen. He didn’t reach for it. Instead he lifted his good hand, palm out, eyes wide with fear above a mask streaked with filth and sweat.

“I’m done,” the man rasped. “Don’t shoot. Please.”

Tom Burrows came up quick on Sam’s left, revolver already cocked. “Hell no. We can’t let one of these snakes crawl off just to come back later.” He leveled the barrel at the man’s head.

Sam shifted instantly, stepping between the rustler and Burrows, rifle held low but ready. “He’s dropped his gun. He’s out of the fight.”

Burrows barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “Out of the fight? You think he’ll stay out when his brothers ride again? Only way to be sure is put a bullet in him now.”

Other guards were drifting closer, drawn by the standoff. Henderson himself came limping over, face dark with soot and sweat. His voice was low, measured. “What’re we waitin’ for?”

“This bastard’s still breathin’,” Burrows snapped. “I say we finish him.”

Sam’s fingers tightened on the stock of his rifle. He could see the wounded man trembling in the dirt behind him, hear the harsh wheeze of his breath. Everything in Sam’s upbringing—the sermons beaten into him at the orphanage, the long nights staring at scripture by lantern-light—rose up like a tide inside him.

A man who surrendered wasn’t to be executed. Justice wasn’t vengeance. Mercy was important, too.

“He’s no threat,” Sam said, voice flat. “Killing him now would be murder.”

Burrows sneered. “You got a funny way of survivin’, preacher boy. Rustlers don’t stop bein’ rustlers if you spare ’em. They come back meaner.”

Sam struggled to maintain his composure. “If he comes back, then I’ll face him again. But not today. Not like this.”

The tension thickened. Burrows’s finger curled on the trigger. For a moment, Sam thought he’d have to fight his own man just to keep another alive.

Henderson finally spoke. “Burrows, holster it.”

“What? You serious?”

“Do it.” Henderson commanded. “Ward’s right. We’re not shooting men like dogs. We’ll bind him, carry him as far as the next post, and turn him over to the law.”

Burrows spat hard into the dirt but thumbed the hammer back down. “You’re makin’ a mistake.”

Sam didn’t move until the revolver was holstered. Only then did he lower his rifle. He crouched, grabbed the rustler by the collar, and pulled him upright. The man swayed, pain etched across his face, but kept his head bowed.

“You’ve got your life today,” Sam told him quietly. “Don’t waste it.”

The rustler gave a weak nod, too scared to speak.

Around them, the other guards muttered. Some with approval, others with disgust. Burrows stormed off, cursing under his breath. Henderson lingered a moment, studying Sam with a gaze that seemed to be measuring him.

“You’ve got your way about things, Ward,” Henderson said at last. “Men will respect it or they won’t, but you best know this: mercy’s hard to find on a trail like this. Carry it too far, and it’ll break you.”

Sam met his eyes. “If it breaks me, then I wasn’t fit to carry it in the first place.”

Henderson gave the ghost of a smile. Then he turned away to check on the wounded guard.

Sam remained where he stood, one hand on the rustler’s shoulder, the other still holding his rifle. He didn’t feel righteous. He didn’t feel victorious. What he felt was alone.

The wagons creaked back into formation as the horizon fought to swallow the sun. Smoke from the gunfight still hung over the low ground, stinging the eyes and the throat. The surviving rustler lay bound in the back of the third wagon, cursing when something poked his wound.

They buried their dead quickly. The guard who’d fallen was wrapped in canvas and lowered into a shallow grave, marked with a rough wooden cross cut from a wagon slat. Men removed their hats, bowed heads, muttered prayers that said little about who he’d been as a man. They mourned for one of their own, simple as that.

Sam stood apart, rifle resting against his boot. He’d seen death before, but never without that hollow in his chest, a space grief rushed in to fill. He’d protected the family, the freight was safe enough, but the grave took what it wanted no matter what he did.

“Mr. Ward?”

He turned. The boy from the wagon stood a few paces away, hat clutched tight in his hands. His face was pale under the dirt, but his eyes burned bright.

“My pa says I oughta thank you,” the boy said. “You saved us.”

Sam’s mouth went dry. He’d never known what to do with thanks. He shifted his weight, looked down at the boy’s scuffed boots. “I did my job. That’s all.”

The boy frowned, as if unsatisfied. Then, with a stubborn nod, he blurted, “Someday I’m gonna shoot like you.”

Sam almost smiled. “Learn to read your Bible first,” he said quietly. “Shooting comes after.”

The boy blinked, puzzled, then ran back to his mother’s skirts.

Behind Sam, laughter carried. Burrows was holding court with a knot of guards, gesturing wide as he mimicked Sam stepping in front of the rustler.

“Like some damn preacher,” he drawled, earning chuckles. “One of these days, Ward’s mercy’s gonna get us all killed.”

Sam ignored it, though the words cut sharper than he let on. He’d grown used to that tone, half mockery, half warning. Men respected his aim, but not his choices. Respect without trust was a lonely thing.

The cook banged a spoon against a pot, calling men in for beans. The smell of grease and coffee drifted on the cooling air. Men shuffled toward the fire, some with laughter, some with hollow eyes.

Sam stayed back until most had gone. He slid onto a rock at the edge of camp, rifle across his knees, watching the sky fade from red to violet. Coyotes howled somewhere far off, their cries echoing across the plain.

Henderson came over carrying two tin cups of coffee. He handed one to Sam without a word and lowered himself onto the rock beside him. They drank in comfortable silence for quite some time.

Finally, Henderson said, “You’ve got a steady hand. Men’ll follow that, if you let ’em. But you stand where others won’t. That’s a lonely road.”

Sam stared into the firelight, the flames licking at the dark. “It’s the only road I know.”

Henderson gave a quiet grunt, neither approval nor disagreement. He drained the last of his coffee, set the cup aside, and rose. “Keep your eyes open tonight. Rustlers might not be done with us.”

“I’ll see them coming,” Sam said.

“I reckon you will.” Henderson tipped his hat and walked back into camp.

Sam stayed where he was, alone at the edge of campfire’s light. The night wind pressed cool against his face, the scent of sage, grass, and livestock a familiar comfort.

He thought of the boy’s wide eyes, of Burrows’s mocking laugh, of the bound rustler groaning in the wagon. A world divided between those who demanded mercy and those who despised it. Somewhere between them, Sam had to find his place.

For now, he simply watched the dark, rifle ready, waiting for what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter Two

Every time he took on a new job, he knew he’d run into problems. Weeks later, a new convoy rattled south in Colorado territory along the rutted trail, a line of wagons drawn by sweating mules. Sam rode flank once more, eyes sweeping the broken country for signs of trouble.

It was steady work, guarding freight. Hard miles between mining camps, the promise of ambush always lurking in the rocks and sage. Sam knew the rhythms well, the creak of axles, the curses of teamsters, the groan of harness leather. He knew how far a mule would go before it needed water, how long a man could last in the saddle before fatigue dulled his senses.

He liked the order of it. Predictable, hard, honest. Yet in the long hours, when the wagons groaned like ships on a sea of dust, Sam felt exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his soul. He was good with a rifle, steady under fire, decent enough with horses, but none of that added up to belonging. His values often didn’t align with the rougher men hired for their muscle, same as him… and yet not.

At night, when the men lay snoring around low campfires, he would sit a little apart, reading his Bible by the flicker of flame. He carried it wrapped in oilcloth to keep the pages safe from sweat and weather. The spine was cracked, the leather worn smooth by years of use. He had no family heirloom, no letters or keepsakes, only the book and the memories it stirred.

He thought sometimes of the orphanage, the stone-cold discipline of the Methodist matrons, the hymns sung in narrow halls that echoed like a prison. They had taught him to read the Bible, to mind the law, to keep to the straight path. That training had stayed in his bones, no matter how far he roamed. It guided his hand when others might shoot too quick. It built the wall between him and the men who fought beside him, respected but never quite trusted.

The convoy crested a rise, and below lay a river cutting through the Colorado plains. On the far bank sat Pueblo, little more than a cluster of trading posts, shacks, and smoke from cookfires. The place stank of hides, whiskey, and moral filth.

A shout went up. The wagons rolled down toward the ford, men eager for whiskey, cards, and the comfort of a bed warmed by someone they probably wouldn’t see again. Sam said nothing. He nudged his horse forward, keeping pace with the lead wagon.

Another stop, another night, another few coins added to the wages tucked in his belt pouch. He had no plan for them, no dream of land or gold. Just a habit of saving, as if someday some greater use might present itself.

The teamsters complained as the wagons clattered through the shallow ford, water splashing high against the wheels. Sam’s horse picked its way across with steady hooves. Beyond, Pueblo waited.

He breathed deep of the high prairie, the faint scent of a roasting something or other making his stomach rumble. He’d spend his night alone, dining by himself as he always did. It’d be nice to have a table. It’d be nice to have a piano player.

The convoy pulled in with the clatter of iron rims and the shouting of drivers. Mules brayed, men laughed, and the little town swelled with sudden noise. Sam dismounted without hurry, slinging his rifle over one shoulder. He gave his gelding a pat, then led him toward the trough in front of the general store.

The town was as rough as any way station along the frontier. Gamblers lounged in the saloon doorway, eyeing the newcomers for easy marks. A pair of painted women leaned on the balcony rail above, voices lilting with laughter that had no warmth in it. Miners with grime ground into their skin shuffled by with sacks of ore to weigh, and the blacksmith hammered at some stubborn piece of iron, the ringing strike carrying over the din.

Sam tied off his horse and checked the cinch automatically. He felt the eyes on him, men taking his measure, as they always did. He had the look of someone who could handle himself, lean and watchful. Yet he carried no swagger, offered no invitation to trouble. It put people off.

He was reaching for his canteen when a shadow fell across him.

“Mr. Ward?”

The voice was deep, educated, with a formality not often heard in frontier towns. Sam turned.

The man before him was in his fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark coat dusty from travel but neatly cut. He wore spectacles perched on a straight nose, and his graying hair was combed with care, though wind and trail dust had undone the effort. In his hand, he carried a leather satchel that had to hold some sort of official documents.

Sam studied him. “That’s me.”

The stranger inclined his head. “Thaddeus Whitman. Attorney at law, admitted to practice in the states of Missouri and Texas, among others. I’ve come a long way to find you.”

Sam frowned. He had no dealings with lawyers. No debts he hadn’t paid, no contracts beyond the simple ones for guard work. “You must have the wrong man.”

Whitman’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses. “Not at all. You are Samuel Ward, born Samuel Mitchell, son of James Mitchell of the Circle M Ranch in central Texas. Do you deny it?”

The name struck like a rifle shot. Mitchell. It had the ring of something half-remembered, buried in dreams that woke him sweating. A woman’s voice, a hand stroking his hair, the smell of tall pines and horses. Then gone, replaced by stone walls and the cold discipline of the orphanage.

Sam’s throat worked. “My name’s Ward. Always has been.”

“Ward was given to you at the Methodist orphanage after the war,” Whitman said, his tone patient but implacable. “I have records, signed affidavits, and a sealed letter from your father. He entrusted me with instructions should the Circle M Ranch fall into dire peril. That time has come.”

Sam wanted to laugh, but no sound came. His father? A ranch? It was absurd. He remembered no father, only stern matrons and hungry boys jostling for scraps. Yet something in Whitman’s face stilled the denial on his tongue.

“I think you’d better explain,” he said slowly.

Whitman gestured toward the general store. “Perhaps somewhere private. This is no conversation for the street.”

They found a corner table inside, away from the bustle of freighters and townsfolk. Whitman set down his satchel and drew out a folded document, the wax seal still intact.

“This,” he said, “was left with me more than a decade ago. Your father, Captain James Mitchell, Confederate veteran, believed circumstances would prevent him from raising you and your sister together. Your mother passed during those troubled years. For your safety, you were placed in the Methodist orphanage under an assumed name. Your sister, Kate Mitchell, remained at the Circle M Ranch in Texas.”

Sam listened with arms folded, heart hammering. A sister. A father in hiding. It sounded like a hallucination from a fever dream.

Whitman went on. “For years, Miss Kate has managed the ranch alone. But your uncle, Charles Mitchell, has conspired through banks and debts to force foreclosure. Within weeks, the property will be lost unless immediate action is taken. Your claim as lawful heir provides both legal leverage and, perhaps more importantly, the manpower of another Mitchell to stand beside her.”

Sam’s mouth was dry. “And you expect me to just… ride to Texas? To a family I’ve never met, to land I’ve never seen?”

“I expect nothing,” Whitman said gently. “I fulfill a promise made long ago. But I will tell you this: your sister has fought for years, alone, against men who would see her broken. She deserves to know her brother lives. And you deserve to know who you truly are.”

The words dug deeper than Sam wanted to admit. He thought of the long nights reading his Bible alone, the nagging emptiness that no wage or rifle skill could fill. He had never belonged anywhere. And now, suddenly, he was told he did.

He stared at the seal on the letter. His hand hovered above it, then drew back.

“I need time,” he muttered.

Whitman’s gaze softened. “You’ll have some, on the road. We leave as soon as you are prepared. Denver is our first stop for supplies and arrangements for the journey south. After that, Texas.”

Sam sat in silence, the noise of the store a dull roar around him. He felt the ground shift beneath his boots. Samuel Ward, freight guard, orphan, loner; he could still cling to that, walk away, forget the lawyer and his satchel.

But Samuel Mitchell, heir, brother, son—that door had been opened, and he wasn’t sure he could ever close it again.

Sam didn’t sleep that night.

The convoy men drank hard in the saloon, their laughter carrying through the thin walls of the bunkhouse. Sam lay awake on his cot, staring at the rafters, Whitman’s words circling like buzzards in his mind. Mitchell. Ranch. Sister. Father.

When dawn poured over the horizon, he rose and gathered his meager possessions: a spare shirt, a whetstone, the oilcloth-wrapped Bible. Everything he owned fit neatly into a saddlebag. His wages, months of careful saving, he folded into an inner pocket.

The trail boss found him saddling his horse. “You heading out already? We got another run to Silverton in two days.”

Sam tightened the cinch, not meeting his eye. “Won’t be making that run.”

The man spat in the dust. “Hell, Ward, you’re the best shot we’ve had on payroll. Men feel safe with you riding flank. Don’t tell me you’re giving it up to chase gold in them hills like the rest.”

“Not gold,” Sam said simply.

He studied Sam, reading what Sam wasn’t saying. “Always figured you weren’t built to drift forever. Just wish you’d picked a better time. We’ve got rustler gangs prowling thicker than ever. But I reckon a man’s got to follow his own road.”

They shook hands. The respect in the boss’s grip was real, but there was distance, too. Sam had kept himself apart, and now his leaving drew no protest beyond a few words.

He mounted up and rode toward the trading post where Whitman waited with fresh horses and supplies.

They set out by midmorning, riding north toward Denver. The trail was open and dry, cottonwoods lining the river in green relief against the plains. Whitman rode with the stiff posture of a man unaccustomed to long hours in the saddle, though he bore it without complaint.

For a time, neither spoke. Sam was grateful for the silence, using it to test the feeling of this new identity pressing down on him. He felt like a man wearing a stranger’s coat, familiar enough to fit, yet odd-fitting and alien across the shoulders.

Eventually, Whitman broke the quiet. “I expect you have questions.”

Sam gave a short, humorless laugh. “A few thousand.”

“Then ask them, one at a time.”

Sam hesitated. “This sister, Kate. She doesn’t know I exist?”

Whitman shook his head. “She may have faint memories of a small boy, but you were sent away young, after your mother’s death. Your father believed separation was the only way to keep you safe while he… withdrew from public life.”

Sam mulled that. “So she’s been running the ranch alone.”

“For years. Quite capably, I might add, though she is beset on all sides by debt and duplicity. It is a wonder she has held out as long as she has.”

Sam shifted in the saddle. The thought of a sister fighting alone against creditors and rustlers bothered him. He had known that feeling too often—standing alone, no one at his back. The orphanage had taught him how merciless the world could be.

Another question pushed forward, rough-edged. “Why me? If my father wanted me hidden all these years, why drag me into it now?”

Whitman’s tone softened. “Because the hour has come when hiding serves no purpose. The Circle M is weeks from foreclosure. Your uncle believes it his lawful prize, and his influence grows by the day. One Mitchell alone cannot withstand him. Two, however, two may yet prevail.”

The words stirred something Sam tried to tamp down: hope. The idea of standing with someone bound to him by blood instead of coin. Belonging, not just surviving.

Still, doubt pressed in. “And if she doesn’t want me?”

Whitman regarded him steadily. “Then you will decide whether to leave her to fight alone or to stay and fight beside her, wanted or not. Blood carries obligations, Mr. Ward. Or should I say, Mr. Mitchell.”

Sam looked away, eyes following his horse’s hooves as they plodded along the ground. It still didn’t feel real. Not yet.

That night they camped beside a shallow creek, the stars sharp above. Sam unwrapped his Bible and turned through the familiar pages. The verses steadied him, but his mind wandered. He tried to picture Kate’s face, but no image came. He tried to recall his father’s voice, but only silence answered.

What he could picture, clear as daylight, was the ranch: wide pastures, cattle moving across them like shadows, the smell of grass and dust. A place to belong.

But with that picture came others. Memories that slipped out of his grasp the second that he had hold of them. It had been so long.

Too long.

Sam closed the book and stared into the coals. He imagined what lay ahead to be covered in blood and death and prayed, silently, that it would not come to that.

***

Denver in ’77 was no polished city, but it had the air of trying to become one. Brick buildings stood beside rough plank saloons, and the streets bustled with miners, gamblers, and merchants hawking everything from dry goods to patent medicines, ones that probably did nothing but make a man feel sicker. Wagons jammed the thoroughfares, oxen stomped past, and the scent of coal smoke carried from the new rail yard.

Sam rode in beside Whitman, taking it all in with his usual wariness, eyes never landing on much for long. He’d passed through before on freight jobs, but never lingered for too long. Denver was too crowded, too loud, too full of men chasing fortune with fists and pistols. Sam didn’t want any part of either one of those.

Whitman, however, seemed at ease more in the city than he had on the road. “We’ll need to purchase supplies. I have funds for the essentials, though your wages may serve for comforts along the way.”

Sam grunted acknowledgment. His wages weren’t much, but to him they represented years of work, every scar and blister tallied in silver. If the man was trailing him along on some ruse, it’d hurt to lose what savings the man could finger from him.

They stabled the horses at a livery and set out on foot. Sam carried his saddlebag slung across his shoulder, all his possessions inside. As they moved through the crush of people, he kept a hand close to the flap. Cities bred pickpockets as sure as manure bred flies.

The general store was crowded, men jostling to buy flour, coffee, and cartridges. Whitman set about with a list, dictating to the clerk. Sam lingered by the shelves, scanning the goods: new shirts folded in neat stacks, slick revolvers shining under lamplight, tin cups, and blankets piled high.

He sighed over the few purchases he felt he needed. A fresh whetstone, his old one was worn to a sliver. A coil of stout rope. A tin of gun oil. Practical things, small but his. When he counted out the coins, he was left with only a few.

Whitman returned with his own purchases bundled in paper. “Our train south leaves in two days. I suggest we lodge at the inn on Blake Street. They are accustomed to travelers of all kinds.”

Sam nodded. He followed Whitman through the crowded streets, but his eyes were elsewhere. Every face he passed could have been kin, for all he knew. Somewhere down this road was a sister who shared his blood. The thought made his stomach curdle.

At the inn, Whitman retired to write letters by lamplight, scratching at his newly purchased paper with the careful hand of a long-time professional. Sam sat by the window, his saddlebag at his feet, and stared out at Denver’s lamps glowing against the dark. Peaceful. Quiet.

He pulled out the Bible and opened it, more for the comfort of the thing than the words. He didn’t need to read it, simply hold the weight in his hand and glance at the chicken scratch in the margins. His. All his. Familiar. Comforting.

Now another inheritance waited. Land. A sister. …Blood.

He thought of Kate, her name bringing a ghost of a memory that disappeared the moment he reached for it. She had borne misery he had not, struggled against enemies he did not know. Would she welcome him? Or see him as a stranger barging in with a lawyer’s promise and a claim on what she had fought to hold?

Sam shut the Bible and wrapped it tight again.

The next morning, he walked Denver’s streets alone. He passed a church with its doors open and hymns spilling out. He lingered a moment at the threshold, but did not enter. He had little need for the preaching of a man just as flawed as he was, or maybe even more so.

Instead, he bought a pouch of tobacco and a small knife at a stall, though he barely smoked. It was a habit of men on the trail, a way to pass the time and ease the nerves. A cigarette would be a nice way to greet the sun.

When he returned, Whitman was ready. “The train I mentioned last night goes nowhere near the ranch, so we’ll be on horseback after the ride, Mr. Mitchell.”

Sam raised a hand. “Call me Ward. For now.”

Whitman inclined his head. “As you wish. But remember, the world will soon know you by another name.”

Sam said nothing. He only shook his head and sat down on the bed, pondering what to say when he saw Kate.

That night, as Denver’s noise dulled to a low hum, Sam lay awake staring at the ceiling beams. He’d never had such a clear heading before. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

He didn’t know if he was ready. But there was no turning back.