For two weeksafter the Founder's Dance, all I could do was sit at the bay window of the library, staring out at nothing, haunted by the memory of a cowboy whose name now lived quietly in the hollow of my chest.
My friends had always described what it was like—how they justknewthe moment they met the one meant for them. I never understood that feeling. I was promised to a man as dry as a dust storm and a voice that held no softness. He was nice, would be a good provider, but we barely know each other, and affection with him always feels like an obligation. I’d resigned myself to a life of duty, to the quiet, colorless world expected of me. I had come to terms with the fact that I would never know love like in the stories I read or what I watched my friends find.
Then came Marcel.
A drink. A dance. A smile carved from starlight. And in a few fleeting moments, he undid everything I thought I understood. Somehow, the touch of a stranger felt more familiar than the fiancé waiting for me back in Cheyenne.
I’ve tried to forget him. I’ve tried not to dream of the way he looked at me like I was a sunrise. But it’s no use. His voice echoes through my thoughts like a melody I can’t shake. Shame curlsaround the edges of my daydreams, but it’s not strong enough to smother the truth. I want to know him. Desperately. Hopelessly.
A voice from downstairs breaks the spell.
“Clara?”
I blink, surfacing from my spiral, as I rise from the chair and head down the staircase.
“There you are,” my aunt calls. The butler brushes past, carrying luggage toward the front door.
“There’s trouble near the oil fields in Cheyenne,” she says briskly. “Your uncle’s needed immediately, and I’ll be going with him.”
Uncle Julian steps into the foyer. “We’ll only be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“I’m staying here, then?” I ask.
My aunt presses my hand gently. “It’s best if you stay here. There’s chaos in Cheyenne. I’ve asked Irene to check in every evening. The staff will tend to anything else. Will you be alright?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” I manage a smile. “Please travel safely.”
Aunt Izzy nods and wraps me in a hug. They sweep out with hurried goodbyes, the butler shutting the door behind them with a final, echoing click.
Later that afternoon,just past five, Irene arrives—her energy filling the house like spring wind through an open window.
“Clara, darling! Look at you.” She embraces me when I greet her in the foyer. “We arenotstaying cooped up in this mausoleum. Grab your things—we’re going out for dinner.”
The very idea causes something to stir in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl,” she says, eyes twinkling. “But don’t call me ma’am.”
We’re turningdown a gravel road when I notice the sign swinging overhead:Devil’s Ridge Ranch.
The name slams into me like a gust of wind. My breath hitches. I turn sharply toward Irene. “Why are we here?”
“My dear friends Frank and Ada Hayes invited us for supper. Salt-of-the-earth people. You’ll adore them.”
I barely register her voice over the thunder of my own pulse. This is his ranch. The truth crashes into me all at once, stealing the air from my lungs. His words repeat back through the haze of memory, rising like prophecy.If we cross paths again before you leave, let’s call it divine intervention.
My hands clench around my clutch as hope and apprehension war within me.
We pull up to the house and exit the car. I follow Irene to the door, fingers trembling, heart like thunder in my chest. The door opens, revealing a warm-faced woman with a kind smile.
“Irene! And who’s this beauty?”
“Clara Albright,” Irene beams. “Isadora’s niece. I thought she needed some fresh air.”
“Welcome, Clara. I hope a ranch dinner isn’t too rustic for you.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, voice soft, trying to steady myself.
She leads us to the dining room. The table is long, worn smooth by years of suppers, and full of life. A few men are already seated, voices low with the easy rhythm of familiarity. One rises to greet us.
