A Kind Heart for the Brooding Rancher (Preview)

Chapter One

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Spring, 1885

The stack of bills on Calvin Mercer’s desk was a silent accusation.

He stared down at the crisp envelopes, their neat cursive addresses mocking him in the fading afternoon light. Rent. Loan payments. The tailor’s bill for the last suit he had ordered. One he hadn’t even worn once. Three notices, each marked PAST DUE in angry red stamps that felt like daggers in his chest.

Calvin pressed his fingers to his temples and let out a slow breath. The old leather chair creaked under him as he leaned back and glanced around the dim office.

Stacks of dusty legal volumes lined the shelves behind him. Their spines were cracked but unread. An unopened bottle of ink sat beside an unused pen on the desk. A tarnished brass lamp flickered with a lazy flame, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

The silence of the office was complete. There was no clerk bustling in with fresh papers. There were no clients pounding on the door. Just the sound of the wind slipping through the cracked windowpanes and his own ragged breathing.

His eyes drifted toward the corner where his grandfather’s gold pocket watch rested on a faded leather case. He reached out and brushed the cool metal with his thumb. The watch ticked quietly and stubbornly, even though everything else seemed to be falling apart.

This life had been unraveling for months. The law practice he had built with his uncle’s inheritance had thrived at first. But all that changed the moment his older partner had betrayed him, stealing clients and money behind his back before quietly retiring. Calvin had been left with nothing but a shuttered office and a bruised reputation.

There was nothing to be proud of. Not at all.

Bills kept piling up and the creditors were growing more insistent. His savings had evaporated faster than he liked to admit. His pride screamed that he should keep fighting in Philadelphia and hold onto what little dignity he had left. The truth was that the city no longer held a place for him.

A soft scuff at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

The letter slid under the threshold, its envelope pale and worn. Calvin’s brow furrowed as he got up from his chair and walked over to retrieve it. He recognized the familiar, messy scrawl of his younger brother immediately.

Breaking the seal, Calvin unfolded the paper, and his eyes began to skim the words.

Brother,

Pa’s dead. You best come home. Ain’t right without you her. I carnt figur out the books. You always did the thinkin.

Silas

Calvin read the words three times. The grammar was poor, the spelling worse, but the meaning struck hard.

His heart hammered. Not with grief, but with a weighty mixture of exhaustion, confusion, and something he didn’t want to admit—guilt.

Harlan Mercer. His father. He was dead.

The name tasted bitter on his tongue.

For years, Calvin had held a quiet grudge against the man who raised him with a cold hand and a distant gaze. Harlan had been a strict, unforgiving rancher who cared more for cattle and his land than his own family.

Calvin’s mind went back over the years. The way his father had remarried Harriet just two years after Eleanor, his mother, died during Silas’s birth. The bitterness and resentment that had settled between the new family members like dust. The loneliness he’d felt when he was sent away to Philadelphia to be raised by his great uncle.

He had left Kansas and traded in the sunbaked dust for the cold stone halls of law schools and libraries.

And now, the call was coming home. Not for reconciliation, but for responsibility.

With his trembling fingers, Calvin folded the letter carefully. Silas’s handwriting betrayed his unease. The boy who had once been the sunniest, more carefree sibling was now overwhelmed. A cowboy through and through, Silas was better with horses and cattle than ledgers and letters.

If Silas was reaching out because he was struggling to manage, then the situation must be dire.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Calvin moved with the deliberate grace he had perfected in the courtroom. Tall, broad shouldered, always polished.

He looked around the room and sighed. The empty office, the unpaid bills, and a shattered dream of a law career. The past months had left him hollow. He had been stripped of his certainty and comfort.

When he closed his eyes, he thought of Silas. His younger brother was always smiling. Always riding horses. He was never one for the finer things Calvin had chased. Silas was the brother who had stayed on the ranch while he had fled the heat. The brother who needed him now.

“I have to go back,” Calvin whispered.

Slowly, he reached up to rub a hand over his face, palm rasping against his thick mustache. Outside the office window, dusk was folding into night. The city of Philadelphia moved on beneath a veil of gray.

Horses were clipping down cobbled streets. There was a distant clang of a streetcar bell. A boy was shouting headlines that Calvin already knew too well.

Eventually, he dropped his hand to the edge of the desk and stared again at the letter from Silas.

“You always did the thinking.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it? Silas had never cared for anything that couldn’t be fixed with a saddle and a strong back. Calvin, on the other hand, had handled all the practical matters when they were young. Back before his father had made it clear that he had never seen him as anything more than an inconvenience.

Calvin didn’t know how he’d gotten here, but he was pacing. There was nothing in the world that could have slowed him down.

His partner might have disappeared into retirement with half his accounts, but the whispers followed Calvin everywhere he went. The clients hadn’t stuck around to ask questions. They had simply vanished, taking their trust and money with them.

After a while, he went to the window and looked out over the street. Philadelphia was still his city. But what did he have to show for it now?

If he returned to Kansas, it wouldn’t be for sentiment. It wouldn’t be to mourn a man he hadn’t loved or to reminisce about days he would rather forget. It would be for necessity.

Pure and simple. Silas needed help.

And if Harlan Mercer had anything of value, Calvin would put it in order, clean it up, and maybe walk away with something in his pocket. A few months. That was all he needed. Long enough to stabilize the place and return to Philadelphia with some measure of stability.

He would not become a rancher. He would not stay longer than necessary.

But he also wouldn’t let Silas drown alone in that dusty world.

Once Calvin turned back to his desk, he began to clear it.

The tailor’s bill. The notices. The unopened legal documents. He stacked them and tied them with a string before sliding them into the bottom drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

This wasn’t an end. It was a pause.

A calculated retreat.

Calvin crossed the room and opened the closet to pull out a long, dark overcoat. He checked the pockets.

There was a pair of gloves, two loose coins, and a folded handkerchief. His fingers brushed over the embroidered initials at the edge. E.M. Eleanor Mercer. His mother. He hadn’t realized it was still there.

Strange. The past followed him even when he had done everything that he could to forget it.

Without hesitation, Calvin slipped the coat on and turned back to the room. He stood there for a long moment, taking it in one last time.

The cracked spines of the law books. The brass lamp that leaned a little to the left. The chair where he had spent a hundred evenings building a life that in the end turned out to have been built on sand.

Then he extinguished the lamp and stepped into the dark.

Chapter Two

Natchez, Mississippi

Josephine Dupree smoothed her skirts with a practiced hand, ignoring the way her mother’s eyes followed the gesture like a hawk trailing a mouse.

“You shouldn’t be running off into town like that, Josie,” her mother said from the couch. “It isn’t proper, especially not in a stormy mood like yours.”

She bit down the first reply that rose up. It was something sharp, something about being nineteen and not nine, but instead, she spoke calmly.

“Clara needs me.”

Her mother pressed her lips into a thin line. The lace of her collar was stiff with starch.

“That girl’s family has always had trouble follow them like a shadow,” Josephine’s mother said. “I hope you don’t plan on getting tangled up in it.”

Closing the last button on her gloves, Josephine crossed the parlor without another word. She paused only long enough to dip her head toward her father, who hadn’t looked up from his newspaper.

Once she stepped outside, it felt like she could breathe again. The air inside her house was suffocating. It was a struggle to breathe every day. Her parents were the only ones to blame for that.

She walked briskly as her heels tapped against the uneven brick walkways of Natchez. The afternoon sun spilled down between moss-covered trees and old white porches. These familiar streets did not comfort her. They caged her.

Josephine had never left Natchez, not once in nineteen years. Not even for holidays. Not even for a funeral. Her parents claimed there was no money for travel, though there always seemed to be enough for her mother’s weekly salon visits and her father’s whiskey.

They had built their lives like one of those crumbling mansions just off the bluff—grand and painted over with nothing solid underneath. The debts piled high, but her parents insisted on polished shoes and silk ribbons.

Starving was a better option than appearing poor.

And she was always the one to blame.

It was her father who said Josephine had drained them with her demands when in reality, his gambling and pride emptied their accounts. Her mother called Josephine her punishment. A constant reminder of three lost babies after her.

Instead of letting her anger control her, Josephine cleared her throat and kept walking with her chin up. She wore a pale blue dress with a cinched waist that made her curves more noticeable than proper, but she had stopped caring what the older women whispered long ago. Her long black hair was pinned neatly beneath her hat, and her bright blue eyes made strangers stop and look twice.

People smiled and nodded as she passed. They saw charm, poise, and maybe even envy. No one ever guessed at the sadness hiding behind her quick smile or the way her hands trembled when no one was looking.

Her older siblings had left years ago. Two of them. Both gone without goodbyes.

They had left her behind to face the silence and the shouting and the long, aching dinners where no one spoke unless it was to blame her. She didn’t know where they were. Didn’t know if they even thought of her.

She tried not to think of them. Today, all that mattered was Clara.

Josephine hadn’t seen her for a few days. Not since word came about Mr. Harlan Mercer’s death. The man had been gone for most of Clara’s life. He was a ghost with a name, but that didn’t change the truth of it. He was still her father, and now he was dead.

When Josephine stepped up to the tall iron gates of Clara’s house, she gave it two firm raps.

The house was a proud, narrow thing perched between a decaying milliner’s shop and a rambling old tavern. Clara’s aunt and uncle had lived there for a long time.

Before Josephine could knock again, the door swung open.

Clara stood there with her eyes red-rimmed, curls pinned in disarray, and her pale hand still clutching a folded sheet of paper.

“Oh, Josie,” she breathed. “It’s real. He’s really gone.”

Without waiting for permission, Josephine stepped through the gates and raced up to the porch where Clara was waiting for her. She took her hand gently, pulling her away from the doorframe where the air smelled of dried flowers and too much perfume.

“Come on,” Josephine murmured. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They climbed the narrow staircase in silence. When they reached the top, Clara’s room was exactly as Josephine remembered. Neat, pale, and feminine. A watercolor of a meadow hung above the dresser, and the faint smell of lavender clung to the linens.

As soon as the door closed, Clara sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the letter in her lap like it had grown teeth.

“Show me,” Josephine knelt in front of her.

The letter was formal, typed in stiff legal language. It had been signed by a judge in Kansas. The phrases leaped out at Josephine in snippets.

“…bequeathed to Clara Mercer, legitimate heir…”

“…one-half ownership of the Mercer ranch, subject to terms…”

“…executor to contact within ninety days…”

Josephine’s brows furrowed. “You’re serious. You own half of it?”

Her friend nodded as a silent tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t even know what it looks like. I don’t remember it at all.”

“But you knew it was his, didn’t you?” Josephine smoothed the paper across her lap.

“I knew he had land,” Clara said. “But I never thought he would leave it to me.”

Her voice cracked on the last words. That was when Josephine came to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” she said quietly.

“I don’t know what I feel,” Clara whispered. “I don’t know if I’m mourning him or mourning what we never had.”

The spring breeze stirred the lace curtains. Josephine didn’t respond for a long time.

“I think he regretted it,” she said eventually. “Why else would he leave this to you?”

“But what do I do now?” Clara looked over with her bright green eyes. “I don’t know anything about a ranch. I’ve never really left Mississippi since I came here.”

In response, Josephine gave her a small smile.

“Clara Mercer, heiress to a Kansas cattle ranch,” she said. “Can you imagine the ladies at church when they hear?”

Clara gave a weak laugh, but it dissolved into another sob. She buried her face against Josephine’s shoulder.

“I’m scared,” Clara admitted.

“I know,” Josephine replied. “But we’ll figure it out.”

She let Clara rest against her for a moment longer. The room was warm with stillness and heavy with silence. But Josephine’s mind was already moving, sorting through possibilities like cards in a deck.

“I should write to the judge, I suppose,” Clara said, sitting upright to wipe her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief she pulled out from the pocket of her skirt. “Or find someone to help me sell it. I… I can’t imagine going all the way to Kansas alone.”

“You’re not going alone,” Josephine took her hand.

“What do you mean?” Clara blinked, looking at her.

“I mean you’re going back,” Josephine said firmly. “And I’m going with you.”

“But…” Clara stared. “But Josie… your parents…”

“My parents will survive without me.” Her voice was flat. “They’ve managed worse.”

“But what about your life here?” Clara asked.

Josephine had to swallow the words that were threatening to spill out. She wanted to tell her everything, but this wasn’t the time to look for pity. Clara was grieving, and Josephine was going to be supportive.

She refused to go into the details about how she woke up every day dreading to play the part of the dutiful daughter in a rotting mansion her parents couldn’t afford.

“Let them whisper about you inheriting a ranch.” Josephine shrugged. “Let them whisper about me running off in the middle of the night. They’ll find something else to gossip about soon enough.”

“You’d really come with me?” Clara hesitated.

“I insist on it.” Josephine reached for the letter again and folded it crisply between her fingers. “You need someone to help you figure out what’s waiting for you out there. And I—”

She paused, her eyes flicking to the window where sunlight danced through the lace curtains. The same streets, the same stifling parlor with her mother’s voice clinging to the walls like mildew. Nineteen years of acting the same role in a play she hated.

“I need something new,” she finished.

Fortunately, Clara didn’t ask more. Perhaps she knew better than to question what Josephine wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Instead, she gave a small nod. “All right. We’ll go.”

“We’ll write back once we’re settled,” Josephine promised her. “We can send something to your aunt and uncle from the station.”

For a while, they sat shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the narrow bed with their futures pressing in from the horizon. The next chapter of their lives would begin far from Natchez. And neither of them would return the same.

But for now, they had a plan. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

***

Josephine didn’t run.

She walked with her shoulders square and her chin lifted. Each one of her steps was as intentional as the next. She didn’t pause at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice behind her, nor did she look back when the gate creaked shut.

Her boots clicked neatly over the stones and her satchel bumped lightly at her hip.

It was early. The sun had only just started to light the rooftops. The streets were still quiet. Nobody stopped her. She had made sure of that.

The letter she had left on her father’s desk was brief. Respectful. Cold.

She didn’t owe him any more than that.

In her bag were two envelopes of money, a handful of dresses, and a train ticket. She carried no parasol, no trunks, no lace-frilled hatboxes. Just a plain traveling coat over her best walking dress and her mother’s brooch pinned close to her collarbone.

And now, she was free.

The station came into view through a haze of morning light and coal smoke. Josephine exhaled slowly. She hadn’t even realized she had been holding her breath.

Moving past the benches and porter carts with quiet purpose, she scanned the thinning crowd until—

“There you are!” she called out, raising a hand.

Clara looked up, startled. She was blinking like she had just woken up from a dream. She stood near the edge of the platform, her gloved fingers twisting a little white handkerchief. Her valise sat beside her, and her bonnet was slightly crooked.

“Oh, Josie!” she said, rushing forward with a relieved smile. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind!”

“Never,” Josephine said firmly, placing a steady hand on Clara’s arm. “Did your aunt and uncle come with you?”

Clara gave a sheepish shrug. “No… they said they had too much to manage with the irrigation lines down again. Uncle mumbled something about chickens… and Aunt Rose said I’d regret it all by the time we reached Kansas. But I left anyway. I didn’t even cry.”

“Good.” Josephine smiled. “That makes two of us.”

Her smile widened, but her eyes flicked around the platform. “Are we—? I mean… what if they come looking? What if someone sees—?”

“No one’s looking,” Josephine said, guiding her toward the conductor checking tickets. “And if they are, we’ll be halfway across the country before they figure out where we’ve gone.”

She handed over both tickets smoothly. The conductor barely looked up.

“You bought mine too?” Clara blinked.

There was no reason for Josephine to answer. She simply picked up Clara’s valise and steered her toward the train.

“Where are we going again?” Clara asked breathlessly.

It wasn’t unusual for her to act like this. Josephine had been her friend long enough to know that Clara was easily overwhelmed. Trains, people… change. It didn’t help that she was still grieving the death of her father.

“Kansas,” Josephine replied.

“But Kansas is big.” Clara wrinkled her nose.

“That’s the point.” Josephine grinned slightly.

The train hissed as they boarded. Josephine found their car without hesitation. It was second-class and forward-facing, just behind the dining coach. She helped Clara up the steps, took the window seat, and set both bags on the rack above them before Clara even sat down.

“I’ve never traveled without a chaperone,” Clara said as she smoothed her skirt with both hands.

“You have one now,” Josephine replied.

Laughing, Clara brushed her hand through her bushy blonde hair. “You’ve always been more… decisive than me.”

“I’ve had to be.”

The whistle blew. It was loud and shrill. Clara jumped in her seat.

“Is it always this loud?” she asked, wincing as the engine roared.

“You’ll get used to it,” Josephine said, already pulling a book from her satchel. “Just don’t lean too close to the window when we pass through soot.”

“You packed a book?” Clara stared.

Josephine didn’t look up. “Two, actually.”

“But… how did you…? I thought we’d have to stop in—”

“I handled it,” Josephine replied.

The train gave a lurch, and the landscape outside the window began to crawl backward. Steam curled past the glass in pale, ghostly ribbons. Clara leaned forward to watch it, wide-eyed and entranced like a child watching a magic trick.

For a few long moments, they sat in the rhythm of the train’s sway. Josephine was quietly turning the pages in her book, and Clara was trying to count the fence posts as they flickered past.

They traveled for hours. The sun dipped below the horizon once Josephine was almost finished with her first book. After eating a meal provided by the train crew, Josephine had to fight the urge to fall asleep. She didn’t want to miss a thing.

The train car was warm and beginning to smell faintly of potatoes. Clara had dozed off with her head tilted at an awkward angle. Josephine marked her page, slid her book back into her satchel, and stood quietly.

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” she murmured, though Clara didn’t stir.

The corridor outside was narrow and clattered beneath her boots. Josephine moved past the other compartments quietly, weaving around a steward carrying a tray of tin teacups. She pushed open the door to the small external platform at the rear of the car where a metal grate floor let in the roar of the tracks beneath.

Cool air rushed against her face, and she inhaled deeply. It was coal smoke mixed with wind and dust, but it was better than the cloying heat inside.

She rested a hand on the railing and leaned forward slightly. The fields blurred past in streaks of green and brown. Somewhere in the distance, a line of trees stitched itself against the sky.

Then the door creaked open behind her.

Josephine turned just as someone stepped onto the platform.

He stood a full head taller than her, with broad shoulders that filled out his fancy coat. His sandy hair cast a shadow over a pair of dark green eyes that caught the light when they met hers, and a thick mustache framed his mouth that lifted at one corner. Just barely. He didn’t speak, but something flickered in his gaze.

Interest.

She felt it like the brief flash of heat from a struck match.

“Excuse me,” she said smoothly, brushing past him.

But in the tight space, their shoulders bumped. Not roughly, but enough to make her breath catch. She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of a second glance. But her cheeks flushed as she stepped back inside and let the door close behind her.

He hadn’t said a word.

She wasn’t sure if that made him arrogant or endearing.

Back in her seat, Clara was still sleeping. Josephine sat down, lifted her book again, and found her place. Though she didn’t read. Not for several pages.

Her mind kept wandering back to the wind, and the tracks, and the quiet man with the dark green eyes.

Chapter Three

Cedar Bluff, Kansas

Silas Mercer stared down at the bottom of the wooden feed barrel as the last dusty grains of oat slipped between his fingers like dry sand. He gave the side of the barrel a rough smack, as if shaking it might summon more. But it only echoed hollowly in the empty barn.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

It had been a long week already, and now this.

The horses would be restless by morning, and the cattle weren’t any more forgiving. Silas scraped a hand through his light blond hair, which was already damp with sweat from the midday sun. He exhaled hard.

There was no avoiding it now.

He had never been good at keeping count. He’d left school too early for that. Numbers on a page had never meant half as much to him as the way a horse shifted when it was uneasy, or the way a steer kicked right before a storm rolled in.

That was the kind of knowledge that made sense. He felt it in his bones.

His father had always handled the business. The orders, the paperwork, and the books full of ledgers Silas barely looked at, let alone understood. And now, with the old man buried, everything had fallen square on his shoulders.

And he had no clue what he was doing.

With a groan, he yanked the barn door shut and made his way back to the house. The ranch sat quietly under a vast stretch of sky, the wind stirring the tall grass like waves on a sea. There had been a time when he had found that silence peaceful. Lately, it just made him feel tired.

He found his boots by the door and pulled them on without changing the dirt-streaked shirt he had been wearing since morning. No one in town would care. Not anymore.

Afterward, Silas swung into the saddle of his horse and nudged it into a steady trot. The old mare’s hooves kicked up dry dust along the trail into town. The center of Cedar Bluff wasn’t far, but the sun was already creeping toward late afternoon, and he had wasted enough time muttering over empty barrels.

Silas leaned forward, resting his forearms across the saddle horn as he rode.

The breeze cooled the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, but it didn’t do much to lift the weight pressing on his chest. Ranch work was something he could do with his eyes closed. Fixing fences and breaking horses was second nature. But buying feed, tracking orders, and remembering to keep enough oats on hand? That part had always been his father’s burden.

Sighing through his nose, he watched the town come into view past the rise. Rooftops were tucked among trees and smoke was curling from chimneys.

Once he reached the main street, Silas tied off at the general store—but it was already shuttered for the evening.

“Of course,” Silas muttered. “Figures.”

He stood there for a moment with a hand on his hip. The other adjusted his hat against the glare of the sun. It was too late to head back empty-handed, and there was nothing he could do now but wait until morning.

Well… there was one thing.

The scent of sawdust and stale beer drifted from the saloon and down the street. His boots carried him toward it almost without thinking.

Cedar Bluff’s saloon was just as he remembered it. Dim and loud with a crooked piano in the corner and a dozen men crowded around small tables.

A few seconds later, he spotted Wesley Barnes leaning back in his chair with a whiskey in hand and his boots up on the table like he owned the place. His brown eyes found Silas once he walked through the swinging doors.

“Mercer,” Wesley called out, grinning as he stepped in. “You look like a man who’s just been kicked in the teeth.”

Silas chuckled and tipped his hat before sliding into the chair across from him. “Ran out of oats.”

Wesley barked a laugh and slapped the table. “You’re telling me you let the feed run dry? What the hell have you been doing out there? Talking to the cows?”

“I guess I didn’t check the barrel close enough.” Silas gave a sheepish shrug.

“Didn’t check it?” Wesley repeated with a drawl, raising his brows. “You’re running a whole ranch now and you forgot to feed the horses?”

“I didn’t forget, exactly,” Silas scratched the back of his neck. “I just figured we had more.”

“Figured,” Wesley said, grinning wider. “Lord help us.”

The laugh that came out of Silas’s mouth was light and genuine. He had always thought of Wesley as a friend. A drinking buddy. A fellow man who knew the land and liked to talk too much.

But Wesley’s words sometimes cut deeper than they needed to.

“Guess I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” Silas said, waving down the bartender and ordering a drink. “Hope the horses don’t mutiny overnight.”

“They’ll survive,” Wesley said, raising a glass. “To your first real mistake as a ranch boss.”

Their glasses clinked and they both took long sips. The burn of whiskey warmed Silas’s throat as his shoulders relaxed for the first time all day. He leaned back in his chair like he had nowhere to be till next spring.

“You sure you didn’t just drink the oats?” Wesley asked with a smirk.

“That’d be easier.” Silas rolled his eyes and took another sip. “Less chewing.”

“Hell, maybe I ought to start running your books.” Wesley laughed. “Couldn’t do worse, could I?”

Silas didn’t rise to the jab. “I’m not looking to be the next railway tycoon, Wesley. I just want to keep the stock fed and the roof patched.”

“And how’s that working out?” Wesley arched an eyebrow. “You’re sitting here in town drinking while your horses plan a coup.”

Silas snorted. “They’ll forgive me by sun-up.”

Knocking back the last of his drink, Wesley stood up. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Mercer. If you were any dumber, they’d stick you in a museum next to the busted plows.”

Silas stood with him and pushed his chair under the table. “Thanks for the drink. And the insult.”

“Anytime.” Wesley clapped him on the shoulder. “Be careful out there.”

After giving Wesley a two-fingered salute, Silas stepped out into the street.

The late sun slanted low across the buildings, turning everything gold and dusty. Silas crossed the road to check on his horse before making a lazy loop through town.

He picked up a coil of rope from the supply shop, passed the time chatting with old Mr. Plank outside the post office, and even poked his head around the churchyard out of habit. Nothing much had changed.

It was the same crooked bell tower. The same missing slat in the fence.

For some reason, he was dragging his feet. He didn’t know why.

Maybe he just wasn’t ready to ride back yet. Not to the silence. Not to the heavy weight of a ledger book he couldn’t read and responsibilities he hadn’t asked for.

The whistle came faint and distant. It was like a memory blown in on the breeze.

Automatically, Silas turned toward the sound. The train. It was late again. He wandered toward the depot without meaning to. He was just following the sound and feeling the movement.

There were already a handful of folks on the platform. A couple of travelers, the station agent pacing with his clipboard, and a gaggle of kids pressed to the fence in hopes of candy from passengers.

Crossing his arms, Silas stood at a distance and squinted toward the rise.

The train roared in with a wall of sound, iron grinding and steam hissing, a heavy groan of metal and motion. The brakes squealed as it slowed to a halt, dust billowing up in clouds.

He didn’t know why he always watched it.

Perhaps it was the promise of something else. Of going or of leaving. Of putting it all behind.

Not once had Silas ridden the train. Not when his brother left. Not when his mother passed. Not even when his father got sick. The ranch had a gravity that pulled him in and held him fast. Some days, it felt like a noose.

The doors of the train clanked open, and passengers began spilling out. Silas grinned slightly at a preacher with a trunk. His eyes stayed on the train as a family of four stepped out of it. There were also two men with slick city coats and matching briefcases.

And then…

A shadow stepped down from the third car. Leaner than he remembered, with a worn canvas satchel slung low on one shoulder.

Silas’s breath caught. He blinked once. Then again.

It couldn’t be. But it was.

The crowd jostled past him as Silas stood perfectly still. A young girl skipped by with a bag of boiled sweets. The station agent shouted something toward the cargo train. None of it registered.

Because there, stepping down from the train, was Calvin Mercer. His brother.