A Widow on the Run at his Door (Preview)

Chapter One

The acrid smell of gunpowder still hung in the air when Clara Donovan found her husband.

“John!” The scream tore from her throat as she dropped to her knees beside him in their ransacked parlor. Blood seeped through his sheriff’s uniform from the gunshot wound in his chest, pooling dark and terrible on the floorboards she’d scrubbed clean just that morning. Shattered glass from their front window crunched beneath her skirts as she pressed her hands against the wound in his chest, trying desperately to stem the flow.

“Clara…” His voice came out as barely more than a whisper, each word costing him precious breath. His hazel eyes, usually so sharp and alert, struggled to focus on her face.

“Don’t speak. Save your strength.” Her hands trembled as she tore a strip of fabric from her petticoat, wadding it against the wound. The fabric turned crimson instantly. “I’ll fetch Doc Morrison.”

“No.” John’s hand caught hers, his grip frighteningly weak. “Too late for that.”

The house looked like a tornado had torn through it. Every drawer yanked open, cushions slashed, her grandmother’s china scattered in pieces across the floor. Even the family Bible lay torn apart, its pages scattered like fallen leaves. Whoever had done this had been searching for something with violent determination.

“The map,” John rasped, his breathing growing more labored. “You must… keep it safe.”

“What map? John, I don’t understand.”

His hand moved with agonizing slowness, trembling as he pointed toward his coat hanging on the peg by the door. The brown wool coat he wore on cold mornings, now splattered with blood from where he’d crawled through the doorway.

“Sewn inside… the lining.” Each word came harder than the last. “Don’t let them… find it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Clara whispered, though confusion and terror warred within her. “But who did this? Who’s looking for…”

“The Silver Serpents. Vince Callahan’s gang.” John’s face contorted with pain. “They’ll come back. You must… take Eli… run.”

Clara’s heart clenched at the mention of their five-year-old son. Thank the Lord, he was at the Watson farm this morning, playing with their boy while she’d gone to the market. The Watsons had promised to walk both children to school after lunch. Eli wouldn’t come home to this. She wouldn’t let him.

“Guard it with your life,” John continued, his voice fading to barely a breath. “It’s worth… everything. Our future… Eli’s future…”

“John, please.” Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood on her hands. “Don’t leave us. We need you. I need you.”

A ghost of his old smile touched his lips. “Strong as iron, my Clara. Always have been.” His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing away her tears with heartbreaking gentleness. “Take care of our boy. Tell him… his pa loved him fierce.”

“John.”

But the light in his eyes was already fading, his hand falling limp against the bloodstained floor. Clara pressed her forehead to his chest, feeling the last shuddering breath leave his body. A sob wrenched from her depths, raw and primal, as the reality crashed over her like a bitter winter wind.

Her husband was dead. Murdered in their own home.

The clock on the mantel, one of the few things left unbroken, chimed three times. Clara’s head snapped up. Three o’clock. School would let out any minute now. The Watsons would send Eli home as they always did on Wednesdays, expecting her to be here waiting with fresh-baked cookies and a smile.

She couldn’t let him come home to this. Couldn’t let him see his father’s blood soaking into the floorboards.

Clara forced herself to think through the fog of grief. John’s warning echoed in her mind. They’ll come back.

She pressed her lips to John’s forehead one last time, whispering a prayer for his soul, then pushed herself to her feet. Her hands shook as she closed his eyes, making him look almost peaceful despite the violence of his death.

There was no time for a proper funeral, no time to alert the authorities. If the Silver Serpents had killed the town sheriff in broad daylight, they wouldn’t hesitate to harm anyone who got in their way, including a woman and child.

Working quickly despite her trembling limbs, Clara dragged John’s body to the root cellar. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, marking the passage of precious time. She had perhaps twenty minutes before Eli walked through that door, his school satchel over his shoulder, calling for his pa.

Back in the house, she grabbed John’s coat from the peg, her fingers running along the lining. There, she could feel something stiff beneath the fabric, carefully concealed. But she had no time to investigate further.

Clara stuffed the coat into a carpetbag along with a few clothes, the money from John’s hidden tobacco tin, and the photograph of their wedding day. Her grandmother’s silver locket, the only jewelry of value she owned, went around her neck, hidden beneath her collar.

She paused at Eli’s room, heart breaking anew at the sight of his toy soldiers arranged in neat rows on the windowsill. John had carved them himself last Christmas, spending hours by the fire getting every detail just right. Clara grabbed Eli’s favorite, a little cavalry officer, and tucked it into her pocket.

The school bell would ring soon. She had to hurry.

Clara slipped out the back door, pulling her shawl tight against the October chill. She kept to the alleyways, avoiding Main Street where curious eyes might note her disheveled appearance and bloodstained dress. Every shadow could hide a threat, every hoofbeat could signal the gang’s return.

The schoolhouse sat on the edge of town, its red paint faded but cheerful. Clara waited by the large oak tree where she always met Eli, trying to compose herself. She scrubbed at her face with her handkerchief, hoping she’d removed the worst of the blood and tears. Her boy was sharp as a tack; he’d know something was wrong the moment he saw her.

The school door burst open right on schedule, and children poured out like water from a dam.

Clara waited by the large oak tree where she always met Eli, trying to compose herself. She scrubbed at her face with her handkerchief, hoping she’d removed the worst of the blood and tears.

Eli emerged in the middle of the pack, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles, his face lit with the joy of freedom. When he spotted her, he broke into a run.

“Mama!”

Clara caught him up in her arms, holding him perhaps a bit too tightly. He smelled of chalk dust and sun-warmed skin, grass stains, and innocence.

“Mama, you’re squishing me,” Eli protested, but he hugged her back just as fiercely.

“Sorry, sweet pea.” She set him down but kept hold of his hand. “How was school?”

“Good! Tommy Harris put a frog in the teacher’s desk drawer, and she screamed something awful.” Eli’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Where’s Pa? Isn’t he coming to walk us home today? He promised to show me how to whittle after supper.”

The knife of grief twisted deeper. “Pa had to… he had to go away for a while. On important sheriff business.”

Eli’s face fell. “But he promised.”

“I know, sweetheart. But sometimes grown-up work can’t wait.” Clara squeezed his hand. “How would you like to go on an adventure instead? Visit the place where Mama grew up?”

“The orphanage? Really?” Eli’s expression shifted to curiosity. He’d always been fascinated by her stories of Silver Ridge Orphanage. “Can we ride in a stagecoach?”

“We’ll see.” Clara glanced over her shoulder, her skin prickling with the sensation of being watched. “But we need to hurry. It’s a long way, and we want to get there before dark.”

They walked swiftly toward the edge of town where the road led up into the mountains. Clara had enough money for stage fare, but the next coach wouldn’t come through until morning. They’d have to walk the first few miles, perhaps catch a ride with a farmer heading that direction.

“Mama, why are you carrying Pa’s coat?” Eli asked, pointing to the brown wool visible in her carpetbag.

“It might get cold where we’re going.” The lie tasted bitter, but what else could she tell him? That his father lay dead in their cellar? That violent men were hunting them for something sewn into that very coat?

As they passed the last houses of Silver Ridge, Clara allowed herself one glance back. Smoke rose from chimneys, wash fluttered on lines, life continued as if nothing had changed. But for her and Eli, everything had changed in the span of a single afternoon.

“Mama?” Eli tugged on her hand. “When will Pa come back?”

Clara’s throat tightened. “I don’t know, sweet pea. But until he does, it’s just you and me. We have to take care of each other, all right?”

“All right.” Eli nodded solemnly, then brightened. “Like an adventure! Maybe we’ll see cowboys and Indians!”

“Maybe we will.”

As they climbed the winding road into the mountains, Clara’s free hand drifted to the carpetbag. Somewhere in that coat lay a secret worth killing for. A map that John had died to protect.

She didn’t know what it led to or why the Silver Serpents wanted it so desperately. But she’d keep her promise. She’d guard it with her life.

For Eli. For John.

For whatever future that piece of paper might hold.

Chapter 2

Jackson Hayes straightened from mending the fence line, his back protesting the movement. The October sun beat down warmer than usual, making him grateful for the wide brim of his hat. He wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the ranch spreading out before him—five hundred acres of prime Colorado grassland that had been in the Hayes family for nearly twenty years.

His father’s land. Even two years after the old man’s death, Jackson couldn’t think of it as truly his.

The weight of Clive Hayes pressed down on him like the mountains themselves. Every weathered fence post, every head of cattle, every blade of grass seemed to whisper of expectations Jackson could never quite meet. His father had built this ranch from nothing, carved it out of wilderness with his bare hands and iron will.

And methods Jackson preferred not to think about.

He bent back to his work, wrapping wire around a post that had come loose in last week’s storm. The repetitive motion usually calmed him, but today his thoughts churned like creek water after spring melt. The ranch was struggling—it had been for months now. Cattle prices were down, several hands had quit for better-paying work in the mines, and expenses kept mounting higher than a mustang’s kick.

“Pa! Pa, watch this!”

Jackson turned to see his seven-year-old daughter, Maggie, perched atop the corral fence like a little sparrow, her dark braids flying as she prepared to jump. His heart lurched into his throat.

“Maggie Hayes, you get down from there this instant!”

“But Pa, I can jump clear across to the water trough! Billy Hutchins said girls can’t jump far as boys, and I aim to prove him wrong!”

Before Jackson could reach her, Maggie launched herself into the air. She landed short of the trough, tumbling into the dirt with a yelp. Jackson rushed to her side, his hands checking for injuries even as frustration boiled in his chest.

“You hurt?”

“No, sir.” Maggie’s chin jutted out defiantly, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Dirt smudged her cheek and her dress—the third one she’d ruined this month.

“What have I told you about climbing on that fence?”

“Not to.” Her voice came out smaller now.

“And what have I told you about acting like a wild coyote instead of a young lady?”

Maggie’s face crumpled. “Mama used to say it was all right for girls to be brave.”

The words hit Jackson like a physical blow. Katherine. Even after two years, her absence gaped like an open wound. She would have known exactly how to handle their spirited daughter, would have found the perfect balance between encouraging Maggie’s fearless nature and teaching her proper caution.

But Katherine had gotten soaked through in that fool rainstorm, insisting on helping him bring in the cattle when she should have been safe inside. The pneumonia had taken her within a week, leaving Jackson alone with a grief-stricken five-year-old and a ranch that suddenly felt too big for just the two of them.

“Your mama also said brave didn’t mean foolish,” Jackson said gruffly, helping Maggie to her feet. “Now get on up to the house and change that dress. And stay out of trouble for five blessed minutes.”

Maggie scuffed her boot in the dirt. “Yes, sir.”

As she trudged toward the house, shoulders slumped, Jackson felt the familiar weight of inadequacy. He was failing her. Failing the ranch. Failing at every turn to be the man his father had expected him to be.

Different visions, that’s what Clive Hayes had always said. You’ve got different visions for this place, boy. Too soft by half.

Jackson retrieved his tools and headed for the barn, needing the familiar comfort of leather and hay. Inside, he found Tommy Harris checking over the horses, his weathered face creased in concentration.

“That mare’s favoring her left foreleg again,” Tommy said without looking up. “Might need to call in Doc Carpenter.”

“Can’t afford it.” The words came out sharper than Jackson intended. “I’ll take a look myself later.”

Tommy straightened, fixing Jackson with a look that managed to be both respectful and pointed. They’d grown up together, Tommy and him, though life had taken them down different paths. Where Jackson had inherited the ranch, Tommy had worked his way up from stable boy to foreman through sheer grit and skill.

“Boss, we need to talk.”

“If it’s about wages, I told you—”

“It ain’t about wages.” Tommy pulled off his hat, running a hand through sandy hair gone gray at the temples. “Though Lord knows the boys deserve better than what we’re paying. It’s about help.”

“We can’t afford more hands.”

“Not hands. Help. For the house. For Miss Maggie.”

Jackson’s jaw tightened. “We’re managing fine.”

“Are you?” Tommy’s voice held a gentleness that somehow made it worse. “That little girl’s running wilder than a mustang, you’re working yourself to the bone, and the house… when’s the last time you had a hot meal that didn’t come from a can?”

“We don’t need…”

“And there’s something else.” Tommy reached into his vest pocket, pulling out an envelope. “Rider brought this while you were out mending fence. From the bank.”

Jackson’s stomach dropped as he recognized the official letterhead. His hands were steady as he opened it, but inside, his guts churned like butter in a dasher.

Final Notice of Foreclosure Proceedings.

The words swam before his eyes. Three months. That’s all they were giving him. Three months to pay the outstanding debt or lose everything his father had built.

“How bad?” Tommy asked quietly.

“Bad.” Jackson crumpled the letter, then thought better of it and smoothed it out again. He’d need to read it properly later, figure out if there was any way to fight this. “They want the full payment on the loan. Eight hundred dollars.”

Tommy whistled low. “That’s more than we’ll see from the cattle sale.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of impending loss settling over them like dust. Outside, Jackson could hear Maggie singing off-key, probably tormenting the chickens again.

“There’s that offer from Reed Holloway,” Tommy said carefully. “He’d pay good money for the water rights to Willow Creek.”

“No.” The word came out hard as granite. “My father would roll in his grave if I sold water rights to that snake. Whatever else Clive Hayes was, he knew to keep what was ours.”

Whatever else he was. The unspoken words hung between them. Tommy knew, as did most of the old-timers, that Clive Hayes hadn’t always walked the straight and narrow path. There were whispers of claim-jumping in his younger days, of deals made in darkness that had helped establish the ranch. Jackson had spent years trying to wash those stains clean through honest work.

“Then we need help,” Tommy said. “Someone who can manage the house, help with Miss Maggie, maybe even keep books. Free you up to focus on the cattle operation.”

“And pay them with what? Good intentions?”

“Room and board to start. Lots of folks looking for work these days. Widows especially, what with the mine accidents. Someone who needs a safe place might take the job for just a roof over their head.”

Jackson wanted to refuse. The thought of bringing a stranger into their lives, into Katherine’s house, made his chest tight. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t lose the ranch. It was all Maggie had left of her heritage, stained though it might be.

“Boss?” Tommy pressed gently. “What do you say?”

Before Jackson could answer, a crash came from the direction of the house, followed by Maggie’s voice raised in protest. Both men rushed outside to find the girl tangled in Mrs. Morrison’s laundry line from next door, sheets wound around her like a shroud.

“She spooked Buttercup!” Maggie wailed, pointing at their neighbor, who stood with hands on hips, face red as a beet. “Buttercup ran right through the clean washing!”

Sure enough, their yellow barn cat was perched safely on the fence now, licking one paw with infuriating contentment, as if she hadn’t just caused absolute chaos.

“That child is a menace!” Mrs. Morrison declared. “Running wild as an Indian, no proper supervision! Her mother would be mortified, God rest her soul.”

The words cut deep, but Jackson kept his voice level. “I apologize, Mrs. Morrison. Maggie, apologize to our neighbor.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Maggie mumbled, still fighting free of the sheets.

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t wash my linens again,” the woman huffed. “Mark my words, Jackson Hayes, that girl needs a woman’s firm hand before she’s completely ruined.”

As Mrs. Morrison stomped back to her property, dragging her soiled washing, Jackson helped untangle his daughter. Her dress—the clean one she’d just changed into—was now decorated with grass stains and dirt.

“I didn’t mean to,” Maggie said, her lower lip trembling. “I was just trying to catch Buttercup ‘fore she got into Mr. Morrison’s pigeon coop again.”

Jackson sighed, kneeling to Maggie’s eye level. “I know you meant well, sprite. But sometimes meaning well ain’t enough. We got to think before we act.”

“Like you think so much, you never do nothing?” The words burst out of Maggie like water through a dam. “You just work and worry and never smile no more! At least when Mama was here, you used to laugh sometimes!”

She tore away from him, racing toward the house with tears streaming down her face. Jackson stayed kneeling in the dirt, feeling like he’d been kicked by a mule.

“Children say things when they’re hurting,” Tommy said quietly from behind him.

“Doesn’t make it less true.” Jackson pushed himself to his feet, suddenly feeling older than his thirty-four years. “She’s right. I don’t laugh anymore. Don’t know how.”

“Maybe that’s another reason to get help. Someone new might bring some life back to this place.”

Jackson looked at the house—paint peeling, garden overgrown, curtains Katherine had sewn hanging limp in windows that hadn’t been properly cleaned in months. Then he looked at the crumpled foreclosure notice still clutched in his hand.

Pride was a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

“Put the word out,” he said finally. “We’re looking for someone. But Tommy?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“They got to be good with children. Patient. Kind. Someone who won’t try to break Maggie’s spirit while teaching her manners.”

Tommy nodded. “Like Mrs. Katherine was.”

“Yeah.” Jackson’s throat tightened. “Like Katherine was.”

As Tommy headed off to spread the word in town, Jackson remained standing in the yard. Change was coming whether he wanted it or not. The bank’s deadline loomed like storm clouds on the horizon, and his daughter was slipping further away each day.

He thought of his father, of the choices Clive Hayes had made to build this ranch. Dark choices, some of them. Choices Jackson had sworn he’d never repeat.

But what if honest work wasn’t enough? What if being a good man meant losing everything?

The setting sun painted the mountains crimson. The house had gone quiet. Maggie’s sobs, which had echoed through the open windows earlier, had finally faded to silence. Jackson squared his shoulders and headed inside. Whatever came next, he’d face it head-on.

He just prayed he was strong enough for what lay ahead.