Chapter One—Noemi
The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks hum through the wooden seat beneath me, a steady vibration that rattles up my spine and into my bones. The air inside the railcar is thick with the scents of unwashed bodies, damp wool, and stale burnt tobacco, but none of it matters—not when my eyes are glued to the world rushing past the dining cart window.
The glass is cool against my fingertips as I press my hand to it, watching the blurred landscape unfold like the pages of a story I’ve never read before.
The sky is a faded, washed-out blue, the kind that looks like it’s been stretched too thin, and the land beneath it rolls in endless waves of golden grass, speckled with patches of stubborn green. Then, the train slows as it nears a bend, and the world sharpens.
My breath catches on what’s before me.
There, on the banks of the Little Blue River, a gray wolf stands with her two pups, their silver coats rippling in the wind, damp and matted where the mud clings to their bellies. They’re tearing at the soft bellies of beached fish, their tiny teeth gnawing hungrily at flesh that glistens in the late afternoon light.
The wolf mother stands over them, her muscles taut beneath her fur, ears pricked toward the train. Her golden eyes flick to the windows, to the slowing train, locking onto mine for a brief second as my cart passes her. I feel something tighten deep inside my chest.
She is watching me until she isn’t. Not in fear, not in curiosity, but in warning.
She knows to keep her young close, to protect them from the dangers that lurk inside and outside the wild.
Something I wish someone had done for me.
The train lets out a long, hollow whistle, slicing through the air like a blade to let us know we’re only mere miles away from our destination, and the mother wolf lifts her head higher, her nostrils flaring.
She knows what this sound means. What we mean. She nudges her pups closer to the woods behind her, away from the noise, away from the path that divides the wilderness from the men who call themselves its masters.
Here, she is prey. No longer predator.
And we become the predators.
The thought makes my stomach churn. My fingers curl against the glass. The wolf doesn’t run. She just stands there, rooted in the earth, staring at the iron beast that carries me farther away from everything I once knew. I wonder if she feels the same pull in her chest, the same restless ache that tells her to flee before it’s too late.
Then, as the last railcar begins to pass, she lowers her head and vanishes into the tall grass, her pups trailing after her like shadows. The moment is gone, swallowed by the relentless forward motion of the train, but it lingers in my bones.
I wonder if she’ll think of me tonight beneath the moonlight, the same way I know I’ll think of her.
The train jolts to a slower speed, its iron wheels groaning over the tracks, and my father slumps against the window across from me, his head knocking dully against the glass. He mutters something incoherent, words slurred and lost in the rhythmic clatter of the train car.
The stench of whiskey spills from him in waves, thick and suffocating, turning my stomach worse than the lurching motion of the train itself. I turn my face back toward the window, swallowing against the nausea, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
I’ve lost count of how many drinks he’s had since we boarded. He tips his flask back between stops, refilling it whenever he finds another willing hand to pass him a bottle. He’s been a drunk since he came back from the war—a beaten man with nothing left but a bottle in one hand and debts in the other.
But this… this is worse.
Maybe it’s the shame that’s drowning him now, pulling him deeper into the bottle, or maybe it’s just who he’s become.
A hollow man who sold his daughter for the price of his sins.
I grip the worn edge of my seat, my fingers pressing into the splintered wood, willing my hands to stop trembling.
Not from fear.
Never from fear.
But from the weight of it all—the weight of him slumped over in a whiskey haze, the weight of the train pulling me farther and farther from everything I’ve ever known, and the weight of what waits for me at the end of the tracks.
Outside, the landscape is a blur, rushing past in streaks of gold and green. Gone are the thick, weeping trees and the slow-moving, breathless heat of Louisiana. No more swamp water lapping at the edges of the brick roads, no more bald cypress trees standing like silent sentinels in the mist.
This place is different.
Open.
Wide.
The air here stretches across endless rolling hills, the sky big and pale, as if it has been scrubbed clean of color. In the distance, treetops rise like jagged teeth, their green peaks fading into the mist.
I wonder what it would feel like to climb to the top of one, to look down at the world below and feel small, but free.
Inside the train, the wooden benches are stiff beneath me, their edges worn smooth by travelers who came before me—people who had somewhere to go, somewhere to escape, just like me. The train sways, and the floor beneath my boots vibrates with the steady clack-clack of the rails, a sound that’s becoming too familiar.
I should be scared. But I don’t know if I even remember what that feels like anymore. There’s only this dull numbness, creeping in like a slow-moving fog, softening the edges of everything before it can cut too deep.
Maybe my mind is protecting itself. Maybe it knows better than to let me feel it all at once. The mind is a strange thing.
I exhale, slow and steady, pressing my spine against the hard back of the bench. I have nothing left of my mother except the book she gave me—no belongings, no letters, no trace of her but what’s stitched into my bones.
But I still have her words.
And I hold onto them as if they are the last thing keeping me upright.
Your name is Noemi Hulley, and you will survive this.
So…
My name is Noemi Hulley, and I will survive this.
I think about the day my father paraded me into that smoky, dim-lit saloon in New Orleans—the way the men leaned in, their laughter thick with whiskey, their grins curling like buzzards circling fresh meat. How he held up that portrait, passing it from table to table, letting their hungry eyes rake over me even before their hands did.
I was a thing, a transaction, a mare on display at an auction. Their fingers had grazed my arms, my waist, my hair, testing me, as if they had the right.
I still can’t believe he did it. But then again, I can.
He’s lost everything—his pride, his battle, his mind. I am all that’s left to trade.
The train lurches, the iron beast groaning beneath us as the wheels scream against the tracks. I jerk forward, gripping the seat to keep from tumbling into the aisle.
My father barely stirs, just mumbles something under his breath and lets his head lull back against the damp window.
Then, silence.
The engine exhales a long, hissing breath, and I know we’ve arrived.
I blink, dragging myself out of the haze of memory, my fingers stiff as they pull away from the seat.
Independence, Missouri. Gone is the tangled, suffocating heat of Louisiana. A new place, a new nightmare.
Outside the window, the town stretches out before me—dusty, loud, teeming with life.
The train platform is a sea of movement from where I watch through the window. Men in wide-brimmed hats and dust-streaked coats loiter near the station, some shouting to one another over the hiss of steam, others eyeing the arriving passengers with idle curiosity as they wait in a line to get off the train. Women in faded calico dresses clutch their children’s hands, their faces lined with exhaustion, their hair pulled back in tight buns beneath their bonnets. Children dart between crates and luggage, their bare feet kicking up dust as they weave through the crowd.
A man with sleeves rolled to his elbows tosses heavy sacks onto a wagon, the thud of grain hitting wood barely audible over the commotion of impatient passengers trying to quickly get off. A stagecoach stands near the far end of the platform, its team of horses stamping impatiently, flicking their tails at the flies swarming in the heat. The scent of sweat, petrichor, and manure thickens the air, mixing with the acrid bite of coal smoke from the engine I’m sitting in.
I swallow hard, trying to process it all, but it’s overwhelming—too big, too fast, too unfamiliar.
The land feels wider here, stretching in every direction, untamed and endless.
There’s nowhere to hide.
The train door creaks open, and passengers begin shuffling off, their boots scuffing against the worn wooden planks of the platform. I don’t move. Not yet. My father stirs across from me, rubbing his face, but I barely register him.
Instead, I press my palm against the window, feeling the cool glass beneath my fingertips, my pulse steady and slow. This is it. The end of one cage and the beginning of another.
My name is Noemi Hulley, and I will survive this.
I follow my father as he stumbles out of his seat when the lines clear at both ends, his gait uneven and swaying as he makes his way toward the exit.
The platform is alive with noise—people shouting, the metallic clatter of luggage being hauled off the train, the restless snorts of horses tethered too close together—but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m watching it through a thick pane of glass.
My hands tighten around the straps of the two small bags I’m carrying, knuckles aching from how hard I grip them. I focus on the weight, the pressure, anything to keep myself steady.
And then I see him.
He stands at the edge of the platform, set apart from the chaos, tall and unmoving, as if the world around him doesn’t touch him the way it touches everyone else. The last of the sunlight before it rains cuts across his face beneath the brim of his dusty black cowboy hat, catching in the deep gray of his storm colored eyes. They flicker over the arriving passengers, uninterested, detached.
That is until they land on me.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
His face is all sharp angles and rough edges, a strong jaw leading down to a neck marked with old scars—scars that stretch from beneath his jawline, disappearing beneath the collar of his weathered coat. They are jagged, uneven, the kind left behind by battle and time.
I didn’t see them before, not in the dim light of the saloon in Louisiana when he had a mask tied over his jaw, concealing them from sight. But here, under the darkening sky, they are impossible to ignore.
Even with them—or maybe because of them—he is the most devastatingly handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.
His hair, dark brown and wavy, curls slightly where it peeks from beneath his hat, tousled by the wind that carries the scent of horses and dust through the station.
There is something in the way he holds himself, something dangerous, though not in the way the men back home were. Not the way that makes my skin crawl.
This is different.
This is a man who doesn’t have to raise his voice to command a room, who doesn’t have to reach for his gun to be feared. He’s a man who carries his reputation on the set of his shoulders, in the quiet, unshakable confidence of someone who has survived worse things than men whisper about.
And now, he is watching me.
The weight of his gaze sends a sharp prickle down my spine, a warning, a question. I should look away, but I don’t. Can’t.
Because somehow, I know—this is the man I was sold to. I know those eyes. They’re the eyes that looked into my soul and saw something worth buying.
He doesn’t move as we approach, doesn’t shift his weight or tip his hat in greeting. He just watches, those cold, gray eyes fixed on us, unreadable.
My heart stumbles in my chest, a sharp, uneven beat, and I have to remind myself to breathe—to remember that this is real.
I will not be afraid.
I will survive this.
My name is Noemi Hulley.
“Five thousand,” my father slurs, waving a lazy hand through the air as we come to a stop at the edge of the wooden platform.
The man’s gaze flicks to me, slow and assessing, and suddenly I feel small. Not in the way I did back in New Orleans, when men looked at me like something to be taken, handled, owned. This is different. His eyes don’t leer—they weigh, press down on me like a force of nature, like the heavy air before a storm rolls in.
“That was the agreement,” he says, his voice low and steady, the kind that settles deep in the chest like an unshakable thing.
It sends a shiver through me, not from fear, not from disgust—from something else entirely. Something I don’t have a name for.
I force myself to look up, to meet his gaze head-on.
His eyes are like the calm before the storm—thunderclouds waiting to break, dark and endless, and for a breath, I feel like I’m sinking, being pulled under by a current I can’t fight. He’s handsome, but not in a way that should be comforting. There’s something rough about him, something jagged, like he was carved from stone and left to weather in the wind. But there’s something else too—something broken. Something that makes me want to look away, even as I force myself not to.
“Yes,” my father mumbles, hiccuping as he turns away, his mind already lost to the next drink. “She’s yours as soon as I get the money.”
The cowboy nods, just once. “Come with me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. Then he turns and walks away, not even bothering to see if my father and I are following.
I stand there, my feet heavy against the platform’s worn planks, the wood beneath me still trembling from the weight of the train.
This is it.
This is my life now.
I glance back at my father, searching for—what? A moment of hesitation? A second thought? But he doesn’t spare me even that. He’s already stumbling after his buyer, already reaching for his payment, already forgetting me. The lump in my throat tightens, dry and unyielding, but I swallow it down. There is nothing left for me in New Orleans. Nothing but pain. Nothing but broken promises.
I take a slow breath, square my shoulders, and step off the platform.
The cowboy moves ahead with long, purposeful strides, his coat shifting with each step. His boots strike the ground with the confidence of a man used to being followed, used to being obeyed, used to ordering.
My father keeps pace beside him, though his steps are less certain, swaying slightly with each motion. And me? I trail behind, my steps too quick, too uneven, as I struggle to match the pace of two men who have already decided my fate.
I clutch my bags tighter, my entire life contained in these two small parcels, their weight pitiful against the heavier truth pressing down on me.
The truth that I am walking toward a future I did not choose.
A future that belongs to a man whose name I do not even know.
So he’ll be cowboy until he feels like introducing himself. My… cowboy, I suppose.
The town of Independence unfolds before me, sprawling and restless, a far cry from the humid stillness of home.
The streets are thick with movement, a tangled mess of people and animals, wagons and carts, voices shouting over one another. A team of horses rattles past, their hooves kicking up dust in thick, swirling clouds that catch in my throat. A woman stands near the market stalls, her baby slung over her hip as she haggles with a vendor selling dried lavender branches. Nearby, a group of men loiters by the blacksmith’s shop, wiping sweat from their faces as they talk in low murmurs, their eyes flicking toward the cowboy ahead of me—then quickly away.
I notice it then, the way the crowd shifts around him, the way people step aside without being asked. Some glance up, curiosity flickering in their expressions before they look away, as if eye contact alone might burn them. Others don’t even risk that, keeping their heads low, their attention fixed anywhere but on him.
And still, he doesn’t slow.
I force myself to keep moving, weaving between people, dodging barrels and crates and piles of horse dung left behind from the day’s traffic. Independence feels nothing like home. It feels bigger. Louder. Harsher. There are no cypress trees here, no thick blankets of humidity pressing against my skin. Just dry heat, dust, and the overwhelming sense that I do not belong.
The weight of that truth settles deep in my chest. My fingers tighten around the straps of my bags, knuckles aching.
I am truly alone.
The thought slams into me, a sudden, crushing thing, and for a brief, desperate second, I want to run. To turn back, to find the train, to escape before it’s too late.
But it’s already too late.
Because my father doesn’t look back.
Because the cowboy keeps walking.
Because I have nowhere else to go.
So I force my legs to move, one step after another, following my buyer and my seller toward a waiting carriage at the end of the bustling street.
When we reach our ride, the man who radiates danger turns to me as he opens the door. His expression is unreadable, his gray eyes unreadable, and he doesn’t even offer to help me up. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me—waiting.
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the straps of my bags. My breath catches in my throat, a lump forming that I can’t seem to swallow. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—wait for instruction, demand an answer, run? But then, I see it—the flicker of impatience in his eyes, sharp and fleeting. My feet move before I can think better of it.
I scramble up into the carriage, my palms sliding against the rough wooden frame as I nearly lose my balance. The seat is stiff beneath me, and I sit up too straight, my pulse hammering inside my ribs.
I don’t belong here.
My father follows behind me, clambering in with much less hesitation. He sighs as he settles into the cushioned seat across from me, a wad of cash in his hand. His fingers tighten around it like a lifeline, like the weight of those paper bills is more important than the weight of what he’s done.
The cowboy moves smoothly, shutting the door behind him before stepping onto the front of the carriage like he’s done it a thousand times before.
With one hand, my father reaches into his vest and pulls out a black leather flask, unscrewing the cap with his thumb before taking a slow, deliberate swig. The tendons in his throat shift as he drinks, his other hand holding a stack of paper money—five thousand dollars.
Half the price he named.
The price the others wouldn’t dare match.
“When will the ceremony take place?” Father’s voice drifts through the small window between us, low and steady, like he already knows the answer.
Across from me, he licks his lips, salivating at the sight of the money. “The priest waits for us at the chapel,” the cowboy replies, barely speaking before the reins snap in his hands and the carriage lurches forward.
The words hit me like a slap to the face and bullet to the guy.
A chapel.
A priest.
A marriage.
No.
No, no, no.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. My hands scramble for the carriage door, fingers tugging, clawing at the handle as I shove against it. It won’t open fast enough, won’t let me out before the air in the wagon closes in around me.
Air.
I need air.
It’s too tight, too small, too close—my father across from me, a stranger at the front, and the knowledge that I am being taken, that I have already been taken, pressing down on me like a crushing weight.
I yank harder, the door finally giving way, and I nearly tumble out of the moving wagon, catching myself on my hands as I hit the ground.
The impact stings, skin scraping raw against the packed dirt of the road. I stagger to my feet, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, run, run.
The words won’t stop circling in my mind.
A priest is waiting.
A ceremony.
A marriage.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
My vision blurs at the edges, my lungs tightening, my chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. My hands tremble against my knees as I lean forward, trying to force air back into my body with each gasp for air. But it won’t come.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I can’t breathe.
The sound of boots hitting the dirt barely registers in my panic, but then—a hand. Warm and steady, pressing gently against my back, rubbing slow, circular motions. A touch that isn’t rough, isn’t forceful.
Just… there.
I jolt away from it instantly. My body moves before I can think, stumbling back as my gaze snaps up, chest still heaving, hands clenched.
And there he is.
The cowboy.
My cowboy.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me again. He simply watches, his storm-gray eyes steady, unwavering.
“In through your nose,” he says, breathing in deep and holding it. He waits. Watching. Expecting.
I hesitate, my body still locked in panic, but something about the way he speaks—the calm certainty in his voice—makes me listen.
I inhale sharply through my nose, trying to hold it the way he does, but my breath shudders in my chest, my ribs aching from how hard my heart is hammering.
“Out through your mouth.” He exhales slowly, his lips parting just enough for the breath to slip free. His eyes never leave mine. “Focus on your heartbeat,” he says, quiet but firm. “Feel it in your chest. And force it to slow.”
I swallow hard. My hands are still shaking, my head still spinning, but I nod.
Another breath in. Slower this time.
Another out.
And slowly, the weight starts to lift.
I watch him as I breathe, watch him watching me. He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t push. Just waits, as if he has all the time in the world.
“Take as long as you need,” he murmurs, and I don’t know why, but I listen to him.
I nod again, one last deep breath filling my lungs. The nausea in my gut settles, and when I finally find my voice, it’s barely above a whisper.
“Hey, cowboy?”
His brow arches slightly at the name, his lips twitching at the corners. “Cowboy?”
“Well,” I say, exhaling the last of my panic, “I don’t know your name. So cowboy will suffice until you feel gentleman enough to introduce yourself.”
That twitch almost turns into something more. A smirk, quick and fleeting, so fast I nearly miss it.
And just like that, it’s gone, disappearing as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and turns back toward the carriage.
He stops at the front, pausing just long enough to meet my gaze again.
“Riven Blackstone,” he says. “But cowboy will be fine.”
Riven Blackstone.
Riven Blackstone.
Then he pulls himself onto the driver’s seat, and we are moving once more when I will my legs to climb back into the carriage.
Riven snaps the reins when I’m in, and the horses lurch forward, pulling us away from the station and into the heart of Independence.
The carriage rocks beneath me, jostling with every uneven rut in the dirt road, the wheels creaking in protest. The sounds of the station—the shouts, the clatter of luggage, the whistle of the departing train—fade behind us, swallowed by the growing hum of the town.
Independence is alive in a way New Orleans never was.
The streets are a tangled mess of movement, people and wagons weaving between one another in an unspoken dance that seems one wrong step away from chaos. The air is thick with dust, kicked up by the steady stream of hooves and wagon wheels, the smell of horses, tobacco, and something frying over an open flame mingling together.
Women in faded bonnets walk along the boardwalks, their skirts brushing against the wood as they carry baskets of dry goods and cloth. A man stands outside a barbershop, tilting his hat back as he smokes a pipe, watching the flow of traffic with disinterest. A blacksmith’s hammer rings out in steady, measured beats, sending sparks flying into the dimming light. Nearby, children dart between crates stacked outside the general store, their bare feet kicking up dust as they laugh and chase each other through the street.
Through the passing wagons and riders on horseback, I steal glances at the back of Riven’s hat, trying to make sense of the man who now controls my fate. His body is cloaked in black, his posture stiff, his broad shoulders squared in a way that speaks of habit, not thought—like he’s learned never to let himself be anything but closed off. He gives nothing away.
The scars that snake down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his black shirt, have their own story. A story I don’t know if I want to hear. A story I don’t know if he’ll ever want to tell.
The weight in my chest tightens, something cold curling deep in my belly, but I push through it. I find my voice, though it comes out quieter than I intended.
“Will you visit, Pa?”
My father barely reacts. He chuckles under his breath, flipping through his money again, smoothing out the bills like they are the most precious thing he’s ever held. Not me. Never me.
“Ten thousand,” he mutters, counting it a third time. “Ten damned thousand.”
“Pa?” My voice trembles, not the assertive tone I meant to use. It comes out like a whimper.
I don’t know why I’m asking. I don’t know why I’m begging.
He was a terrible father when he ignored me, and when he did pay attention, he was worse. So much worse.
A shiver runs down my spine, a memory clawing its way to the surface, one I shove back down before it can take root.
Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe this isn’t a nightmare at all.
Maybe being sold to a stranger is a dream in disguise. A dream if I make it one.
The sun dips lower, spilling gold over the rooftops, stretching long shadows across the ground. The air grows cooler, heavier, and I lose myself in the rhythm of the wheels, the steady clop of hooves, the slow, winding path through the streets.
Then, suddenly, we stop.
The abrupt halt sends me lurching forward, my palms slamming against my lap as I try to catch myself. The wagon door swings open, and Riven is there, standing in the fading sunlight.
His eyes flick to my father first, and something passes over his face—a flash of disgust, anger, so quick it’s gone before I can be sure it was ever there. Then his gaze settles on me, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
“Would you like to stop at the seamstress for a dress,” he asks, his voice steady, his gray eyes unreadable, “or are you satisfied in your attire?”
I glance down at my dress—wrinkled, faded, dusty, a reminder of the past I’m being ripped from. A past I don’t know if I should cling to or let die.
His voice is measured, steady—but not kind. There’s no mockery in it, no gentleness, just a simple question, a practical decision.
The scarred cowboy who just bought me is giving me a choice.
I thought my human right of choice was thrown out the window of the train from New Orleans to St. Louis.
I shake my head. “No, cowboy. I’ll—”
But Riven is already turning away, already striding toward the tall chapel doors, his long legs eating up the distance as if he is in a hurry to get this over with.
“The priest is this way.”
I roll my eyes at his back, knowing full well he doesn’t care if I do. Then, I follow.
The chapel is stunning, bathed in the last warm hues of the sun filtering through the stained-glass doors, lighting up vivid colors of saints and martyrs like a divine fire. The walls are lined with intricate carvings of angels and prophecy, the wooden pews polished with age, rows upon rows leading up to a grand marble podium. Behind it, a massive pipe organ looms, its presence both haunting and beautiful.
Nuns move through the space, some kneeling before stone etchings of God and the Virgin Mary, their hands clasped in prayer, their heads bowed. Others carry linens, arranging candles, whispering their devotion to a God that has long abandoned me.
Riven’s boots echo against the stone floor, and I force myself to follow, even as my legs tremble beneath me.
My father stumbles behind, still clutching the only thing that has ever mattered to him—his money.
At the podium, the priest emerges. His robes are white, embroidered with gold, his hair gray and thinning, and his brown eyes are kind, but heavy—as if he has seen too many weddings that should never have happened.
“Welcome,” he says, his voice calm. “Are you ready to begin, Mister Blackstone?”
Riven nods. Sharp. Final.
My father sways on his feet, his bloodshot eyes barely registering the moment before he nods as well, mindlessly agreeing to whatever comes next.
I inhale sharply, my chest too tight, my pulse too loud.
And then, I nod.
There is no turning back now.
The words of the ceremony wash over me, but I don’t hear them. I am lost in memories of my mother, of the way she used to hold me, how she smelled like roses and clean linen, how she would have never let this happen if she were alive.
The priest’s voice pulls me back.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
I can’t breathe.
My father doesn’t even look up. Doesn’t care.
I meet Riven’s gaze, and for the briefest moment, I see something there.
Regret? Pity?
It vanishes as fast as it appeared.
“I do,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, yet somehow final.
The priest turns to Riven, his expression solemn. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?
Riven’s reply is immediate, emotionless.
“I do.” His voice is low, steady, and there was no hesitation. It was a simple statement, but it carries the weight of inevitability, like he had accepted this fate long before I had even known it was coming.
And then—
The priest nods, closing the book and raising his hands in blessing. “By the power vested in me by the Church and the state of Missouri, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Silence.
Riven doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me.
He stares at me for a long moment, then pivots on his heel and walks away.
And just like that, I am married.
Married, but never kissed at the altar.
Married, but never had my hand asked for in marriage.
Married, but never told I love you.
Outside, the sun has begun to set, and the air has turned cooler, heavier. The wagon waits for us where we left it, the horses stamping impatiently.
Riven helps me up this time, but he doesn’t speak.
He simply climbs into his seat, takes the reins, and without a word, we move on.
Away from the Chapel. Away from everything.
We leave my father at the station, but I know—his ghost will haunt me longer than his presence ever did.
As the town disappears behind us, swallowed by dark hills and dense woods, I realize one thing.
There is no going back.
The road ahead is long, winding, uncertain.
And at the end of it, waiting for me in the shadows, is the rugged handsome cowboy named Riven Blackstone.
My name is Noemi Hulley, and I will survive this.
Correction.
My name is Noemi Blackstone, and I will survive this.
