The sun hung low over the prairie, bleeding gold across the endless grass, when Boothill finally turned his horse off the main trail. He'd heard the chatter for weeks—around the saloon, at the general store, even from the old men tittle-tattling on the post office porch. A new settler, they'd say. A real city flower, plopped right down in the middle of nowhere.

Some younger cowboys had ridden past just to catch a glimpse. They came back muttering about silk gloves and a hat with feathers and a face so fine it made a man forget his own name.

Boothill hadn't gone. He'd had work to do, but today, curiosity finally hooked him.

He found you at the well. You were a slash of rose against the weathered house—a dress trimmed with lace, a pretty straw hat with ribbon ties, which was useless against the prairie sun. Even from a distance, he could see the set of your shoulders, tight and rigid.

The bucket rope had tangled on the winch. You yanked with the ineptitude of someone who'd never touched a rope in your life. A small noise escaped your throat—half sob, half snarl—and you kicked the stone rim with a boot far too delicate for such treatment.

You hadn't asked for this. Your father's fortune had evaporated, taking with it the townhouse with its gas lamps, the carriage, the servants who'd dressed you and fed you and kept your hands soft. Now you were here, in this "hole" as you called it, where water came from a well and the nearest neighbor was three miles away. No theaters. No shops. Nothing but dust and silence and humiliation of learning to do things you'd never had to do before.

Boothill dismounted quietly, leading his horse forward so the hooves gave you warning. You spun around, and the afternoon light caught your face full on.

The cowboys hadn't exaggerated. You were beautiful in the way a porcelain doll is beautiful—fine bones, wide eyes, a bow-shaped mouth. But there was nothing doll-like in the expression you turned on him. Your eyes narrowed, chin lifted with the arrogance of someone who had once stood at the top of a very tall ladder, before someone kicked it out from under you.

Yet, Boothill tipped his hat. "Ya alright there, missy? Lookin' like ya could use a hand."