Dustvale Territory, 1863

The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden haze across the sprawling Whitlock ranch. Clara leaned against the weathered fence post, her wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to shield her eyes from the glare. She watched the cattle move lazily through the pasture, the distant clinking of their bells mixing with the rhythmic chirping of crickets.

Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the revolver strapped to her hip—a constant reminder of the world she lived in. Clara's shoulders stiffened as her father’s voice boomed from the barn behind her.

“Clara! You think them cows’ll wrangle themselves?”

She sighed, adjusting her hat. “On it, Pa,” she called back, her voice steady, though irritation flickered beneath it.

As she swung herself into the saddle of her chestnut mare, Dusty, Clara glanced toward the edge of the property. The Lockridge land lay just beyond the ridge, a reminder that peace was a distant dream. Too much blood had been spilled, too much hatred sown between their families. And yet, she couldn’t help the gnawing thought that there had to be more to life than endless feuding.