Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The stagecoach hit a rut hard and Clementine Olivetti slammed against the leather seat, teeth rattling. Alkali dust sifted through every crack, coating her tongue with the taste of earth. Outside, the land stretched raw and violent.

She stared at the land rolling past--a harsh country of blood red buttes like slaughtered flesh against a white sky, where nothing grew that didn't have thorns or wasn't tough enough to survive drought that could last years. This wasn't like genteel New York society. Nothing here forgave weakness.

The man sitting opposite had a face like sun-cured leather. His small, watery eyes hadn't left her hands all morning. They were soft hands, city hands. Out here, that was the first thing a man noticed. Hands told your story.

Her throat burned with thirst. What business had she in this savage country with her piano lessons and French verbs? As a small comfort, she drew her uncle’s letter from her purse, soft from countless readings. Sunlight cut through the dirty window, showing the words:

"Dearest Clementine, If you are reading this, I am gone and the Lord has called me home. I regret not being more present in your life. But know that not a day went by I didn't think of you. I leave you my most prized possession: Windy Creek Ranch. Six hundred acres of prime grazing land."

Why, it was almost as big as Central Park. In New York, families of eight lived in spaces no bigger than a horse stall.

"It could use some more tender loving care, but has great potential. I built this spread from nothing, with just grit and determination. I know you have that same strength within you..."

Did she? Bonnie Mae Blakely would insist so. Her friend since childhood was bold where Clementine was cautious, hurried where Clementine measured each step. When Clementine had told her of the inheritance, Bonnie had squealed.

"Oh Clemmie," Bonnie had clutched the lawyer's letter. "A wild ranch out west waiting for a plucky heroine! Just like in a novel!"

Now, Clementine returned to her uncle's words:

"Trust your instincts," his letter warned. "There have been rumors of cattle rustlers and claim jumpers. Keep your wits about you."

A chill ran through her despite the heat. Rustlers. Claim jumpers. Words from those penny dreadfuls Bonnie devoured and Clementine pretended to disdain.

"There is a small town close by called Crossroads for supplies. The townsfolk are generally amiable. But be warned, there have been rumors of cattle rustlers and claim jumpers. Trust your instincts and keep your wits about you."

She continued: 

"Never forget, you are my niece. We are made of tougher stuff than most."

Clementine folded the letter, blinking back tears. She barely remembered Uncle Ned, wild and grizzled, blowing into town like a tumbleweed, smelling of cattle and leather and endless skies. He made her dream of horizons too distant for proper folk. Her father's eldest brother, a black sheep whose name became forbidden at dinner. Everything her straight-laced parents were not... but everything Clementine secretly wanted to be.

She'd envied his freedom out west while her hands worked needlepoint in a staid drawing room. Her mind followed him–herding cattle, exploring wilderness, sitting at campfires. Now that romantic vision would be her reality.

The stagecoach slowed. Outside, scattered buildings appeared–a lonely cabin, a livery stable, then a proper street of wooden structures.

"Crossroads ahead!" the driver called.

Clementine tucked away the letter and straightened her spine. Whatever waited would find her composed. A lady still, despite the wilderness.

Crossroads wasn't much--a few streets of weathered buildings faded to the color of old bone. Men stood along the street, watching with hard eyes that had seen drought and Indian raids and all manner of trouble. Women watched from doorways, their faces lined from sun and wind and worry.

A blacksmith's hammer rang out clear in the dry air. The smell of sourdough bread drifted from somewhere. Heat shimmered above the hard-packed earth.

The coach stopped. When Clementine stepped down, her legs wobbled from two days of rough travel. Her city boots sank into the dust.

"Miss Olivetti?"

A small man approached, bald head gleaming pink in the sun like a peeled grapefruit. His suit hung from narrow shoulders like a sack on a fence post.

"Hezekiah Gruber, attorney at law." His handshake was too eager. "We exchanged telegrams about your inheritance. My condolences."

"Thank you, Mr. Gruber."

His spectacles caught the sunlight, hiding his eyes. "Let's get your signature on a few documents," he said, leading her to his office where the smell of dust and stale tobacco hung thick.

With a few strokes of ink, Windy Creek Ranch was hers. Six hundred acres of opportunity-or failure.

"Well, it's all yours, Miss Olivetti," Gruber said flatly. "I'll have Jebediah bring the rig around for your baggage."

"I'll have Jebediah bring the rig around," Gruber said when they finished.

Clementine blushed at her confusion. Of course she'd need transportation for her trunks. This wasn't New York, where deliveries came to your door.

Outside, a weathered wagon waited, driven by a man as worn as his vehicle.

"All aboard for Windy Creek Ranch!" Jebediah called, his smile showing more gaps than teeth.

As they pulled away, Jebediah spoke over the creak of wagon wheels. "Your uncle weren't the only one had trouble with rustlers. Three ranches hit last month. That's why folks eye you strange-like. Woman alone on a spread that size..." He left the rest unsaid.

Clementine caught Gruber watching from his doorway, arms folded across his chest like a man calculating profit from another's misfortune.

The excitement that had carried her across a continent dimmed. She clutched her reticule tighter, feeling the weight of her father's small pistol inside. She'd brought it never truly believing she might need it.

Now, as Windy Creek Ranch waited beyond the next rise, she wondered if she'd been naïve about more than just her footwear.

Chapter Text

Crossroads fell behind them. The grassland stretched out, vast and endless. Cattle dotted the distant hills like dark specks against the range. The air carried the scent of sage and something else--something like promise.

"That there's the Circle J," Jebediah pointed toward buildings that shimmered in the distance. "And yonder's the Triple Cross, run by men meaner'n rattlesnakes and twice as like to bite."

The land had no boundaries, no walls. Back East, buildings hemmed you in on all sides. Out here, a person might turn to dust and blow away on the wind. Clementine suddenly felt very small beneath the endless sky.

"Windy Creek is prime land," Jebediah spat tobacco juice over the wagon's side. "Ain't for the delicate."

"I'm a quick study," Clementine replied, the words hollow even to her own ears.

"Good, 'cause between repairs, brandin', and rustlers, you'll need to be."

Clementine's mouth went dry as cotton. "Many rustlers out here?"

"More'n there oughta be. Thievin' cattle, cuttin' fences, even murderin' folk that get in their way."

She thought of Bonnie then, wishing for her friend's courage and quick wit. But Bonnie was thousands of miles away, and Clementine rode alone with a stranger.

"Windy Creek's got hands to help," Jebediah offered. "If'n they decide to stay on under a lady boss." He winced. "Sorry. Didn't mean nothin' by it."

They crested a hill, and there it was.

Windy Creek spread before them like an Albert Bierstadt painting. Six hundred acres of pristine range framed by distant blue mountains, just like Uncle Ned had said. A whitewashed ranch house stood proud against the backdrop. A red-roofed barn and towering windmill completed the scene. Cattle scattered like mahogany chess pieces on a board of gold-green grass. Raw and wild and brimming with promise. She had never seen anything so beautiful. 

And it was all hers.

The wagon rolled to a stop in the yard. Clementine gathered her skirts, preparing to descend with dignity.

A rifle shot cracked the air.

Pure instinct seized her muscles. She threw herself down, landing hard on the dusty yard. Heart hammering, she pressed her cheek to the dirt, palms scraping on pebbles.

"That's far enough," a voice growled, rough as saddle leather. "State your business or hit the road."

Petrified to move, Clementine's eyes fixed on a pair of worn boots approaching, silver spurs jingling with each step. Their leather creased with character at the ankles where they disappeared beneath faded denim. Her gaze inched upward at dusty jeans clinging to powerful thighs, a gun belt circling narrow hips. Terror–and something else–stirred in her.

"Don't you recognize the rig?" Jebediah hollered. "It's me! I borrowed it from Jackson to fetch the girl!"

The boots paused. "That you, Jeb?" Then, the tone hardened. "Who is she?"

"N-now, I was just deliverin' her and the trunks." Jebediah gathered the reins nervously. "Can't be late for the afternoon stage."

"But–" Clementine's protest died as Jebediah snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward, abandoning her to this armed stranger who still hadn't lowered his weapon.

"Up. Now. Real slow-like," he ordered.

Trembling, she pushed herself to her knees. Dust covered her traveling suit, her hat gone, her hair falling loose. Still, she lifted her chin.

"I'm Clementine Olivetti. This is my ranch now."

The rifle lowered a fraction. His flannel shirt stretched across a broad chest, sleeves rolled to expose forearms roped with sinew and bronzed by sun and labor. His stance balanced on the balls of his feet, predator-ready.

"Olivetti," he repeated, voice betraying nothing. Nor did a flicker of recognition cross his face, not even the smallest twitch of surprise. Like a gambler holding aces, he was pure stone. "That supposed to mean somethin'?"

"My uncle Edward Olivetti. Everyone called him Ned."

The rifle remained steady. "Ned never mentioned family coming."

"Because he left it to me in his will. I have the deed right here."

"If you're really Ned's kin, what did he always keep in his pocket?"

Clementine's mind raced. With trembling fingers, she withdrew a small silver compass from her reticule. "This. It has the initials A.O. engraved on the back. Alexander Olivetti. My grandfather."

He took it, turning it over in calloused fingers, his expression unchanged.

"Ain't never heard of you," he stated, pocketing the compass. "And I sure as hell ain't handing over keys on your say-so."

Anger flashed through her fear. "I suspect there's quite a lot Uncle Ned neglected to mention, starting with an armed squatter on my property!"

Something dangerous flickered beneath the shadow of his hat brim. Before he could respond, a mountain of a man emerged from the barn, red beard blazing against the sun.

"What in tarnation's all this ruckus?" His voice boomed. "I heard shootin'."

"Stay back, Red. We got us a trespasser."

The redhead squinted at Clementine, then recognition dawned.

"Well I'll be! If it ain't Miss Clementine in the flesh! Spittin' image of ol' Ned, specially 'round the eyes."

The dark man jerked. "You know her?"

"'Course I do! Ned told me she was comin'. Swore me to secrecy, though." Red shifted uncomfortably. "He said you'd been talkin' 'bout leavin' to start your own spread. Was afraid you'd go before he could bring it up proper. Then he took sick so sudden..."

The gunman's shoulders went rigid. Pain crossed his face before vanishing like water on hot rock.

"That right? Ned didn't trust me?"

"It weren't about trust." Red's eyes met Clementine's briefly. "Ned valued him above all others. Thought you might feel... replaced."

"Hellfire." The gunman's jaw tightened. He held out the compass. "Reckon this belongs to you, ma'am."

Clementine reached for it, her fingers brushing his. The touch lingered even after she'd pulled away, the compass tight in her palm.

Red offered his hand. "Moses Redding, but everyone calls me Red."

Clementine returned his smile. "A pleasure."

Resignation crawled across the gunman's face. "Reckon that's my cue to start packin'."

"What are you talking about?" Clementine asked.

"Ain't no way a real lady like you's gon' put up with me around here."

He lifted his face, no longer hiding his features. The sight hit Clementine like a physical blow. His eyes were winter-sky blue, looking through her, not at her. High cheekbones cut sharp beneath suntanned skin. A strong jaw ended in a chin with the faintest cleft.

But his mouth caught her eye. Full lips, soft and almost sensual, the only gentle thing in a hard face–as if God had made a warrior but given him a poet's mouth.

He'd called her a lady. The word settled behind her breastbone with strange warmth. Even in fear, something traitorous stirred in her chest. The contradiction made her face burn.

"A lady owner won't want me hangin' around," he repeated flatly. "Know when I'm not wanted."

Then she understood. This wasn't some hired hand. This was Uncle Ned's right arm, the man who'd kept Windy Creek running. Who'd seen his world upended by a stranger in a silk blouse.

"That won't be necessary," she said, hating her breathless tone. She cleared her throat. "I've no intention of displacing anyone who pulls their weight."

Something flickered across his face–surprise, perhaps relief–before vanishing behind careful neutrality. He studied her, noting her rapid pulse. 

"That so?"

"It is. I'll need all hands to keep Windy Creek thriving, starting with a tour of operations."

He nodded curtly. "Whatever you say, boss lady. We'll start in the barn. Red can see to your bags."

As he turned, sunlight caught his face, revealing more of what shadow had concealed. Handsome wasn’t the half of it. This was something dangerous and untamed, barely contained in human form.

Heat rose in her chest, then sank lower, pooling where it shouldn't. She was Clementine Olivetti of Madison Avenue, not some empty-headed saloon girl mooning over a man. Especially not for one who'd nearly shot her minutes before.

"I'll change into suitable attire and meet you in half an hour," she said crisply.

His gaze moved over her, pausing at her waist, lingering on her impractical boots. His mouth twitched. "Suit yourself."

He turned and called out, "Slim! Rusty! Get over here!"

Two more men approached, one weathered as old leather, the other barely grown. The dark man's voice changed to one of authority.

"Boys, this here is Miss Clementine Olivetti. Ned's niece and the new owner. I expect you to show her the same respect you'd have shown Ned."

The old-timer spat tobacco juice. "Slim Jackson. Been wranglin' beeves since before you was born, missy."

The youth ducked his head, ears reddening. "Rusty Calhoun, miss. Real sorry about your uncle passing."

"Thank you, Rusty."

Clementine turned back to the dark man. "And you are...?"

Silence stretched until Red broke it.

"That there's Elvis Presley, miss. Ned's foreman these past five years. Don't let his bark fool you–ain't a finer cattleman in three counties."

Elvis. Too gentle a name for such a man. She filed it away for later examination.

"If there's nothing else, I'll go change. See you at the barn, Mr. Presley."

He nodded and turned away, spurs singing with each stride. She watched him go, noting the straight line of his back, the confident set of his shoulders.

Red appeared at her elbow, startlingly quiet for his size. "Elvis saved this place when your uncle's health failed. Ned knew it. We all do."

"Why tell me this?" Clementine asked.

Red studied her shrewdly. "Reckon you should know who you're dealing with. Elvis ain't just some hired hand. He's the beating heart of this operation. Worth remembering."

With that, he lumbered toward the house, her trunk balanced on one shoulder. Clementine stood alone, dust settling around her.

She squared her shoulders and marched toward the house. If this Elvis Presley thought she would crumble at the first sign of trouble, he'd soon discover his mistake. Clementine might have been raised a lady, but beneath her kid gloves beat a heart fierce as any in this untamed country.

Whether he recognized it yet or not.

Chapter Text

The ranch house swallowed Clementine in shadow as she stepped across the threshold. It wasn't fancy–just honest wood and nails put together by men who valued function over decoration. The air held the sharp tang of woodsmoke, leather, and the ghost of pipe tobacco. Nothing like the prissy rose water and lemon oil her mother's servants had used back East.

Worn rugs covered floors scarred by years of boot heels and spurs. A massive oak table dominated the dining area, surrounded by chairs that didn't match but served their purpose. The curtains hanging in the windows had once been pretty, she supposed, but sun and dust had beaten most of the color out of them years ago.

This was where Uncle Ned had lived and died, far from the family that turned their backs on him. Clementine wondered if he'd ever regretted his choice, trading fine china and stiff collars for calluses and freedom. He probably didn’t. 

Red took her up a staircase that creaked with every footfall. Her room was small but clean, tucked up under the roof. It contained just an iron bedstead, a dresser with a mirror gone milky with age, and a chipped wash basin.

"Miss Ida fixed it up when we got word you was coming," Red said, setting down her trunk with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size. His hands were as big as beef steaks. "Put fresh linens and such."

"Tell her I'm grateful," Clementine said.

When Red's boots had thumped their way back downstairs, she sat on the bed. The straw mattress rustled beneath her weight. New York seemed as distant as the moon. Everyone she'd ever known was beyond mountains and prairie, beyond the dust and cattle and hard-eyed men who looked at her like she was some strange creature from a storybook.

She changed into her traveling skirt and sturdiest boots, braiding her hair tight. The woman in the mirror looked scared but stubborn. Like a doe that knows the wolves are coming but won't run.

"We'll manage," she told her reflection, not for the first time.

The smell of cooking meat lured her downstairs. Following her nose, she found the kitchen. A woman built like a coffee stove, sturdy and compact, stood by the actual stove. Silver streaked her dark hair, which was pulled back so severely it looked painful. She turned at Clementine's entrance, her face as expressive as a fence post.

"Miss Olivetti," she said flatly. "I'm Ida Jameson." She didn't bother with any "Miss" in front of her own name. "Kept house for your uncle twelve years."

"I'm pleased to meet you." Clementine offered her hand. "The room is perfect."

Ida wiped her hands on her apron before accepting the handshake. Her grip was firm and work-roughened, her eyes taking Clementine's measure without blinking.

"Never expected to see a New York lady at Windy Creek." Ida's voice wasn't unfriendly, just matter-of-fact. "Your uncle talked about you, though. Said you had grit."

"I hope to prove him right."

Ida nodded once, turning back to her pot. "Supper's at six sharp. The men work from can-see to can't-see. They don't take kindly to waiting." She paused. "Expect you'll be wanting to change things around here."

"Not at all," Clementine said, stepping further into the warm kitchen. "I've got plenty to learn before I start thinking about changes."

Something in Ida's face softened just a fraction. "That's good sense, at least." She gestured toward a plate of biscuits. "Have one. No good facing Elvis Presley on an empty stomach."

Clementine's surprise must have shown clear as a branded hide.

"These walls hear everything," Ida said. "Especially when Red's about. That man talks more than a politician on election day." She turned back to her cooking. "Elvis is a good man. Hard as flint, but good. Place would've folded without him."

"Thank you, Miss Jameson."

"Just Ida is fine," the woman replied without looking up. "I don't waste breath on fancy titles."

Outside, the yard stretched between house and barn. Clementine knew each step was taking her farther from the girl she'd been, closer to the woman she needed to become. The woman who wouldn't shame Uncle Ned's memory by failing.

The barn smelled of hay, horse sweat, and honest toil. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunlight that found its way through gaps in the roof. Pigeons cooed softly in the rafters.

Elvis stood at the far end, running a bristle brush over a chestnut mare's flank. His movements were practiced and gentle, nothing like the man who'd almost shot her just hours before. The horse leaned into his touch like a woman might.

He sensed Clementine’s presence without turning. "Thought maybe you'd reconsidered."

"I keep my word, Mr. Presley," Clementine answered, standing straight.

He gave her a look that might have been respect. "Call me Elvis," he said after a moment. "Mr. Presley was my daddy, and he wasn't worth a damn."

The admission caught her off guard. It was the first personal thing he'd shared without her having to drag it out of him.

He led her to a small room off the main aisle. "Tack room," he explained, pushing the door wide. The space smelled of neatsfoot oil and old leather, with saddles resting on wooden racks and bridles hanging from pegs along the wall.

"Every man tends his own gear," Elvis explained, running a hand over a well-worn saddle. "That one was your uncle's." He pointed to a saddle set apart from the others, its leather gleaming despite its age.

Clementine approached it carefully, running her fingers over the smooth surface. She found the worn spots where Uncle Ned had sat day after day, year after year. The connection to him hit her like a physical thing.

"Good leather," Elvis said, watching her with eyes that missed nothing. "The boys kept it oiled proper after he took sick. Figured whoever came after might want it."

That simple act of respect—maintaining a dead man's gear—touched Clementine in a way she hadn't expected.

"Thank you," she said quietly, meaning it.

Elvis nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Got a gentle mare for you. Bell won't throw you first time a jackrabbit jumps."

"She sounds perfect.”

At the last stall, Elvis rested a boot on the lowest rail. "This here's Rising Sun," he said, his voice softening with unmistakable pride. "Best cutting horse in Wyoming Territory."

The stallion was magnificent. Seventeen hands of gleaming golden muscle, with intelligent eyes and a neck arched like a war banner. He moved to Elvis' call, nickering deep in his chest.

"He's beautiful," Clementine said honestly.

"Raised him from a colt." Elvis stroked the horse's forehead. His hands, capable of violence and hard labor, moved with surprising tenderness. "Your uncle gave him to me after three years here. Said he'd never seen a man with a better seat or softer hands."

The phrase "better seat" conjured an image of Elvis astride the stallion, moving in perfect rhythm with the powerful animal beneath him. Heat rose in her face. She looked away, mortified by her own thoughts. 

"Uncle Ned knew quality when he saw it," she managed, her voice suddenly tight as a new cinch.

Elvis glanced at her sharply, reading more than she wanted to reveal. The corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing way. Clementine had met men before who understood their effect on women. Elvis was clearly one of them.

"We'll ride out tomorrow," he said, leading her back toward daylight. "Cattle are in the north pasture. Can you ride?"

"Yes," she said, "though it's been some time."

"We'll find you some proper boots.” His gaze swept over her. “Can't have the boss lady going head-first into a cow pie her first day out."

There was a hint of teasing in his voice. Clementine found herself smiling despite herself.

"That would hardly inspire confidence, would it?"

"Not hardly." Elvis hesitated, then added gruffly, "You did all right today. For a greenhorn."

From him, it felt like a medal pinned to her chest. "Thank you. For a lesson from an armed squatter with questionable manners, it was remarkably educational."

For a moment, she thought she'd pushed too far. Then the corner of Elvis's mouth twitched upward–not a full smile, but enough to transform his face from stone to flesh.

"Reckon we'll get along just fine," he said.

Outside, the sun was painting the western ridges blood-red. Ranch hands moved between buildings, finishing chores before darkness claimed the land. Men who worked from first light to last couldn't waste daylight on unnecessary talk or lazy habits.

"I should return to the house," Clementine said. "Ida mentioned dinner at six sharp."

Elvis nodded. "She don’t tolerate lateness any more than she tolerates foolishness." He touched his hat brim. 

Clementine felt his eyes on her back as she walked away. She kept her spine straight as a lodgepole pine, her chin lifted. A lady, even with Wyoming dust on her hem.

The dining room was full of men when she entered. Talk died faster than a saloon piano during a gunfight. Red jumped to his feet, the others following a heartbeat later.

"Miss Clementine," he said. "We saved you the head of the table."

Uncle Ned's chair. It wasn't subtle. Clementine moved to it with all the dignity she could muster, feeling Elvis enter behind her and take a place at her right hand.

"Gentlemen," she said, smoothing her skirts. "Please, don't stop on my account."

Talk resumed slowly, like a creek thawing after a hard freeze. Ida brought platters of roast beef, potatoes, and bread still steaming. The food was simple but substantial, and Clementine discovered she was hungry as a wolf in February.

Looking around, Clementine counted at least a dozen men—far more than she'd met so far. Some wore the dust and weariness of a long day's work, while others looked freshly washed, having just come in from different duties.

"So, Miss Olivetti," Slim said, scrubbing at his mustache with a napkin, "what's a city lady figure to do with a cattle spread?"

"Run it," she replied simply. "With the help of all of you, I hope."

Slim's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Beggin' your pardon, but this ain't ladies' work."

"Perhaps not traditionally," Clementine conceded. "But I'm capable of learning." She met his gaze squarely. "My uncle believed I could do this. I won't dishonor his judgment."

"Different world from New York," Slim pressed.

"Indeed," Clementine said. "But 'different' isn't the same as 'impossible.'"

"I could help you, Miss Clementine," Rusty piped up, his face flushing to match his name. "With learnin' the ropes, I mean. Been here three years now."

Elvis fixed the young man with a look that would have withered cactus. "That's the foreman's job, boy."

Awkward silence descended like a heavy blanket. A wiry man with a face scarred by weather and life cleared his throat.

"Doc Hawkins rode through yesterday," he said to no one in particular. "Says rustlers hit the Johnson place Tuesday. Twenty head gone without a trace."

The mood changed as quick as mountain weather. Men exchanged glances heavy with meaning.

"Third place this month," Red muttered.

"They're getting bold," added another hand. "Used to stick to the little spreads by the foothills. Now they're coming close to town."

Elvis said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw bunched tight as he cut his beef.

"What exactly are rustlers?" Clementine asked.

"Thieves," a blonde ranch hand with kind eyes answered bluntly. "They steal cattle at night, run 'em off, change the brands, and sell 'em before anyone's the wiser."

"Twenty head seems difficult to move undetected."

"Not if you know your business," Elvis said, his voice flat as the prairie. "And these men do."

Silence fell again. Another ranch hand Clementine hadn't met–young with a scar across his chin–spoke up. "You won't meet the whole crew tonight, Miss Olivetti. Half the boys are out with the herd in the south range. Be back in a couple days."

"Windy Creek runs about twenty hands total," Red explained. "Not counting the seasonal help for roundup and drives."

Charlie, a hand with a face like a hatchet, eventually steered talk to the upcoming town social, but the damage was done. The mood remained as heavy as damp wool.

After dinner, while the men retreated to the porch with tobacco and quiet talk, Clementine found herself drawn to Uncle Ned's study. The small room off the parlor held a battered desk, shelves of books, and a gun cabinet. It smelled of tobacco and old leather. Of Uncle Ned himself.

She sat in his chair, running her fingers over the worn desktop. A stack of ledgers caught her eye. Curiosity, always her weakness, prompted her to open the top one.

Numbers marched across the pages in Uncle Ned's spidery handwriting. Cattle counts, expenses, profits. The ranch appeared sound–not rich, but stable. A notation on one of the last pages gave her pause: "Loan payment to Parker–$2,000–Due October 15." Seven months away.

"Not exactly bedtime stories."

Clementine startled. Elvis stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame like he owned it.

"I was just..." she began.

"Getting the lay of the land." He entered, glancing at the open ledger. "Your uncle kept careful books."

"Who is Parker?" she asked. "I see he holds a loan on the property."

Elvis's expression darkened. "Tom Parker. Banker over in Crossroads. Holds paper on half the county." His tone suggested there was more to the story than he was telling.

"Is the loan a concern?" she pressed.

"Not right away," Elvis replied carefully. "Fall drive should cover it. Assuming we don't lose too many beeves before then."

"To the rustlers."

He nodded once, settling into the chair across from her. "They've been hitting smaller outfits mostly. We've been lucky so far."

"But you don't expect our luck to hold."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You're quick." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We've got good men, good horses. But we can't watch every acre every night."

"What do you suggest?" Clementine asked.

Something shifted in Elvis's gaze–a flicker of respect, perhaps, that she hadn't run from the prospect of trouble.

"We watch. We work. We get the herd ready for market." The corner of his mouth lifted. "And we teach you to shoot."

"I know how to shoot," Clementine replied. "My father insisted. Though I suspect shooting at rustlers differs somewhat from target practice."

Elvis's eyebrows rose. "Well, well. The lady's full of surprises."

They regarded each other across the desk. The hostility of their first meeting had given way to something more complex, more useful. A partnership born of necessity, perhaps.

"Get some rest," Elvis said finally, rising from his chair. "Dawn comes early ‘round here."

Clementine nodded. "Good night, Elvis."

"Night, boss lady." He doffed an invisible hat and disappeared into the darkened hallway.

Alone in her uncle's study, Clementine closed the ledger. The situation wasn't desperate, but neither was it entirely secure. A bank loan due in six months, rustlers prowling the area, and a banker named Parker who, judging by Elvis's reaction, might bear watching.

But for the first time since stepping off the stagecoach, she felt equal to the challenge. She had good men, capable hands. And a foreman who might, against all odds, become an ally rather than an enemy.

Clementine climbed the stairs to her room, bone-tired but strangely alert. Her mind worked even as she prepared for bed. The payments to Parker seemed reasonable enough, but what if rustlers struck Windy Creek before the fall drive? How would they meet their obligations then?

She was drifting toward sleep when a sound jerked her awake. The distinctive rhythm of hoofbeats, coming from the north pasture. Clementine rose and moved to the window, straining to see through darkness. Moonlight caught the silhouettes of three riders moving along the distant fence line. Strangers.

Not Windy Creek men.

She watched until they disappeared, unease settling in her stomach like a stone. Tomorrow, she would tell Elvis what she'd seen. Tomorrow, they would start making plans.

But tonight, she would dream of blue eyes and strong hands, of ledgers and loans, of a life she'd never expected but was determined to master.

For better or worse, Windy Creek was her home now. And Clementine Olivetti didn't surrender what was hers without a fight.

Chapter Text

"Rise and shine, boss lady!"

The pounding on her door jerked Clementine from sleep like a bucket of cold water. The room was still dark, the rooster hadn't even cleared its throat, yet Elvis Presley was hammering on her door like the ranch was burning down.

"Sun's not even up," she protested through the quilt.

"That's when we start around here," came the uncompromising reply. "You wanted to learn ranching. First lesson: dawn waits for no one. Downstairs in ten minutes."

Ten minutes. In New York, it took her maid longer than that just to lace her corset. Clementine rolled from bed, her feet hitting floorboards cold enough to make her gasp. She splashed water on her face and yanked on the men's dungarees and flannel shirt she'd laid out the night before.

When she stumbled into the kitchen, her hair in a hasty braid, Ida was already working the stove, coffee pot sending up steam like a locomotive.

"Morning," said the housekeeper, eyes wrinkling with amusement. "Looks like Elvis is breaking you in proper." 

"Breaking is right," Clementine muttered, gratefully accepting a mug of coffee black as sin. "Is he always this… cheerful at ungodly hours?"

"This is downright sociable for him. Usually, he's halfway to the north pasture before I've lit the stove."

Clementine sipped her coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. In New York, she'd taken it with cream and sugar. Here, she took it however it came.

The screen door slapped open, and Elvis strode in, already dusty from some early morning chore. His eyes swept over Clementine, pausing on her trousers before meeting her gaze.

"Those'll do," he said, approval flickering briefly across his face. "But you'll need different boots if you plan on staying in the saddle."

Ida set a plate of eggs and salt pork in front of him. "Let the girl eat first, Elvis. Can't learn to ride if she keels over from hunger."

"Brought out Bell for her," Elvis said, tearing into his breakfast. "She's gentle enough for a greenhorn."

Clementine bristled. "I'm not entirely helpless. I've ridden before."

"In a park, maybe. With a sidesaddle and a groom leading you around like a child." Elvis' eyes glinted. "This ain't Central Park, Miss Olivetti . These horses have minds of their own."

Clementine bit back a sharp retort. She'd show him what this "greenhorn" could do. Rising from the table, she set her mug down with a decisive thunk.

"Lead the way, Mr. Presley . I'm eager to begin."

Half an hour later, Clementine wasn't feeling quite so confident. She stood beside the black mare in the corral, eyeing the western saddle with uncertainty. It was heavier than she expected, and the stirrups hung at odd angles.

"I thought you said you'd ridden before," Elvis commented, watching her fumble with the saddle blanket.

"I have," Clementine insisted, though her hands betrayed her nervousness. "Just not with this kind of equipment."

Elvis sighed and moved beside her, his hands covering hers to adjust the blanket. "Like this, see? Smooth it out so there's no wrinkles to rub sores on Bell's back."

His proximity sent an unwelcome shiver down Clementine's spine. He smelled of sweat and hay and something uniquely male. She stepped back, flustered.

"I can manage," she said stiffly.

"Suit yourself." Elvis crossed his arms, his expression unreadable as he watched her struggle with the heavy saddle.

After two failed attempts to hoist it onto Bell's back, Clementine's arms trembled with exertion. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool morning air. Damn her pride. She'd rather die than ask for help now.

With a grunt, she summoned all her strength and lifted the saddle once more. This time it landed squarely on Bell's back, though the mare shifted restlessly at the thump.

"Easy, girl," Elvis murmured, stepping forward to steady the horse. "No need to scare her half to death."

Clementine flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, Bell," she whispered, stroking the mare's neck.

Under Elvis' watchful eye, she fumbled with the cinch, trying to recall the steps he'd shown her the day before. Just as she thought she had it, Elvis reached in and tightened it with one practiced pull.

"Too loose and you'll find yourself eating dirt," he explained, not unkindly. "Too tight and Bell here will let you know about it when she bucks you off."

"Lovely," Clementine muttered. "Such a wealth of appealing options."

Elvis' mouth twitched. "You're the one who wanted to learn."

"And I still do." Clementine squared her shoulders. "What's next?"

"Mounting up."

Clementine eyed the horse's considerable height, then the stirrup that seemed impossibly far from the ground. "Is there a mounting block?"

Elvis snorted. "Not out on the range there ain’t." He moved to stand beside her, lacing his fingers together to form a step. "Your foot here. I'll boost you up."

Hesitantly, Clementine placed her boot in his cupped hands. His grip was steady as rock.

"On three. One, two–"

On "three," Elvis boosted her upward with such force that Clementine sailed past the saddle and nearly tumbled over the other side. Only a desperate grab at the saddlehorn saved her from an undignified landing.

"Easy!" Elvis barked, his hand shooting out to steady her leg. "I said boost, not launch."

"I wasn't expecting quite so much... enthusiasm," Clementine retorted, settling herself in the saddle. The ground seemed miles away now.

As Elvis adjusted her stirrups, his hands lingering on her boot, a throat cleared behind them. Red stood at the corral fence, his expression suspiciously neutral.

"Mornin', Miss Clementine. Elvis." Red's eyes twinkled. "Teaching our boss the finer points of horsemanship, I see."

"Tryin’ to," Elvis growled, stepping back. "You need something?"

"Just thought you'd want to know Slim spotted tracks again up by the north fence line. Fresh ones. Cut wire, too."

Elvis' demeanor shifted instantly, all business. "Rustlers?"

"Looks that way. Slim said they didn't get any cattle, near as he can tell. But they sure were fixin' to." Red's gaze slid to Clementine. "Figured you'd wanna take a look."

Elvis nodded curtly. "Saddle up. We'll head out as soon as–"

"I'm coming with you," Clementine interjected, grip tightening on the reins.

Both men looked at her in surprise.

"This is my ranch," she reminded them. "If someone's cutting fences and planning to steal my cattle, I want to see it for myself."

Elvis opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it, studying her with new eyes. "It'll be a hard ride for a beginner."

"Then I'll get my first real lesson, won't I?" Clementine tilted her chin up. "Unless you don't think I can handle it."

A challenge, plain as day. Pride demanded Elvis accept it, even as caution urged him to keep her safe at the ranch house. Clementine watched the internal struggle play out across his face.

"Fine," he relented. "But you stick close. Do exactly as I say. First sign of trouble, you head back. Clear?"

"Crystal," Clementine agreed, relief and apprehension warring in her stomach. She'd gotten her way, but now she had to prove herself worthy of it.

Red grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. "I'll fetch Rusty and Pete. They'll want to see this."

"See what?" Elvis demanded.

"Why, the rustlers' tracks, of course," Red replied innocently, though his eyes danced with mischief. "What else would I mean?"

Elvis glowered at him, but Red merely tipped his hat and ambled off, whistling tunelessly.

Twenty minutes later, Clementine found herself riding between Elvis and Rusty, with Red and Pete bringing up the rear. They moved at a steady trot that jarred every bone in her body. Bell responded well enough to her inexpert handling, but maintaining her seat was another matter entirely. Within minutes, Clementine's legs ached from gripping the saddle, and her backside felt like it had been tenderized with a meat mallet.

Still, she gritted her teeth and endured, determined not to show weakness. When Elvis glanced back at her, she forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

"How you holding up back ‘ere?" he asked, reining in slightly to match her pace.

"Splendidly," Clementine lied. "Is it much further?"

"Another mile or so. We can rest if you need to."

Pride flared hot in her chest. "I'm perfectly fine. Lead on."

Elvis studied her a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before nudging Rising Sun forward. Clementine followed, jaw clenched against the pain.

The land changed as they rode, the gentle meadows giving way to rockier terrain. They crested a rise, and suddenly Clementine could see the northern boundary of Windy Creek Ranch stretching before her–a line of fence cutting across the rugged landscape, with mountains rising blue and distant beyond.

Elvis led them along the fence line until he reined up sharply. "Here."

Dismounting in one fluid motion, he dropped to a crouch beside a section of fence where the wire hung limply between posts. Clementine watched from Bell's back, unsure if her legs would support her if she tried to get down.

Rusty solved her dilemma by appearing at her side. "Allow me, Miss Clementine." He offered his hand, his young face earnest.

Clementine accepted gratefully, doing her best not to wince as she swung her leg over and slid down. Her knees buckled slightly upon landing, but Rusty's steadying grip kept her upright.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"First long ride's always the hardest," he said sympathetically. "You'll toughen up in no time."

Together, they joined Elvis at the fence. The cut was clean, made by wire cutters rather than weather or wear. Elvis knelt, studying the ground, his fingers brushing over the dirt.

"Three riders," he said finally. "Come through after midnight, I reckon. Moonset's been around two lately."

"How can you tell all that?" Clementine asked, genuinely curious.

Elvis pointed to a hoofprint. "This one's fresh. No dew collected in it, so it was made after the grass dried last night. And see how it's pressed deeper on one side? Horse was carrying a heavy rider."

"Anything missing?" she pressed.

"Not yet," Pete said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. "But they're scoutin'. Figurin' out the lay of the land afore they strike."

Clementine frowned, digesting this. "How bold would they have to be, to steal from Windy Creek? We've got plenty of men."

"Or desperate," Red said grimly. "Times are hard all over. Cattle prices are down, feed costs are up. Some folks might see five hundred head of prime beef as too tempting to pass up."

"Could be the Triple Cross crowd," Rusty ventured, then fell silent at Elvis' sharp look.

Clementine caught the exchange. "The Triple Cross? The big outfit neighboring ours?"

"They've been expandin' lately," Elvis said carefully. "Buying up smaller spreads, runnin' more cattle than their grazing land can handle."

"And you think they'd resort to rustling?" Clementine was skeptical. "Wouldn't that be rather obvious?"

"Not if they drove the cattle far enough, fast enough," Pete put in. "Change the brands, mix 'em in with their own herds. By the time anyone noticed, they'd just be Triple Cross beeves."

The implications settled over Clementine like a cold shadow. If the neighboring ranch was setting its sights on Windy Creek, her problems went far beyond learning to ride and manage the books.

Elvis stood, dusting off his hands. "We'll need to start night patrols. Two men, rotating shifts." He glanced at Clementine. "With your permission, of course."

Her being asked for permission felt strange, like playing a role she hadn't quite learned the lines for. But she nodded firmly. "Absolutely. Do whatever you think necessary."

"We should check the other fence lines too," Red suggested. "Never know where they might try next."

Elvis nodded in agreement. "Red, you and Pete take the east boundary. Rusty and I will ride west. Meet back at the ranch by sundown."

"What about me?" Clementine asked, sensing she was about to be sidelined.

Elvis hesitated, clearly weighing his options. "You should head back. You're not–"

"I'm not leaving," she interrupted, standing as tall as her aching limbs would allow. "This is my ranch. My responsibility. I'm coming with you."

A muscle ticked in Elvis' jaw. Clementine braced for an argument, but it never came. Instead, he simply shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

"Reckon that's your right," he conceded. "But don't come crying to me when you can't climb the stairs tomorrow."

"I'm tougher than I look," Clementine retorted, though privately she wondered if she'd be able to walk at all.

Red chuckled. "That you are, Miss Clementine. That you are."

As they prepared to mount up again, Elvis checked the cinch on her saddle. "Might want to wrap your reins like this," he demonstrated, looping them around his hand. "Gives better control on rough ground."

The gesture was small but significant, an acknowledgment that he was taking her participation seriously. Clementine nodded her thanks and copied his technique.

Getting back in the saddle proved every bit as painful as she'd feared. Her thighs protested, and muscles she didn't know she possessed screamed in objection. But she bit her lip and swung up, determined not to show weakness.

As they rode westward along the fence line, Clementine gradually found Bell's rhythm, moving with the mare instead of against her. Elvis kept the pace moderate, occasionally glancing back to check on her.

"What exactly are we looking for?" she asked, drawing alongside him when the trail widened.

"Cut wire. Tracks. Anything out of place," Elvis replied. "Rustlers usually scout a few times before they strike. Figure the lay of the land, where the cattle bed down, where the ranch hands are likely to be."

Clementine nodded, scanning the fence line with new purpose. "And if we catch them in the act?"

"Then we got ourselves a situation." Elvis' hand rested on the butt of his revolver. "Cattle thieves don't usually surrender peaceful."

The casual mention of violence sent a chill through Clementine. Back home, the worst danger she'd faced was a sharp-tongued society matron. Here, danger had teeth and gun smoke.

"You ever...?" She couldn't quite form the question, but Elvis understood.

"Shot a man?" He was quiet a moment. "Yes."

Clementine waited for him to elaborate, but he offered nothing more. The weight of that simple "yes" hung between them, a reminder of the vast gulf between their worlds.

They rode in silence after that, each lost in thought. Rusty ranged ahead, whistling softly to himself as he checked the fence posts one by one.

At noon, they stopped to rest the horses beside a shallow creek. Clementine dismounted as gracefully as she could, biting back a groan as her legs took her weight. Elvis pretended not to notice, busying himself with untying a small bundle from his saddle.

"Here," he said, passing her a cloth-wrapped package. "Ida sent along some food."

Inside was bread, cheese, and jerky–simple fare but welcome after hours in the saddle. Clementine settled on a sun-warmed rock, stretching her legs cautiously.

Rusty watered the horses while Elvis prowled the perimeter, ever vigilant. When he finally sat across from Clementine, she was struck by how naturally he fit into this wild country. He might have been carved from the same weathered stone as the mountains behind him.

"See anything unusual on your side?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Elvis shook his head. "Not yet. But that don't mean they're not out there."

"Tell me about the Triple Cross," Clementine urged. "If they're potential enemies, I should know what we're up against."

Elvis took a drink from his canteen, considering. "Biggest spread in the county. Five thousand acres, maybe more. Run by a man named Harlan Porter. Mean as a rattler and twice as poisonous."

"And this Porter, he's the type who'd resort to rustling?"

"The type who'd do whatever it takes to get what he wants," Elvis corrected. "And he's wanted Windy Creek for years."

"Why our ranch specifically?"

"Water rights. Everybody wants ‘em, we got ‘em." Elvis gestured to the creek beside them. "This feeds into the bigger streams that water half the county. Windy Creek controls the headwaters. In a dry year, that's worth more than gold."

Clementine frowned, thinking of Parker's loan coming due in six months. "So if we were to lose the ranch..."

"Porter would be first in line to buy it," Elvis finished grimly. "And then he'd control every drop of water for twenty miles."

The implications were staggering. No wonder Uncle Ned had been so determined to keep Windy Creek in family hands. It wasn't just a ranch, it was a linchpin in the region's precarious balance of power.

"Well, he can't have it," Clementine said, her voice hard as iron. "This ranch was Uncle Ned's, and now it's mine. And I aim to keep it."

Elvis studied her, new respect kindling in his eyes. "You're more like your uncle than I figured. Got his backbone, that's certain."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Presley?" Clementine asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Might be." A smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Or might be a warning."

Before Clementine could reply, Rusty's voice called out from further up the creek. "Elvis! Think I found something!"

They abandoned their meal, hurrying to where Rusty stood pointing at the ground. Fresh tracks crossed the creek bed–three horses, moving at a trot.

"Same ones?" Clementine asked, kneeling despite her protesting muscles.

Elvis nodded grimly. "Heading straight for the main herd's grazing grounds. They're planning something, and soon."

"Tonight?" Clementine felt a flutter of alarm.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Elvis straightened, his expression hardening. "But we'd best be ready either way."

The ride back to the ranch passed in tense silence, each lost in thought. Clementine's earlier discomfort faded to background noise against the looming threat. If rustlers struck tonight, Windy Creek could lose dozens, even hundreds of cattle before they could respond.

As they crested the final rise and the ranch buildings came into view, Clementine's resolve solidified. Uncle Ned had entrusted this land to her, and she would not let him down. Rustlers, neighboring ranchers, bankers–none of them would take Windy Creek without a fight.

Elvis seemed to sense her determination. He reined in beside her, his expression softening slightly.

"You did good today," he said, the words clearly not coming easy to him. "Kept up without complaint. Most city folk would've turned back hours ago."

Clementine smiled, pleasure warming her despite her exhaustion. "High praise indeed, coming from you."

"Don't let it go to your head," he warned, though his eyes held a glint of humor. "One day in the saddle don't make you a cowhand."

"No," Clementine agreed. "But it's a start."

Elvis nodded, a flicker of something–approval, perhaps, or even pride–crossing his face.

"That it is, Miss Clementine. That it is."

Chapter Text

"Charlie, take the north ridge. Slim and Pete, cover the south pasture. Red, you and Rusty ride the eastern boundary."

Elvis's orders sent men moving like cavalry. They checked revolvers, loaded rifles, cinched gunbelts. Night patrol wasn't regular at Windy Creek, but cut wire meant trouble.

Clementine appeared in the bunkhouse doorway, Winchester in hand. "Where do I ride?"

Six heads turned. The room went quiet as a grave.

Elvis's jaw set hard. "You don't."

"This is my ranch." Clementine stepped in, rifle held like she knew how to use it. "My cattle being stolen."

The hands exchanged glances, waiting to see who'd back down first.

"It's too dangerous," Elvis said flatly.

"That's why I should know what we're facing." Her legs still ached from the day's ride, but a woman didn't admit weakness to men like these. “I can shoot, and I can ride.”

Red's mustache twitched. "Got her uncle's sand, that's certain."

Elvis shot him a lethal glare.

Paco Rodriguez, a quiet Mexican hand who'd never given trouble, stepped forward.

"Señor Elvis, perhaps the lady could ride with experienced men?" His suggestion held both respect and sense.

"Fine," Elvis growled. "She rides with me."

"Mighty convenient," muttered Slim, earning a sharp elbow from Red.

"Western ridge," Elvis said, ignoring him. "Where we found those tracks. Five minutes."

Outside, the night spread black and cold. Stars burned white as salt against darkness. Clementine tightened Bell's cinch, her borrowed gloves stiff against her city hands.

Charlie led his horse alongside. He was saddle-leather tough, gray in his beard, eyes cut with years of squinting across open country.

"First patrol?" he asked.

"That obvious?"

Charlie's laugh was dry as old wood. "You're holding that Winchester like a rattler might jump from it."

"They won't come at us?"

"Most thieves prefer stealth." Charlie checked his rifle. "Cut a few head, move fast, be gone before daylight."

"Then why all the firepower?"

"Sometimes they fight." Charlie's voice went flat. "That's when the burying starts."

Elvis approached leading Rising Sun, the stallion dancing sideways, sensing trouble on the wind.

"Ready?" It wasn't really a question.

Clementine mounted without help. She'd practiced through the afternoon until her muscles screamed, determined not to show weakness.

Elvis swung up like a man born to it. "Anyone sees trouble, one shot. No heroes." His gaze lingered on young Rusty. "Dawn meeting. Move out."

They scattered in pairs, riders merging with darkness.

Clementine rode west beside Elvis, the night air cutting through her borrowed sheepskin. Uncle Ned's coat hung on her frame like a tent, but it blocked Wyoming's teeth better than her Eastern wool.

An hour passed in silence. Bell's hoofbeats and the occasional owl were the only sounds. Clementine thought of Bonnie, who would hardly recognize her now--armed, saddle-worn, riding the night ranges with men who had never seen opera or tasted champagne.

"You're quiet," Elvis observed, startling her from her thoughts.

"Just watching," she replied. "Listening."

He nodded approval. "Good habit. Greenhorns usually talk themselves into trouble."

"I'm not looking for conversation."

That almost cracked his stone face. "Wasn't worried about that."

They followed the boundary north, Elvis dismounting occasionally to study sign or check the wire. Clementine kept her rifle ready, watching the darkness for shapes that didn't belong.

"Was my uncle a good man?" she asked during one stop.

Elvis straightened. "Good as most. Better than some."

"That's not much of an answer."

"Ned kept to himself. Didn't talk about back East."

"But he must have mentioned me."

"Said you had grit, if the city hadn't killed it." Elvis glanced sideways. "Reckon he was right about the grit part."

She couldn't read his face in the starlight. "And you? Have you been in Wyoming long?"

"Long enough."

Silence stretched between them.

"Are you always this forthcoming?" she asked dryly.

That earned a short laugh. "Born in Tupelo, Mississippi. Raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Drifted west when the law and I disagreed on some matters. Your uncle hired me, no questions asked."

"Questions about what?"

"A man's past is his own business out here."

The conversation died. They rode through the second hour, then the third. The rhythm of their horses' gaits became a lullaby Clementine fought against. Midnight passed, marked only by stars and dropping temperature.

"Maybe they won't--" she began.

A rifle shot split the night.

Elvis went rigid. Rising Sun snorted and sidestepped. "East fence. Red and Rusty."

He wheeled the stallion and kicked hard. Clementine dug heels into Bell's flanks. The mare lunged after Rising Sun, racing through scrub and shadow. Branches clawed at Clementine's face. She ducked low over the saddle horn, one hand locked in Bell's mane.

By the time they reached the eastern pasture, gunfire crackled in sporadic bursts. Muzzle flashes bloomed like deadly flowers. Men's voices, hard with tension, carried across open ground. Elvis pulled up behind a rock outcrop. Clementine hauled on Bell's reins, stopping with less grace.

"Stay here," Elvis ordered, dismounting in one fluid motion and drawing his revolver.

Clementine swung down, dragging her Winchester free. "I'll cover you."

Elvis grabbed her arm. His grip promised bruises. "This ain’t playtime. Those are killing bullets."

"All the more reason you need another gun." She met his eyes without flinching. "I won't be a liability."

Another shot cracked close by. Elvis swore, seeing the determination in her face.

"Stay behind me. If I say run, you ride and don't look back."

"Agreed."

They moved forward in a crouch, using rocks and brush for cover. Dark shapes ghosted across the pasture–men herding lowing cattle. The animals' white faces flashed in the darkness like moving targets.

"Red?" Elvis called softly.

"Behind the deadfall!" Red's voice carried. "Four of 'em cutting out stock. They're shooting to kill!"

Bullets splintered wood near Red's position. Clementine flinched instinctively.

"Rusty?"

"Circled behind them," Red answered, squeezing off a shot.

Hell broke loose then. Elvis fired with the calm precision of a man who'd done this before, each shot placed deliberately. Clementine braced her rifle, remembering her father's lessons on their country estate. The Winchester's kick slammed her shoulder, but her second shot made a rustler dive for dirt.

Nothing in her old life had prepared her for this–men trying to kill her, bullets splitting air inches from her head, the smell of powder and fear mixing in her nostrils.

A shout from the left caught her attention. Rusty had cornered one rustler but didn't see another taking aim at his back. Without thought, Clementine swung and fired. Her bullet kicked dirt into the second man's side. He went down, rifle flying from his hands.

"Good shooting!" Red yelled, rushing to secure the fallen man.

The fight turned quickly. Elvis's deadly accuracy, Red's frontal assault, and Rusty's flanking maneuver left three rustlers facedown and disarmed.

"Fourth man?" Elvis demanded, scanning the darkness.

His answer came as a bullet kicked dirt at his feet. Elvis dove sideways, returning fire as he rolled. The fourth rustler had better position, using a pine stand for cover. His methodical shots kept Elvis pinned.

Clementine worked her way around, using the night and low brush. Her heart hammered in her chest. She'd nearly flanked the shooter when everything went wrong.

A bullet caught Elvis high in the shoulder, spinning him like a top. He staggered, shirt suddenly black with blood. The rustler broke cover, moving in for the kill.

Clementine shouted to distract him, but battle noise swallowed her voice. Her rifle shot missed wide. The rustler advanced on Elvis, who struggled to raise his revolver with his uninjured arm.

No time to reload. Clementine dropped the Winchester and reached for her boot. The knife Uncle Ned had given her came free, its handle worn to fit her palm. She'd practiced throwing it at targets, never dreaming she'd use it on a man.

The blade caught the rustler in the thigh. He howled and went down, his weapon firing uselessly into dirt as he clutched his wound.

Elvis's revolver barked twice, kicking up soil by the fallen man's head.

"Next one goes between your eyes," Elvis growled. "Drop the gun."

The rustler's weapon thudded to earth.

Clementine ran to Elvis, sickened by the blood pumping from his shoulder. "How bad?"

"Been better," he said, face gone gray. "Been worse too. Maybe."

Red and Rusty appeared with three bound prisoners. Charlie and Slim rode in moments later, drawn by gunfire.

"What in tarnation?" Slim demanded.

"Caught 'em cutting stock," Red said, shoving a captive forward. The rustlers stood sullen in defeat, their faces hard with desperation.

"Triple Cross hire you?" Elvis asked, voice tight with pain as Clementine tore strips from her petticoat to bind his wound.

The leader–a gaunt man with three days' stubble and desperate eyes–spat on the ground. "Don't know no Triple Cross. We're on our own."

"Bank took our spread last month," another said flatly. "Everything gone."

"Six kids to feed between us," added the third. "Few cattle seemed fair exchange for starving young'uns."

Clementine's hands paused on Elvis's shoulder. These weren't hired guns but desperate farmers, pushed to theft by empty stomachs and crying children.

"Sheriff can sort it," Elvis said, his voice weakening. Blood soaked through Clementine's makeshift bandage.

"He needs Juanita," Rusty told Red. "Fast."

"Charlie, take these men to town," Red ordered. "We'll get Elvis home."

Rusty retrieved Clementine's knife, wiping the blade before returning it. "Where'd a city lady learn knife work?"

"My father believed women should defend themselves," she answered, helping Elvis stand.

Elvis sagged against her, nearly driving her to her knees. Red stepped in, taking the weight.

"Can you ride?" Clementine asked.

"No choice," Elvis said, though his eyes were glazing.

"Losing too much blood," Rusty warned. "Bullet hit something bad."

Red helped Elvis into the saddle, but the wounded man swayed dangerously. "Someone needs to ride with him."

"I will," Clementine said without hesitation.

Red boosted her up behind Elvis. She wrapped her arms around his waist, one hand pressed hard against his wound.

"Keep pressure on that wound," Red instructed, handing her the reins. "Ride straight and fast. We'll follow with Bell."

Rising Sun seemed to sense the urgency. The stallion needed little guidance, picking the surest path back to the ranch at a ground-eating pace. Clementine clung to Elvis, feeling him weakening with each passing minute. His head lolled back against her shoulder, consciousness coming and going.

"Stay with me," she urged, fear making her voice sharp. "Don't you dare die, Elvis Presley."

"Bossy woman," he mumbled, the words slurring. "Still... giving orders."

"That's right. I'm the boss, remember? I need you alive."

The admission cost her pride, but she'd have said anything to keep him fighting.

"Need me?" A wet laugh shook him. "Thought I was... just a… squatter."

"Most aggravating man alive," she said, relief flooding through her as ranch lights appeared ahead. "I won't forgive you if you die."

Lanterns burned in windows, beacons in the darkness. Clementine shouted as they approached.

"Help! Elvis is shot!"

Men erupted from buildings. Paco reached them first, helping ease Elvis down. Juanita Rodriguez hurried from her cabin, taking one look at Elvis's wound before barking orders in rapid Spanish. Men carried Elvis into the main house, laying him on the dining table.

Clementine slid from the saddle, legs buckling. Ida caught her arm.

"Lord have mercy, girl, you're soaked in blood!" The housekeeper stared. "You hurt?"

"Not mine," Clementine said, looking at her crimson hands. "Elvis'."

"Come inside. Let's clean you up."

"I need to stay with him."

"Ain't nothing you can do that Juanita can't do better," Ida said firmly. "That woman's pulled more bullets than most sawbones. Now come along. You’re dead on your feet."

Too exhausted to argue, Clementine let Ida steer her to the kitchen. Through the doorway, she watched Juanita working on Elvis, hands sure as she cut away his shirt.

Paco assisted his wife with the precision of long practice. Their son Miguel held a lamp high, its light steady on the makeshift operating table.

"Bullet's deep," Juanita said, probing the wound. "Hit bone. Must come out before rot sets in."

Elvis lay unconscious, face gray beneath his weathering. He looked smaller somehow, the invincible foreman reduced to mortal flesh.

Ida washed blood from Clementine's hands and face. Clementine hardly noticed, watching Juanita extract the bullet, clean the wound, and close it with neat stitches. Elvis stirred once, groaning, then went still again.

He couldn't die. No, he was too stubborn, too vital. Too important to Windy Creek... and, she realized with startling clarity, to her.

"It is done," Juanita announced, wiping her hands. "Now we wait. If fever doesn't take him, he may live."

"Thank you," Clementine said, moving beside the older woman. "For everything."

Juanita nodded, dark eyes softening. "He is strong, this one. Too stubborn for dying." She patted Clementine's arm. "But the night will be long. You should rest."

"I'll sit with him."

The hands returned to the bunkhouse and Ida went upstairs, leaving Clementine alone with the unconscious foreman. Someone had moved him to a cot by the fireplace. His chest rose and fell shallowly, skin hot with building fever.

Clementine settled in a chair beside him, bone-weary. The night's events tumbled through her mind–gunfire, blood, the knife leaving her hand, the desperate ride home. It seemed a lifetime since she'd saddled Bell for patrol.

Sleep must have claimed her, for dawn light was filtering through windows when she woke. Elvis remained unconscious, but his breathing seemed easier, his color less gray.

Stiffly, Clementine rose and stretched cramped muscles. Her clothes were stiff with dried blood, her hair fallen loose. She needed to change, to wash, to deal with the captured rustlers. But first, she needed to know Elvis would live.

Juanita appeared silently, moving to check her patient.

"Fever has not worsened," she said, touching his forehead. "Good sign. But he is weak. Many weeks to heal."

"He'll live?" Clementine pressed.

Juanita smiled knowingly. "Sí, I believe so. Thanks to you, señorita. Paco tells me how you brought him home."

Relief nearly buckled Clementine's knees. "Just did what needed doing."

"As we all do." Juanita patted her shoulder. "Rest now. I will watch him."

This time, Clementine didn't argue. She climbed to her room, finding fresh water waiting. Ida had thought of everything--clean towel, soap, even a change of clothes laid out.

She washed away blood and dirt, changed, and rebraided her hair. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger – older, harder somehow, changed by violence in ways beyond exhaustion.

Downstairs, the house stirred to life. Coffee scented the air. Elvis slept on, but Juanita's satisfied expression told Clementine all she needed to know.

"Any change?" she asked anyway.

"Fever breaks. He woke, asked for water. Good signs."

Clementine sat beside the cot, relief washing through her. "Thank God."

She went to help Ida, leaving Clementine with the sleeping man. Without thinking, Clementine brushed dark hair from his forehead. His skin felt cooler, the fever ebbing.

"You're going to be alright," she whispered. "You have to be."

His eyelids flickered but didn't open. Clementine pulled her hand back, suddenly self-conscious. What was she doing? This man was just an employee. His survival mattered to the ranch, nothing more.

The thought rang false even as she formed it. Somewhere between their first meeting and this moment, Elvis Presley had become more than her foreman. He'd become important in ways she wasn't ready to examine.

Rising abruptly, she moved to the window. Outside, ranch life continued. Men crossed to the bunkhouse, others headed for the stables. The world kept turning, night's drama or no.

A flash of color caught her eye–an envelope propped against the sugar bowl. She recognized Bonnie's handwriting instantly.

The letter declared her friend's plans to visit Windy Creek by mid-summer, eager to see ranch life firsthand and meet the cowboys–especially Elvis–who featured in Clementine's letters.

Clementine folded the paper carefully. Bonnie coming west? The thought was both thrilling and alarming. How would her vivacious, city-bred friend fare in this harsh, practical world? And how would these hard men react to another Eastern woman in their midst?

She glanced at Elvis's still form, imagining his scowl at the news. "Another greenhorn underfoot," he'd say, but perhaps with that hidden spark of humor she was learning to recognize.

The letter went into her pocket. There would be time for Bonnie later. For now, she had rustlers to deal with, a ranch to run, and a wounded foreman to heal.

One crisis at a time. That was the Windy Creek way.

Chapter Text

The Denver Grand Palace Hotel stood like a granite fortress among the sun-bleached buildings of the frontier town. In its oak-paneled meeting room, Joseph Marco straightened his silk cravat with manicured fingers that had never known a callus, watching the territory's power brokers circle each other like wolves eyeing wounded prey. They moved with the deliberate caution of mountain lions, each man sizing up potential prey or threat.

He hadn't wanted to come west. His New York ventures had collapsed faster than a house of cards, leaving him hunting new opportunities. The Bankers and Investors Convention seemed as good a place as any to rebuild what his father had lost.

"Joseph Marco! By God, I hoped you'd be here."

The voice belonged to Thomas Parker, a banker whose bulk matched his ambition. His suit was Eastern cut but Western worn. Beside him walked a rail-thin man who Joseph did not recognize.

"Thomas Parker," Joseph nodded curtly. "I wasn't aware we had mutual interests in the territories."

"We didn't. Until now." Parker's smile was cold as January. "This here's Hezekiah Gruber, Esquire. He's been telling me about a most unusual opportunity. Seems an old rancher out our way died. Left everything to some New York niece who couldn't tell a branding iron from a teakettle."

Joseph sipped his whiskey slow, savoring the burn. "Nothing new in that. They usually sell cheap and head back home."

"That's just it," Gruber cut in, voice thin as wire. "This ain't ordinary property. Prime grazing land. Water rights controlling half the county."

"And something more," Parker added, dropping his voice while scanning the room. "Old man knew something about that spread. Something valuable enough that he'd rather die than sell out."

Now this was interesting.

Joseph studied his glass, keeping his expression neutral. "And this niece is coming to claim it?"

"Already there," Gruber confirmed. "Some society girl who probably thinks buffalo still roam Main Street."

"What's your stake in this?" Joseph asked.

"Business, pure and simple," Parker replied without hesitation. "That land's worth maybe a hundred times what she knows. Needs a man with vision. Someone who can... persuade the lady to see reason about selling to proper interests."

"Or marrying into proper interests," Gruber added with a thin smile.

Joseph set his empty glass down with a soft click against polished wood. "If I were to consider this proposition?"

"Thirty-three percent when the land's acquired," Parker said promptly. "Plus whatever you get by marriage."

The room seemed to shrink as possibilities unfolded in Joseph’s mind. If they offered such terms, the property must be valuable indeed.

"Gentlemen," Joseph said, raising his glass. "I do believe we have things to discuss."

Two days later, in a St. Louis hotel room overlooking the mighty Mississippi, Joseph Marco spread the Wyoming Territorial Tribune across his traveling desk. A small announcement caught his eye, and the blood in his veins turned cold as mountain runoff:

"Miss Clementine Olivetti, formerly of New York City, has taken up residence at Windy Creek Ranch following the passing of her uncle, Mr. Edward 'Ned' Olivetti..."

His hands went cold. Clementine Olivetti was no stranger. She was a ghost walking out of his past.

He moved to the window, watching the river, dark and powerful as time itself. The girl he'd courted years back had been quiet but determined, with steel beneath silk manners. He'd admired her strength then. Later, when she refused to stand by him after his father's disgrace, he'd cursed that same quality.

"Your hunger for money has changed you, Joseph," she'd said at their last meeting, her eyes clear as mountain lakes. "There's nothing left of the man I once loved."

But that was easy for her to say– her family didn’t lose everything overnight. The insult had cut deeper than he'd admitted. He'd struck back with words he couldn't take back. Pride kept him from seeking forgiveness even as he watched her walk away.

Now Joseph saw himself clearly–a man hardened by years of survival by any means. The young suitor with dreams was gone, replaced by a man who viewed people as stepping stones. A man who could look at Clementine not as the woman he'd once loved, but as an opportunity wearing skirts.

"Almost like fate," he said to the glass, seeing only his reflection. "The sweethearts reunited."

But something uncomfortable stirred beneath his coldness--the memory of losing her, watching her eyes change from love to disappointment. Knowing he deserved it.

Joseph turned from the window. Sentiment was a luxury for men who could afford it. Parker and Gruber wanted Windy Creek's resources. He wanted his fortune restored. And if his history with Clementine helped both purposes... well, a man did what he had to do.

He began packing his trunk. Wyoming Territory waited.

Chapter Text

Katie Hawthorne knew the value of an entrance.

She rode into Windy Creek with the sun breaking hard against the eastern mountains. The palomino beneath her moved with the same prideful stride as its rider, dust rising golden in the morning light. She'd timed it just so–early enough to find the hands at breakfast, late enough that the new mistress would be seeing to the day's business.

The main house stood stark against the Wyoming sky, its fresh paint and new curtains declaring ownership as clear as any brand. Katie's jaw tightened at the sight. Some things weren't meant to change.

She smoothed her riding skirt and checked her appearance in a small silver compact. Perfect. Not a thing out of place despite the jarring journey from Big Sky. Her flaxen hair was coiled neatly beneath her hat, and her blue eyes were clear and alert in the morning light. A woman learned to stay presentable on the trail if she meant to be taken seriously in cattle country.

She pulled a covered basket from the saddlebag and made her way to the house. Inside, the scent of bacon and coffee hung in the air. Male voices rumbled from the dining room, followed by the scrape of chairs as men rose from the table.

"Katie!" Red's booming voice carried down the hallway. The big foreman appeared in the doorway, hat already in hand. "Ain't seen you 'round these parts in an age."

"Hello, Red." She gave him the smile reserved for those who'd earned it. "Just rode in from the west. Word reached me about the rustlers. About Elvis."

Red shifted his weight. "Bad business. Elvis is mending, though Doc O’Malley says he oughtn’t be up."

"When did Elvis ever listen to sense when there was work to be done?" She lifted her basket. "Brought some things that might help."

"Thoughtful of you." Red's eyes shifted toward the back of the house. "He's out to the corral. Stubborn as ever."

She found Elvis at the corral rail, standing like he'd been planted there, his left arm held stiff against his side. Even wounded, he stood a head taller than most men, dark hair catching the wind, shoulders set square as fence posts. A man born to endure.

"You still too proud to heal proper?" she called.

Elvis turned, surprise flickering across his face like shadow on water. "Katie."

Just that. No welcome, no scowl. Katie counted it fair enough. A man who'd once loved her had the right to caution.

"Heard what happened," she said, approaching with unhurried steps. "Thought you might need looking after. Sorry I'm late. Gold fever's a hard thing to shake."

"I'm managing." His voice gave nothing away.

Katie studied him in turn, noting the pallor beneath his weathered tan, the tight lines around his eyes that spoke of pain he'd never admit. "You always were too stubborn to die proper."

"Takes one to know one." His voice gave little away, but there was a hint of amusement there.

She set her basket on a fence post and reached up, brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead with the same casual ownership she might show a prized horse. He didn't lean into her touch, but he didn't flinch either. Something had shifted between them–the balance of power. Once, she'd held the high ground. Now, they stood on even footing.

"Brought some of Mrs. Carson's liniment," she said, reaching into her basket. "For your shoulder. And huckleberry pie. Your favorite."

"Thanks." He made no move to take either. "What brings you by, Katie? Really?"

Direct as ever. It was part of what had drawn her to him initially–no games, no fancy talk. Just honest words from an honest man.

"News travels fast in cattle country," she said with a small shrug. "Daddy's worried rustlers might hit north next. Thought I’d check in, see how you're faring."

"Sheriff's got this bunch locked up tight."

"This bunch, maybe." Katie settled herself on the fence rail, long legs stretched before her like she owned the place. "But rustlers are like coyotes–kill one pack, another moves in. Daddy's hosting a dinner Saturday. All the big ranchers, setting up patrols, coordinating defense. You should come." She paused deliberately. "Both of you."

Elvis raised an eyebrow. "Both?"

"You and Miss... Olivetti. It would do her good to meet the neighbors." Katie's smile held steady, though mentioning the Eastern woman set her teeth on edge. "Unless she's too delicate for ranch matters?"

"Clementine can hold her own." The protective note in his voice was unmistakable.

Before Katie could respond, the back door opened. A small woman in a simple blue dress emerged, dark hair hanging in a loose braid. Beside her stood a taller woman with copper curls, eyeing Katie with something like wariness and curiosity mixed together.

So this was the Eastern heiress. Nothing like Katie had imagined. Clementine Olivetti stood barely to Elvis's shoulder, olive-skinned and delicate-looking with large, intelligent eyes. Yet there was something in the set of her jaw, the way she crossed the yard–not the tentative steps of a city woman, but the purposeful stride of someone who knew what they wanted.

"Good morning," the smaller woman said, her voice cultured but direct. "I'm Clementine Olivetti. And you are--"

Katie straightened, extending her hand. "Please, call me Katie. Katie Hawthorne. All my friends do."

"This is my dear friend, Bonnie Blakely," Clementine continued. "She's visiting from New York."

The redhead stepped forward, her handshake firm as a man's. "Charmed," she said, tone suggesting she'd rather be facing a rattlesnake.

"Miss Blakely." Katie kept smiling, though the woman's hostility was plain as day. "How nice. I didn't realize Miss Olivetti had company."

"Bonnie's not company," Clementine said easily. "She's family."

Bonnie's eyes darted between the women, then to Elvis, and back to Katie, her expression growing more exaggerated with each exchange. A dry tumbleweed could have blown through the silence.

"How fortunate to have a friend from home," Katie said, unable to resist. "Must be quite a change, coming from civilization to... well." She gestured at the empty landscape.

"I find it suits me better than I expected," Clementine replied, her smile steady as a gunfighter's hand.

"Clem's a natural," Elvis put in unexpectedly. "Took to ranch life like she was born to it."

Bonnie's eyes widened comically, swinging from Elvis to Clementine, then to Katie. Her mouth formed a small 'o' as she watched the exchange like a spectator at a boxing match.

"How wonderful," Katie said, voice honey-sweet. "Though I imagine there's still much to learn. Ranching isn't something one picks up between tea parties."

"Clemmie outshot half the hands at target practice yesterday," Bonnie interjected, linking her arm through her friend's. Her eyes narrowed at Katie, then widened dramatically at Elvis, as if to say, 'Are you seeing this?'

"Did she?" Katie's smile never faltered. "Impressive for a beginner."

"Bell? That black mare?" Katie saw her opening. "She needs a firm hand. I'd be happy to show you sometime. I've been riding since before I could walk."

"That's kind," Clementine said, meeting Katie's gaze directly. "But I'm sure you're busy with your own affairs."

The double meaning hung in the air. Bonnie's eyes darted between them like she was watching a quick-draw contest, waiting for someone to reach.

"Never too busy for neighbors," Katie countered. "I was just telling Elvis about Daddy's dinner Saturday. You must all come. Seven o'clock?"

"We'd be delighted," Clementine said, though Katie caught the quick look she exchanged with Elvis.

Elvis stood watching, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Katie recognized that expression–he was enjoying this, the attention of two women squaring off over him. Men were all the same, whether they wore tailored suits or worn leather.

"I should go," Katie said, collecting her basket. "Daddy will wonder what's keeping me. Elvis, try that liniment. Works wonders." She let her fingers brush his arm, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Until Saturday."

As she walked to her horse, Katie felt their eyes on her back. Let them look. Let the Eastern woman wonder about her history with Elvis. Let her friend try to rally defenses against a battle she didn't yet understand.

Katie Hawthorne had ridden into the gold fields of California alone, faced down claim jumpers and winter storms. She'd never lost anything she truly wanted. And right now, she wanted Elvis Presley where he belonged–at her side, on her family's land.

She mounted with the fluid grace of someone born to the saddle and pointed her horse north. 

Saturday would come soon enough.

"Well," Bonnie said as Katie's horse disappeared down the trail. "She's a piece of work."

Clementine shot her friend a look. "Bonnie, please. She was being neighborly."

"Neighborly? Ha!" Bonnie crossed her arms. "That woman's as neighborly as a wolf in a henhouse." Her gaze bounced between Clementine and Elvis like she was following a particularly lively game of horseshoes.

Elvis, silent through this exchange, shifted his weight with a wince. "Think I'll check on Rising Sun," he muttered, though the slight upturn of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

"Need help?" Clementine asked.

"I can manage." His tone was gruff but not unkind. He nodded to both women and headed for the barn, his usual stride hampered by pain.

When he was gone, Bonnie turned to Clementine. "That woman means trouble. I can smell it."

"You've been reading too many penny dreadfuls," Clementine said, though she couldn't dismiss the unease Katie's visit had left.

"She's marking territory," Bonnie insisted, eyes wide as saucers. "Did you see how she looked at you? Like she was measuring you for a coffin."

"Competition for what?"

"For him, you blind fool!" Bonnie gestured toward the barn, eyes rolling dramatically. 

"There's nothing between us," Clementine said, though the words rang hollow as a rusted bell. "He's my foreman. Nothing more."

Bonnie's face softened. "Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you'll believe it."

Inside, Ida was rolling dough with practiced hands. She looked up as Clementine entered, taking in her troubled face.

"Met Miss High-and-Mighty, did you?" she asked plainly.

"She seems... capable," Clementine said carefully.

"Capable of causing trouble," Ida snorted. "That girl was born making eyes at anything in pants, and your Elvis was the first to take her seriously. Then she up and left him flat. Now she's back, tail between her legs, ready to stake a new claim."

"He's not 'my' Elvis," Clementine protested.

Ida gave her a look that would have withered an oak. "What did she want?"

"To check on Elvis. And invite us to dinner Saturday at Big Sky. They're gathering ranchers to discuss protection against rustlers."

"Hmm." Ida looked skeptical. "First I've heard of it."

"Should we go?" Clementine asked.

"I think," Ida said carefully, "that Miss Katie Hawthorne never does anything without purpose. If she's invited you to dinner, she's got reasons. Might be best to find out what they are."

Clementine found Elvis in the study later, frowning over papers on the desk.

"Thought Doc said you were supposed to rest," she said, standing beside him.

"Man can't rest while cattle need moving," he answered simply. "Patterson's offering fair prices for the fall drive, but I think we can do better."

"Let me see." Clementine leaned close, aware of his presence, the scent of leather and sun-warmed skin. "What about Simmons in Denver?"

"Thought of that," Elvis nodded. "Simmons pays better, but the drive's longer. More risk."

They discussed options, shoulders nearly touching. It felt right, this partnership. When had that happened? When had they moved from employer and employee to something like equals?

"About this dinner–" Clementine began.

"Might be wise to know what neighbors are planning," Elvis said. "Especially with rustlers about."

"Is it a trap?"

A ghost of a smile touched Elvis's lips. "Not everything's a dime novel, Clem."

"That's what I told Bonnie," she admitted. "Though she's convinced Miss Hawthorne has designs on you."

"Katie's always had designs," Elvis said, voice neutral. "On everything. It's her nature."

"You were together," Clementine said softly. Not a question.

Elvis nodded once. "Two years back. Made sense at the time. Her daddy's spread borders Windy Creek north."

"But she left."

"Got gold fever. Lit out for California without so much as a goodbye." His tone was flat, but Clementine caught the faint tightening of his jaw. The wound still pained him, though he'd never say so.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.

Elvis shrugged his good shoulder. "Water under the bridge."

But it wasn't, not really. Not with Katie back, looking at Elvis like she still had a claim. Not with the way something in Clementine's chest had twisted at seeing them together, so clearly cut from the same rough cloth–a world where she was still learning the language.

"We should go to the dinner," she said finally.

"Alright." Elvis nodded, eyes meeting hers briefly. "But stay sharp. Hawthornes always have an angle."

"I will," Clementine promised. "Besides, I'll have you and Bonnie for protection."

"Reckon Miss Bonnie could face down a grizzly if she set her mind to it," Elvis said, a rare smile warming his face.

They fell into comfortable silence. Clementine found herself studying Elvis's profile–the hard line of his jaw, the crease between his brows that appeared when he was thinking. He was handsome in a way that made New York men seem like boys playing at being men.

No wonder Katie wanted him back.

"What is it?" Elvis asked, catching her look.

"Nothing," Clementine said quickly. "Just... thank you. For everything you've done for Windy Creek. For me."

Something flickered in his eyes–surprise, maybe, or something warmer. "Just doing my job."

"Is that all it is?" The question slipped out unbidden.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The air between them seemed to thicken like summer heat before a storm.

Then Bonnie's voice rang from the hallway, calling Clementine's name.

"I should go," Clementine said, stepping back. "See what Bonnie needs."

Elvis nodded, returning to the papers. But as she turned to leave, he spoke again, voice low as prairie wind.

"No," he said. "It's not just a job. Never was."

Clementine paused, heart suddenly hammering like hoofbeats. But before she could answer, Bonnie appeared in the doorway, eyes bright with curiosity as they darted between the two.

The moment vanished. But his words remained, warming like whiskey on a cold night as she followed Bonnie upstairs.

No, it's not just a job. Never was.

Eight plain words that changed everything and nothing at all.

Chapter Text

The Big Sky Ranch thrust up against the Wyoming sky like a monument to one man's pride. 

The Windy Creek wagon rolled under a grand archway with "Big Sky" carved deep in the beam, making Clementine's stomach knot tight as the main house came into view. It stood three times the size of Windy Creek, all peeled logs and native stone stacked high, a testament to wealth that made no apologies for its grandeur. The wide veranda circling the structure displayed rocking chairs that had likely never known trail dust and plants that had no business surviving Wyoming winters.

"Well, I'll be," Bonnie whispered. "Somebody's trying to compensate for something."

Elvis, sitting easy with the reins in his hands, chuckled low. "Hawthornes been here since before the mountains, if you believe their telling of it." His eyes scanned the grounds with a watchfulness that told Clementine he was seeing beyond the show of wealth to something else. 

Clementine glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. "Meaning?"

"Meaning appearances ain't always truth." Elvis left it at that, guiding the team toward the house with practiced ease.

She watched his profile as they approached, noting how he squared his shoulders like a man preparing for battle. Despite his dismissive words about Big Sky, he'd adjusted his hat to a sharper angle and checked his reflection in the side mirror. 

The grounds stood in military order. Flower beds set with ruler precision, outbuildings painted clean as a banker's conscience, hands in matching shirts moving with purpose. Everything about Big Sky shouted that here was power and money enough to bend the wild country to one man's will.

They weren't the first to arrive. Half a dozen wagons and buggies already stood in the circular drive. Elvis set the brake and stepped down, turning to offer Clementine his hand.

"See that tall fella with the mustache?" Elvis nodded toward the veranda as he helped her down. "Jasper Cole. Circle C Ranch. Twenty thousand acres east of here. Mean as a rattler in business, but fair once terms are set."

Clementine nodded.

"The old couple there," Elvis continued, "Henry and Martha Wilson. Double W. Been here since before Wyoming was a territory. Lost two sons in the war, still running cattle better than folks half their age."

His hand was warm, callused from years of rope and reins. He'd cleaned up proper–dark coat over a white shirt, his jaw freshly shaved, hat set at an angle that spoke of careful attention. The sight tugged at something deep in Clementine's chest.

"You look nice," she said.

"Clean up decent when there's cause." His eyes moved over her blue dress with its silver embroidery, brief but appreciative. "You look...different."

From Elvis, that was high poetry.

The front door swung open. Katie Hawthorne appeared like a queen greeting subjects from lesser kingdoms, wearing a burgundy dress that suited her tall frame to perfection. Her smile was quick, her eyes calculating as they moved from Clementine to Elvis.

"You made it!" She pressed a kiss to Clementine's cheek that held all the warmth of a rattlesnake. "Father will be pleased." Her hand found Elvis' arm, lingering just long enough to mark territory. "Come in. Everyone's waiting."

Elvis followed, casting a glance back at Clementine that might have held regret, or perhaps apology. Katie leaned close, whispered something that made him straighten like a horse with a new bit. The sight hit Clementine with unexpected force, sharp as the crack of a Winchester.

Inside, the house spoke of wealth that had never known want–gleaming floors unmarked by spurs, paintings in gilt frames, furniture that would have bankrupted most ranchers. A massive bull elk stared down from above the fireplace with glass eyes that judged all who entered.

The territory's cattle barons stood in clusters with their wives, talk dying away as the Windy Creek party entered. Katie made introductions, her arm slipped through Elvis's with practiced casualness. A young man with dark hair watched from the side, his mouth pressed thin at the display. 

"Miss Olivetti," Katie said finally, "my father, Nathaniel Hawthorne."

He stood tall despite his sixty-odd years, silver-haired, straight-backed as a cavalry officer. His handshake was brief, his assessment thorough as a cattle buyer at auction. "Your uncle spoke of you," he said, voice deep as a mountain well. "I trust Windy Creek suits you."

"It does," Clementine said simply.

"Presley," Hawthorne clapped Elvis on the shoulder like a man might a prize stallion he was considering purchasing. "Good to see you again. Come meet Wilson from Double W."

The evening unfolded with the precision of a well-practiced trail drive. Nathaniel Hawthorne steered Elvis from group to group, Katie never far away. Her laughter came quick at Elvis' remarks, her touch frequent on his arm, her body leaning toward him as if drawn by some invisible force. Elvis responded with an ease Clementine had rarely seen, a ghost of the man he might have been before life hardened him.

"First time at Big Sky?"

The dark, observant man from before now stood at Clementine's elbow, offering a glass of amber liquid.

"Yes," she replied, accepting the drink.

"Adam Hawthorne," he said, not bothering with formalities. "Katie's brother."

"Your father has built quite a place."

Adam's mouth quirked. "Father builds everything big. Makes up for other shortcomings." His eyes followed Nathaniel across the room. "Your uncle caused him considerable aggravation."

"Oh?"

"Fifteen years back. Drought year. Father tried buying water rights all through the valley. Your uncle was the only holdout." Adam sipped his drink. "Left the south section of Big Sky dry as month-old bread. Never forgave him for it."

Understanding settled on Clementine like trail dust after a long ride. Her uncle's stubborn refusal explained the measuring coldness in Hawthorne's eyes.

Across the room, Katie laughed at something Elvis said, her hand resting on his forearm like it belonged there. He smiled–a full smile, not the guarded expression he wore at Windy Creek–and for a moment looked ten years younger.

"My sister plays her part well," Adam said quietly.

A tall woman with shoulders broad as a wagon gate approached before Clementine could respond. "Margaret Donovan," she said, extending a work-hardened hand. "Lazy D Ranch. Your uncle was a good man in a territory where that's rarer than rain in August."

When dinner was announced, Hawthorne's seating arrangements couldn't have been clearer if written in the sky. Clementine and Bonnie found themselves separated from Elvis, who sat between Katie and an elderly woman, close to Nathaniel at the head of the table.

The meal progressed through careful courses until Hawthorne tapped his glass for silence.

"Friends," he said, "we face troubled times. Rustlers grow bolder by the month. The Johnsons, the Wilsons, even Windy Creek–all hit." His gaze touched on Clementine. "Miss Olivetti's foreman took a bullet defending what's hers."

Nods circled the table. Elvis sat motionless, only the slight narrowing of his eyes betraying his watchfulness.

"Time for a united approach," Hawthorne continued. "Tom Parker has a proposal."

The banker rose, soft-handed and round-faced. "I propose forming the Wyoming Cattlemen's Association–an alliance of ranches pooling resources for security, with the bank's full backing."

"Who decides?" Elvis asked, the question cutting through the room like a well-thrown knife.

"A council of landholders," Parker replied. "Votes based on acreage."

"Big ranches call the tune, small ones dance," Margaret observed, her face unreadable as stone.

"Details can be worked out," Parker said smoothly. "The important thing is standing together."

"I endorse this proposal fully," Hawthorne added. "Small operations face hard times ahead." His eyes settled on Clementine with the patience of a mountain lion selecting its prey. "It's a harsh country for newcomers. Especially for those who are alone, with no husbands, no brothers, no fathers to advise them. Just a wounded foreman between them and ruin."

The strike came precise as a rattler's, after hours of patient waiting. Clementine felt all eyes upon her, knew this moment had been Hawthorne's target since her arrival.

"Some women run ranches better than most men," Maggie Donovan said mildly. "Been doing it fifteen years myself."

"You had experience," Hawthorne countered. "Miss Olivetti is hardly comparable."

Elvis' jaw muscles bunched, but he remained silent, watching Clementine across the polished expanse of table.

"Wyoming requires knowledge that comes from years in the saddle," Hawthorne continued. "The kind that can't be learned from books." His gaze moved meaningfully between Elvis and Katie. "Some partnerships benefit everyone involved."

"Miss Olivetti," Parker called suddenly. "What does Windy Creek think of our proposal?"

The table went still as a winter pond. Nathaniel sat back, satisfied as a card player who's just dealt himself aces.

Clementine took a measured sip of water. When she spoke, her voice carried clear as a trail bell without being raised.

"It merits consideration," she said. "Though I have been taught to read agreements carefully before signing my name." She met Hawthorne's eyes across the table. "My uncle believed certain things–like water rights–were worth protecting, no matter the pressure to give in."

The words struck like a well-placed bullet. Hawthorne's face tightened for just an instant before his mask returned. Those who knew the history exchanged glances.

"Ned Olivetti was stubborn about his property," Hawthorne allowed, the words clipped short as a winter day.

"He believed in safeguarding what mattered," Clementine replied simply. "So do I."

Across the table, Elvis watched the exchange, the beginning of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. His eyes held Clementine's for a moment, steady as a rope in a prairie storm.

Without a shot being fired, both sides knew battle lines had been drawn.

Chapter Text