CHAPTER ONE
The Widow's Road
The road to Eden Hollow stretched long and unbroken beneath the weight of the setting sun. Dust curled in slow, weary spirals around Grace Monroe's boots, catching in the folds of her worn dress, clinging to the sweat at the nape of her neck. The heat of the day had not yet broken, and every step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself resisted her arrival.
She had been walking for hours, but it was not the ache in her feet that gnawed at her—it was the silence.
Beside her, Naomi Monroe walked in step, her face drawn but determined. The older woman had said little since they left the last town, and Grace knew better than to press her. Grief had made its home in Naomi's bones long before now, before her son—Grace's husband—was lowered into the ground. It was not the kind of grief that asked for words.
Still, Grace wanted to say something, anything, to fill the space between them. But what comfort could she offer? What promises could she make? She had already broken the most important one.
"I will take care of him, Naomi. You won't have to worry."
She had said it with such certainty the day she married James Monroe, believing in love and the bright, untarnished future that stretched before them. That future had crumbled like brittle parchment in the first gust of wind.
Now, there was only this: a long road and the weight of everything they had lost.
Ahead, the first signs of Eden Hollow emerged from the dust. Small, weather-beaten buildings crouched along the main street, their wood darkened with age and exposure. The general store stood at the heart of it, its windows reflecting the dying light like dull, lifeless eyes. To the left, a blacksmith's shop stood silent, its forge long since cooled for the day.
Beyond the town, fields stretched toward the horizon, dry and brittle, waiting for a rain that might never come.
Grace tightened her grip on the single bag she carried. It held everything she owned now—some threadbare clothes, a silver hairpin that had once belonged to her mother, and a small, folded photograph of James.
She had nothing left to lose.
They stepped onto the main street, their presence immediately drawing eyes. A group of men stood outside the general store, their conversation fading as the two women passed. A woman in a faded blue dress leaned close to her husband, whispering something behind the curve of her hand.
A boy no older than ten stood near the wooden walkway, his bare feet coated in dust. He stared at them, his gaze drifting over Grace's worn dress, the hollowness in Naomi's cheeks, the single bag between them. Recognition flickered in his expression—not of their faces, but of what they were.
Drifters.
Strays.
Widows.
Grace lifted her chin. If they were to be marked, let it be seen.
They reached the store just as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon. The bell above the door gave a halfhearted jingle as Grace stepped inside. The scent of grain and old wood filled the air, mingling with something faintly metallic. Behind the counter, a man with a lined face and weary eyes looked up.
"We're looking for lodging," Grace said, keeping her voice steady. "Just for the night."
The man's gaze flickered to her dress, the dirt clinging to its hem, then to Naomi, who remained silent at her side.
"Ain't much room to spare," he said finally.
Grace knew better than to let her disappointment show. "We can pay."
A pause. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "Not about the money."
Of course not. It never was.
Grace exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to nod. "Thank you for your time."
She turned, pushing the door open before the lump in her throat could rise any higher. The evening air pressed heavy against her skin, thick with the scent of dust and horses.
Naomi didn't speak, but Grace could feel her gaze.
"We'll find something," Grace murmured.
A small sound—half sigh, half disbelief—escaped Naomi's lips.
Grace looked down the street, past the church with its peeling white paint, toward the endless stretch of land beyond.
Somewhere out there, Elias Beckett was waiting.
She just didn't know it yet.
---
Elias Beckett had long since stopped believing in grace.
The land had taught him everything he needed to know about survival, about how faith withered just as easily as a dry crop beneath an unforgiving sun.
He stood at the edge of his fields, his gaze sweeping over the brittle stalks of wheat that had barely survived the last season. It wasn't much, but it was all he had left.
The past had taken enough from him. He wouldn't let it take this, too.
He rolled his shoulders, the ache of the day settling deep into his bones. The farmhands had finished their work hours ago, leaving behind only the rustle of the wind and the occasional creak of the barn settling in the night air.
He should go inside.
He didn't.
Instead, he stayed there, his fingers brushing absently over the handle of his belt knife, the familiar weight grounding him. His father's voice echoed in his head, low and certain, the way it always had been.
"A man protects what is his. He doesn't wait for kindness, and he sure as hell doesn't expect it."
Elias had built his life around that lesson.
And yet—
A flicker of movement near the edge of his fields caught his attention.
He turned, his sharp gaze narrowing. A woman stood near the fence, her dress tattered at the edges, her hair loose around her shoulders. The light was dim, but he could see the way she reached down, fingers grazing the fallen grain scattered along the dirt.
His jaw tightened.
He moved before he could think better of it, his boots kicking up dust as he crossed the distance. The woman must have heard him because she tensed, her hand still hovering above the ground. Slowly, she straightened, turning to face him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
"I wasn't stealing," she said, her voice calm despite the wary edge in her eyes. "Only taking what was left behind."
Elias studied her, noting the sharp angles of her face, the way her dress hung too loosely over her frame. She was thin. Probably hadn't eaten properly in days.
And yet, there was something in the way she held herself. A quiet, unyielding strength.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Grace."
Something about the name tugged at the back of his mind.
"Who's with you?"
"My mother-in-law."
A widow, then. Just like her.
Elias exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. He had enough problems to deal with—drought, debts, land that barely held together. He didn't have time for strays.
But as he looked at her, standing in the dirt with dust on her hands and defiance in her eyes, something shifted.
Maybe it was the way she didn't beg. Maybe it was the way she didn't flinch beneath his gaze.
Or maybe, despite everything, he recognized the look of someone who had lost more than they could afford to.
"Come back in the morning," he said finally. "I'll find you work."
Grace didn't thank him. She only nodded.
And somehow, that was enough.