"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter One: The Prodigal Son
The Red Jack Saloon was a cathedral of vice, its stained wooden walls soaked in the ghosts of whiskey, tobacco, and broken promises. Gas lamps flickered, casting long shadows over the card tables where men in dusty vests threw dice and dreams away. The piano in the corner wheezed a lopsided rendition of "Oh! Susanna," half-drowned by the clatter of poker chips and the hoarse laughter of drunks. In the heart of Nova Washington—the Union's glittering capital in the autumn of 1863—this was Wyatt Archer's kingdom, and he was its fallen prince.
Sprawled across the bar, Wyatt clutched a bottle of bourbon like a lifeline. His silk vest, once the envy of every tailor in the city, hung loose, stained with liquor and regret. His dark hair fell in a tangle over his eyes, green as jade but bloodshot from a week of debauchery. The barkeep, a grizzled man named Sam with a scar like a lightning bolt across his cheek, polished a glass with a rag that hadn't seen soap since the Mexican War.
"Another pour, Sam," Wyatt slurred, waving the bottle. "And make it quick. I'm celebrating."
Sam didn't look up. "Celebratin' what? Runnin' your family's name into the dirt? Your tab's longer than the Union Pacific, Archer."
Wyatt laughed, a sharp, reckless sound that cut through the saloon's din. Heads turned—gamblers, barmaids, a grizzled prospector nursing a pint. They all knew him. Wyatt Archer, sole heir to the Archer dynasty, a family that owned half the railroads west of the Missouri River and armories that could arm a rebellion. His father, Senator Amos Archer, brokered deals in the Capitol's marble halls. His grandfather, General Ezekiel "Iron Eagle" Archer, had carved a legend in the Mexican War, his name whispered from Texas to the Potomac. And Wyatt? He was the fool who'd pawned his future for a bottle and a bad hand of cards.
"Put it on the family ledger," Wyatt said, tossing a gold coin onto the bar. It spun, glinting in the lamplight, before clattering to a stop. "You know I'm good for it."
Sam snorted, pocketing the coin. "Good for trouble, maybe. Word's out, boy. Your old man's done with you. Says you're a disgrace to the Archer name."
The word hit like a slug to the chest. Disgrace. It had dogged Wyatt since he was a boy, trailing him through the polished halls of the Archer mansion, the sneers of senators' sons, the whispers of painted ladies who took his money and laughed when he turned his back. He'd worn it like a badge, leaning into the role of the prodigal son—drunk, reckless, useless. But tonight, it burned deeper, stoking a fire he didn't understand.
"Disgrace?" Wyatt stood, swaying, and slammed the bottle down. "Tell you what, Sam. This disgrace is gonna make history."
He didn't know why he said it. The words spilled out, reckless as the bourbon in his veins, but they felt right, like a vow carved in stone. The saloon blurred around him, the faces of strangers swimming in the haze. His temples throbbed, a strange heat pulsing behind his eyes, as if a storm were brewing in his skull. He stumbled toward the door, ignoring the jeers from the card table. "Archer's done for!" someone called, and laughter followed him into the night.
The air outside was a cold slap, sharp with the scent of coal smoke and horse dung. Nova Washington sprawled before him, a city of ambition and betrayal, its gaslit streets alive with the clatter of carriages and the hum of deals struck in shadowed parlors. Wyatt took one step, then another, his boots scuffing the cobblestones. The world tilted, and the ground rushed up to meet him. Darkness swallowed him whole.
When he woke, he wasn't Wyatt Archer. Not the Wyatt Archer he'd been, anyway. The man who opened his eyes in the alley behind the Red Jack Saloon, head pounding and mouth tasting of ash, was a stranger in a familiar skin. A financial analyst from 2025, a nobody who'd spent his days crunching numbers in a Manhattan cubicle, now trapped in the body of a 19th-century wastrel. His old name, his old life—gone. All he had were Wyatt's memories, a revolver at his hip, and a clarity that cut through the fog like a blade.
He pushed himself up, wincing as his palms scraped the gritty stones. The alley was narrow, reeking of rot and spilled liquor. A stray cat hissed from a pile of crates, its eyes glinting like silver dollars. Wyatt's mind raced, stitching together the fragments of his new reality. He was Wyatt Archer, 22 years old, heir to a fortune and a curse. His father despised him. His grandfather tolerated him. The city saw him as a joke. But he wasn't laughing anymore.
Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley. Wyatt tensed, his hand drifting to the pearl-handled Colt revolver at his hip—a gift from his grandfather, one of the few things he hadn't gambled away. Two figures emerged, silhouetted against the flickering gaslight. The taller one was broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit that screamed old money. The shorter man, wiry and sharp-eyed, wore a bowler hat tipped low, his hand resting on something under his coat.
"Wyatt Archer," the tall man said, his voice smooth as a senator's promise. "You're a hard man to track down."
Wyatt squinted, his new memories clicking into place like a well-oiled lock. Cornelius Hawthorne, eldest son of the Hawthorne family, the Archers' bitter rivals in the railroad game. The Hawthornes controlled the eastern lines, from Boston to Baltimore, while the Archers ruled the west, their tracks snaking through the wilds of Montana and beyond. The feud was older than Wyatt, rooted in land grants, bribes, and blood spilled in boardrooms and back alleys.
"Cornelius," Wyatt said, forcing a lazy grin. He leaned against the wall, hiding the tremor in his legs. "Didn't know you slummed it in alleys. Lose a bet?"
The wiry man—probably a hired thug—snorted, but Cornelius's smile was a razor's edge. "I heard you had a rough night. Thought I'd offer my sympathies."
"Sympathies?" Wyatt raised an eyebrow, his fingers brushing the Colt's grip. "I ain't dead yet."
"Not yet," Cornelius said, stepping closer. The wiry man shifted, his hand still on whatever he was packing—a knife, maybe, or a derringer. "But your father's patience is thinner than a pauper's purse. Word is, he's shipping you out west. Some dust-choked outpost in Montana Territory. Says it'll make a man of you—or bury you."
Wyatt's stomach twisted, but he kept his face blank. Montana. The Archer family's western operations were headquartered there, a sprawling network of railroads, trading posts, and armories on the edge of Indian country. It was a death sentence dressed up as a second chance. His father wanted him gone—out of Nova Washington, out of the family's hair, and probably out of the will.
"Sounds like a fine vacation," Wyatt said, shrugging. "Fresh air, wide skies. Maybe I'll take up panning for gold."
Cornelius laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "You're a funny man, Wyatt. A pity your family doesn't see the humor. The Hawthornes, though—we'd hate to see you go. You're so… predictable."
The wiry man chuckled, and Wyatt's grip on the Colt tightened. Cornelius wasn't here for a friendly chat. The Hawthornes had been sabotaging Archer railroads for years—derailments blamed on "accidents," supply lines raided by "bandits" who vanished into the night. Wyatt, the weak link, was an easy target. A drunkard's death in an alley would be a tidy solution.
"Tell you what," Wyatt said, straightening up. His voice was steady now, the bourbon haze burned away by the fire in his chest. "You want to talk business, come by the house tomorrow. I'll be nursing a hangover, but I'm sure we can crack a bottle and sort things out."
Cornelius's eyes narrowed, searching Wyatt's face for something—fear, weakness, the old drunken fool. He wouldn't find it. Not tonight. Not ever again.
"I'll pass," Cornelius said finally, tipping his hat. "But I'll be watching, Archer. The west is a dangerous place. Wouldn't want you to get lost out there."
The two men melted into the shadows, their footsteps fading into the city's hum. Wyatt waited until they were gone, then let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His heart pounded, but his mind was a steel trap, calculating, planning. This wasn't just a second chance—it was a battlefield, and he'd been handed the first shot.
The Archer mansion loomed over Nova Washington's wealthiest district, a marble fortress that screamed power and permanence. Its columns gleamed under the moonlight, a monument to a family that had built an empire on iron and ambition. Wyatt slipped through the servants' entrance, dodging the butler's disapproving glare. The house was silent, save for the distant tick of a grandfather clock and the faint creak of polished floors. He navigated the labyrinth of corridors to his room, a cluttered den of empty bottles, crumpled letters, and a four-poster bed that hadn't seen him in days.
He locked the door and sank into a leather chair, staring at his reflection in a cracked mirror. Wyatt Archer's face stared back—sharp jaw, green eyes, a mop of dark hair that needed a barber's touch. He looked like trouble, and maybe he was. But trouble could be a weapon, if you wielded it right.
His new memories painted a grim picture. The Archer family was a house on the edge of fracture. Senator Amos wanted Wyatt gone, his patience worn thin by years of scandals. General Ezekiel, the Iron Eagle, was the only one who still saw a spark in him, but even that was fading. The railroads were bleeding money, caught between federal taxes, Hawthorne sabotage, and raids by Chief Red Hawk's tribe in Montana. The Hawthornes weren't the only threat—rumors swirled of a senator, maybe even Cornelius's father, pushing a bill to nationalize the western lines, stripping the Archers of their empire.
Wyatt grinned at his reflection, a wolf's grin. He'd been a nobody in his old life, a cog in a machine that didn't know his name. But here, he was Wyatt Archer, heir to a dynasty. And dynasties didn't fall to fools.
He pulled a map from a drawer, spreading it across the desk. Montana Territory stared back, a patchwork of rivers, mountains, and unmarked trails. The Archer railroads snaked through it, linking gold mines to markets, but they were vulnerable—supply depots undefended, tracks exposed to sabotage. If he could turn things around out there—secure the lines, broker peace with Red Hawk, outsmart the Hawthornes—he could rewrite his story. Not as the prodigal son, but as the man who saved an empire.
A knock at the door shattered his thoughts. "Wyatt," a voice barked, hard as flint. His father.
Wyatt folded the map and stood, squaring his shoulders. "Come in."
Senator Amos Archer filled the doorway, his face carved from granite, eyes cold as a winter dawn. He was a tall man, broad in his tailored coat, every inch the statesman who'd stared down presidents. "Pack your bags," he said without preamble. "You're leaving for Montana at dawn. Train leaves at six. And if you disgrace us again, you'll wish you'd died in that alley."
Wyatt met his father's glare, his grin sharp as a gambler's blade. "Don't worry, Pa. I'm just getting started."
Amos's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, turning on his heel and slamming the door. Wyatt stood alone, the room's silence heavy with promise. Montana was a death sentence, maybe. But it was also a chance—to build, to fight, to win. He'd play the fool a little longer, let the world underestimate him. And when the time came, he'd show them what Wyatt Archer was made of.
End of Chapter One