"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Two: Into the Wild
The train whistle screamed like a banshee, cutting through the dawn fog that clung to Nova Washington's Union Station. Wyatt Archer stood on the platform, his breath misting in the chill, a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder. His head still throbbed from last night's bourbon, but his eyes were clear, sharp as the Colt revolver holstered at his hip. The platform buzzed with porters hauling crates, merchants barking orders, and a few bleary-eyed travelers wrapped in wool coats. None of them spared a glance for the Archer heir, and that suited Wyatt just fine. Let them think he was still the fool.
The locomotive loomed before him, a beast of iron and steam, its black hull gleaming under the gaslights. The Archer Western Line, his family's pride, stretched from here to the Montana Territory, carrying gold, timber, and dreams across a thousand miles of untamed land. It was also a lifeline the Hawthornes wanted to choke, and Wyatt's father had just handed him the noose. Montana wasn't a promotion—it was exile, a chance to fail where no one would see.
"Last call for Great Falls!" the conductor bellowed, his mustache twitching. Wyatt tipped his hat, a battered Stetson he'd dug out of his closet, and climbed aboard. The car was half-empty, its wooden benches scratched and worn, smelling of coal dust and cheap tobacco. He took a seat by the window, dropping his satchel at his feet. The train lurched forward, and Nova Washington's marble spires faded into the gray dawn.
Wyatt leaned back, closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind churned, piecing together the stakes of this game. In his old life—2025, Manhattan, a cubicle drowned in spreadsheets—he'd been a nobody, crunching numbers for men who never learned his name. But here, in 1863, he was Wyatt Archer, heir to an empire teetering on the edge. The railroads were bleeding money, hit by federal taxes, Hawthorne sabotage, and raids by Chief Red Hawk's Blackfoot tribe. His father wanted him gone, the Hawthornes wanted him dead, and his grandfather, the Iron Eagle, was his only ally—maybe. If Wyatt could turn the Montana operation around, he'd prove them all wrong. If he failed, he'd be just another ghost in the prairie dust.
The train rattled west, through Virginia's rolling hills and into the Ohio River Valley. Hours bled into days, the landscape shifting from farmland to endless plains, where buffalo herds roamed like dark clouds on the horizon. Wyatt spent the journey studying a ledger he'd swiped from his father's study—a battered notebook detailing the Archer Western Line's finances. The numbers were grim: supply depots looted, tracks torn up, workers deserting faster than a saloon at closing time. But numbers didn't lie, and Wyatt's 21st-century brain saw patterns the 19th-century world hadn't dreamed of. Optimize routes, streamline logistics, maybe even advertise to settlers—there were ways to turn a profit, if he could survive long enough to try.
By the third day, the plains gave way to the Rockies' jagged silhouette. The train pulled into Great Falls, Montana, a ramshackle outpost that barely qualified as a town. Clapboard buildings huddled along a muddy main street, flanked by saloons, a general store, and a livery stable that looked one storm away from collapse. Beyond the town, the Missouri River churned, its waters glinting like steel under a sky vast enough to swallow a man whole.
Wyatt stepped off the train, his boots sinking into the mud. The air was sharp, laced with pine and the faint tang of smoke. A crowd had gathered—roughneck railroad workers, fur trappers, a few Blackfoot tribesmen wrapped in buffalo hides, their eyes tracking him like hawks. Word traveled fast in the west, and the Archer heir's arrival was news.
"Mr. Archer?" A man pushed through the crowd, stocky and bearded, his denim overalls stained with grease. He extended a calloused hand. "Jedediah Cole, foreman of the Archer Western Line. Your pa sent word you were comin'."
Wyatt shook his hand, sizing him up. Jedediah's grip was firm, but his eyes were wary, like a man who'd seen too many bosses fail. "Good to meet you, Jed," Wyatt said, flashing a grin. "Heard this place is a real paradise."
The crowd chuckled, but Jed's face stayed hard. "Paradise for rattlesnakes, maybe. We got Blackfoot raiders hittin' our depots, workers quittin' left and right, and the Hawthornes payin' bandits to rip up our tracks. You here to fix that, or just to drink our whiskey?"
Wyatt's grin didn't falter. "Little of both, I reckon. Show me the operation."
Jed led him through Great Falls, past saloons where fiddle music spilled into the street and a blacksmith's hammer rang like a war drum. The Archer rail yard sat on the town's edge, a sprawl of tracks, boxcars, and a depot that looked more like a fort, its walls bristling with rifle slits. Workers hauled crates of dynamite and rails, their faces etched with exhaustion. A dozen armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their Winchesters gleaming.
"Red Hawk's boys hit us three times last month," Jed said, pointing to a scorched patch of earth where a supply shed used to stand. "Took half our dynamite, spooked the men. They say he's got a hundred warriors, maybe more. Wants tribute for usin' his land."
Wyatt nodded, his mind already working. In his old life, he'd negotiated contracts with cutthroat CEOs. A Blackfoot chief couldn't be much different. "What's Red Hawk like?" he asked.
Jed spat into the dirt. "Smart. Mean as a grizzly. Says the railroad's an iron snake eatin' his people's future. Ain't wrong, neither, but we got orders to push the line to the gold fields."
Wyatt studied the yard, noting the disorganized stacks of supplies and the gaps in the fence. Sloppy. Fixable. "And the Hawthornes?"
Jed's eyes darkened. "Their men don't come themselves. They pay drifters—bandits, mostly. Cut our tracks ten miles west last week. Cost us a week's work to fix it."
Wyatt's jaw tightened. Cornelius Hawthorne's smug face flashed in his mind. The Hawthornes weren't just playing dirty—they were playing for keeps. "Get me a map of the line," he said. "And a list of every man who's quit in the last month. I want to know why."
Jed raised an eyebrow but nodded. "You ain't what I expected, Archer."
"Good," Wyatt said, his voice low. "I ain't what anyone expects."
That night, Wyatt sat in the depot's office, a cramped room lit by a single oil lamp. The map Jed provided was spread across a table, marked with red Xs where raids had hit. The ledger lay open beside it, its numbers a grim prophecy of failure. Wyatt's fingers traced the rail line, his 21st-century mind spinning. He'd read about the transcontinental railroad in history books—brutal, chaotic, a gamble that built a nation. He could do better. Standardize supply chains, negotiate with the Blackfoot, maybe even turn Great Falls into a hub for settlers. But first, he had to survive.
A knock at the door broke his focus. "Come in," he called.
A woman stepped inside, her presence like a gust of prairie wind. She was tall, her auburn hair pinned under a wide-brimmed hat, her green dress practical but elegant, tailored to a figure that could stop a saloon brawl. Her eyes, sharp and gray, sized Wyatt up like a ledger she didn't trust.
"Savannah Blake," she said, offering a gloved hand. "My father owns Blake Plantation, down in Georgia. Your grandfather sent me to keep an eye on you."
Wyatt stood, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her gaze unflinching. Ezekiel Archer's name carried weight, but sending a Southern belle to Montana was a curveball even Wyatt hadn't seen coming. "Keep an eye on me?" he said, grinning. "Grandpa thinks I need a babysitter?"
"Thinks you need a lawyer," Savannah corrected, her drawl soft but steely. "The Hawthornes are pushing a bill in Washington to tax your rails into oblivion. I'm here to make sure you don't give them an excuse."
Wyatt leaned against the desk, studying her. Savannah Blake wasn't just a pretty face—she was a player, sharp and calculated, the kind of ally he needed. Or a spy for his enemies. "And what's in it for you?" he asked.
"My father's tied to your railroads," she said. "If you fail, we lose everything. So don't fail, Mr. Archer."
He chuckled, liking her already. "Call me Wyatt. And don't worry, Miss Blake. I don't plan on failing."
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn't argue. "Good. Because Red Hawk's riders were spotted ten miles north. They'll hit again soon. And I hear the Hawthornes paid a man named Silas Kane to make sure this outpost burns."
Wyatt's grin faded. Silas Kane. The name wasn't in his memories, but it carried weight, like a storm cloud on the horizon. "Get me everything you know about Kane," he said. "And tell Jed to double the guards tonight."
Savannah nodded, turning to leave, but paused at the door. "You're not what they say you are," she said, her voice low. "But you'd better prove it."
The door clicked shut, and Wyatt was alone again. He looked at the map, the red Xs like wounds on the land. Montana was a battlefield—Blackfoot warriors, Hawthorne bandits, a town full of doubters. But Wyatt Archer wasn't just a prodigal son anymore. He was a man with a plan, and the west was about to learn his name.
End of Chapter Two