The Rancher She Was Forced to Love (Preview)

Chapter 1

Briar Ridge, Colorado

The one-room cabin felt different.

In the nineteen years Daisy had lived within its timber walls, she had never known it to feel so still. Stillness was not new there. But that particular stillness settled deep into the beams like winter frost. It pressed at her skin and at her thoughts, until even the simple act of moving from one room to the next felt unfamiliar.

A week. Only a week since the funeral, though time had blurred in a way that made the world feel both painfully slow and unrecognizably fast.

Dawn crept in cautiously through the trees. The air smelled of cool earth, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers. Her mother had always liked the early morning light. She said it was the only hour that felt honest. Daisy couldn’t bring herself to look directly at the window. Instead, she stood at the foot of the bed where her mother had lain for so long, thinner by the season, yet still strong enough to give Daisy a smile even on the hardest days.

The quilt was neatly folded. Daisy had done that on the day of the funeral, her hands shaking as she tucked in the last corner. She had not touched it since.

A soft knock sounded at the front door. It was gentle, but firm enough to catch Daisy’s attention.

Daisy wiped at her wet cheek and took a deep breath.

“Come in,” she called out weakly.

The door creaked open, followed by Eliza Danner’s warm voice. “Morning, Daisy.”

Diasy turned to see Eliza step inside, closing the door behind her to keep out the chill. She held a small sack of biscuits and apples, her cheeks pink from the walk through the woods. Strands of blond hair had escaped her braid, sticking to the sweat on her temple. Eliza always moved with a kind practicality. It had come from years of tending to people who needed more than the world was willing to give, and at twenty years old, she had mastered it.

Upon seeing her friend, Daisy attempted a smile. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“I know.” Eliza set the food on the table. “But you haven’t been eating right. And there’s plenty from yesterday’s baking.”

Unable to argue, Daisy gave a small nod. She barely remembered her last meal.

Cautiously, Eliza crossed the small cabin and wrapped her in a gentle embrace with no rush and no pity. Daisy clung to it. For a second, she could breathe again.

“Ready?” Eliza asked quietly.

At that, Daisy looked past her and toward the bed where the neatly stacked items at its foot and the empty rocking chair by the hearth waited. The chair squeaked sometimes at night, shifting with the wood, and she’d wake expecting to see her mother sitting there.

No. She wasn’t ready.

But she nodded. “Yes.”

They began with her mother’s clothes.

Daisy knelt beside the small chest where Miriam Wynn had kept them. The scent drifted up as she opened the lid. It was a mix of lavender, woodsmoke, and the faintest trace of the herbal salves Eliza used to make for her. Daisy’s throat tightened at the familiar fragrance. She reached inside, pulling out a soft cotton nightgown worn thin at the elbows.

“She liked this one,” Eliza said gently, crouching beside her.

“She said it was the only one that didn’t itch,” Daisy murmured, smoothing the faded sleeve.

They folded the clothes one by one slowly. Daisy pressed her face to a pale shawl, breathing in the last remnants of her mother’s warmth. It was foolish. She knew that. But she imagined Miriam standing behind her, hands resting on her shoulders like she used to when Daisy was little.

“You’re trembling,” Eliza said softly.

“I’m all right.”

Eliza waited. She had always known when Daisy needed silence more than comfort. The midwife’s hands moved carefully over each garment. Each item was touched with respect, as though Miriam herself might feel the care.

After a while, Eliza lifted a stack of worn books from the shelf beside the bed.

“These should stay close to you,” she said. “They meant something.”

Reaching for the top book, Daisy realized it was her mother’s favorite poetry collection. Its cover was frayed from years of use. Inside, the margins held faint pencil notes.

See the truth in this line… Remember this one next spring… For Daisy to read when she’s older.

Daisy traced those words with the tip of her finger. Her mother had been quiet, but she always left pieces of herself behind in the things she touched.

“What about this?” Eliza held out a small trinket. It was a tiny wooden bird her father had brought home years ago, long before the bad days. Daisy startled slightly at the sight of it.

It looked harmless. Almost sweet. But Daisy felt a strange twist in her stomach.

“Put it aside,” she whispered. “For now.”

Without judgment, Eliza nodded.

They worked in silence then. Dust motes drifted through the morning light, shimmering in gold patterns. Daisy watched them float.

When they reached the bottom of the chest, Eliza pulled out a long scarf. It was embroidered with small blue wildflowers. Daisy inhaled sharply. Miriam had worn it every spring, even when she grew too weak to leave the cabin.

As she took it, Daisy’s hands shook.

“Eliza…” she whispered. “I… don’t know what to do with all of this. With… any of it.”

In response, Eliza set down the stack she was holding and took the scarf from Daisy’s trembling fingers.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Not today.”

Daisy swallowed hard. Her mother’s things felt like pieces of her heart laid bare. Fragments of a life lived quietly, lovingly, and far too briefly.

“Do you think she knew?” Daisy asked suddenly. “That her time was coming?”

Eliza didn’t answer right away. She reached over and squeezed Daisy’s hand. “She wasn’t afraid. That much I can promise you.”

Her mother had always been gentle, even in her suffering. Even when Daisy would wake to find her coughing in the night, Miriam would hush her and tell her that everything was all right.

They placed the folded clothes in a small trunk to store away. But some things needed a place of honor rather than a box.

So, they made space beside the bed.

After clearing the nightstand, Eliza set aside Miriam’s half-burned candle and the smooth river stone she used to hold down letters. They arranged the scarf first, cascading it neatly across the wooden surface. Then the poetry book. Then a trinket Miriam had always liked and the dried flower she had pressed into her journal last summer, its petals fragile but still holding their dusty pink hue.

“She said it made her think of hope,” Daisy whispered, picking up the flower.

“Then it belongs here,” Eliza said.

They set the flower in the center of the display. Neither of them spoke for a while after that.

The room felt different again. It wasn’t lighter. But it was no longer suffocating.

“It’s beautiful, Daisy,” Eliza said before stepping back to admire it.

The display gave the space a faint feeling of presence, as though the cabin recognized the love placed into creating it, and breathed it in.

“She would’ve liked it,” Daisy murmured. “Maybe… maybe this will make the nights easier.”

“Do the nights feel long?” Eliza asked curiously, glancing at the rocking chair.

“Long and loud,” Daisy replied. “Even though nothing moves.”

“Grief makes the quiet sound different,” Eliza said, watching her.

They continued sorting through what little remained: old letters, simple trinkets, strands of ribbon Miriam had planned to sew onto one of Daisy’s dresses. Each piece carried a memory, and with each memory, Daisy felt both fuller and emptier.

Eventually, Eliza paused and brushed a hand over Daisy’s arm. “Let’s take a break. I can brew tea.”

“I don’t want to stop,” Daisy replied, shaking her head. “If I stop… I’ll feel it again.”

Though Eliza didn’t push, she did guide Daisy toward the chair, easing her into it.

“Just sit for a minute,” she said. “The room won’t run off without you.”

Daisy’s hands curled around the arms of the rocking chair. The wood was smooth, worn from years of her mother’s touch. She almost felt that touch now.

Her eyes burned with fresh tears.

Eliza stayed quiet, her presence steady as a hand on the small of Daisy’s back. She did not make a move toward the kitchen area. She just stood near her friend, as if waiting for the right moment to say something.

Finally, when Daisy’s breathing steadied enough to pass for calm, Eliza spoke.

“Daisy,” she murmured, “can I ask you a question?”

In response, Daisy blinked and wiped her cheek with the heel of her palm, staring at the warped floorboards beneath her feet. “What is it?”

“It’s about your father.”

She stiffened at the word and everything it meant.

Of course, Eliza saw it, and her voice gentled even further.

“It’s just been on my mind,” she continued gently. “The way he came to the funeral.”

Daisy forced herself to swallow. “He didn’t have to come.”

“No,” Eliza agreed, “he didn’t.”

But that wasn’t what she meant, and Daisy knew it.

Silas Wynn had arrived late, just after the minister had spoken his final blessing. He had stood at the far edge of the small gathering, no closer than he was required to be. His coat had been buttoned all the way to the collar, clean in a way that had made Daisy acutely aware of her patched dress and hands stained with soil from digging the grave.

He hadn’t cried. She hadn’t expected him to. But he hadn’t said anything either. Not a single word of sympathy, or memory, or regret… nothing that acknowledged the woman he’d married, or the daughter now left alone.

He had laid a single white lily on the grave. It was an expensive flower. Too perfect for such a humble plot. Then he’d tipped his hat and left. No embrace. No offer to stay. No question of how she would manage without her mother.

Just silence. A silence that felt like a door closing.

Beside the chair, Eliza shifted, pulling Daisy briefly from her thoughts.

“It struck me,” she said carefully, “how he left before you could even walk over to him.”

“He didn’t want me to,” Daisy replied.

Eliza frowned, moving to sit on the edge of the bed where she could see Daisy’s face. “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to.” Daisy hesitated, then whispered, “It still stings, though. I know I shouldn’t care… but I do.”

“It’s only natural, Daisy,” Eliza said softly as her gaze drifted to the floor.

“No.” Daisy shook her head weakly. “It’s foolish. He’s never been any different.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

Looking away, Daisy blinked against fresh tears. “He didn’t even ask if I needed anything. If I’d be all right alone.”

Eliza opened her mouth, then closed it again as if searching for the right words. When she finally spoke, her tone was gentle but unwavering.

“Daisy… that’s just who he’s always been,” she said.

She knew it. She had always known it. But knowing did nothing to ease the ache.

“I suppose I hoped…” She trailed off.

What had she hoped? That the death of the woman he once claimed to love might soften him? That grief might make him vulnerable enough to see her?

Ridiculous.

Reaching out, Eliza brushed Daisy’s hair behind her ear.

“You’ve spent years giving your whole heart to her care,” she said. “That kind of love doesn’t disappear just because someone else didn’t match it.”

“Maybe,” Daisy whispered. “But now that she’s gone… I don’t know what comes next. Everything in my life was about her. Waking her, feeding her, reading to her, helping her walk… my whole day had a shape because she was in it. And now…”

Her breath fractured.

“Now I feel like I’m floating,” she said. “Like I’ve stepped off a path I didn’t know I was following, and there’s nothing beneath me anymore.”

“You’re not floating,” Eliza assured her. “You’re grieving. And you’re allowed to feel lost. Anyone would.”

“But what do I do?” Daisy asked helplessly.

A small, tender smile touched Eliza’s lips. “Well… you remember our dream.”

“Our dream?”

“The shelter,” Eliza said softly. “For women. For children. For anyone who needs help. We talked about it a hundred times. You even sketched out how the front room would look.”

All at once, Daisy remembered. She had forgotten or perhaps buried it under the weight of sickness and fear and her mother’s last days.

“You still think about it?” Daisy asked.

“Every day,” Eliza replied simply. “And we’ll do it, Daisy. One day, when the time is right. When you’re ready.”

In that moment, Daisy found herself smiling. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Eliza said.

They fell quiet again, but Daisy didn’t mind it so much this time. She knew that Eliza was there for her. That was all she needed.

“Come on,” Eliza said after a few seconds. “Let’s eat something.”

Together, they rose and moved to the small kitchen. Daisy cut vegetables while Eliza laid out the small biscuits. The room filled gradually with the smell of herbs and warm bread. It was earthy and comforting. Daisy stirred a pot of soup over the stove, blinking as steam brushed her cheeks.

“You’re doing better than you think,” Eliza said, watching her.

Daisy didn’t answer, but the words curled into the hollow of her chest and stayed there.

They ate at the small table near the window, spoons scraping quietly against their bowls. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. The presence of the right person was enough.

Afterward, Eliza washed the dishes while Daisy dried them. Then Eliza turned to her with a sad, tired smile.

“I should head home,” she said. “It’s getting dark.”

Reluctant but understanding, Daisy nodded. She walked Eliza to the door, embracing her tightly before she left. The midwife’s lantern bobbed between the trees until it disappeared entirely.

The cabin felt quiet again.

But not quite as suffocating.

Daisy moved to the memorial they’d created, and ran her fingers over the scarf. She whispered a goodnight to her mother, then changed into her nightdress and climbed into bed. Exhaustion pulled her under quickly, and she slept deeply… so deeply she didn’t dream.

Sometime later, the faintest hint of dawn crept across the cabin floor. Daisy shifted, half-asleep, sensing something. There was an interruption in the stillness.

A sound.

It was soft and trembling.

Not the wind. Not the creak of the rafters. A cry.

Daisy’s eyes flew open. She sat up, her heart hammering. The sound came again. She couldn’t blame it on sleep anymore. It was real.

A baby’s cry.

She pushed off the quilt, feet hitting the floor. Her pulse raced as she crossed the room in three unsteady steps. She hesitated at the door, breath held tight in her chest.

Surely, she imagined it. But then there was another wail.

Unlatching the door, Daisy pulled it open. Cold morning air rushed in.

There, on her doorstep, wrapped in a thin blanket far too small for the chill, lay a newborn child.

She gasped when she saw the baby.

Its tiny face was scrunched, red from crying, its fists trembling against its cheek as though searching for warmth that wasn’t there.

For a while, Daisy couldn’t move.

She could only stare at the fragile bundle on the wooden boards. At the way the blanket had slipped just enough to reveal impossibly small fingers. At the dark downy hair matted against the infant’s head.

A newborn.

On her doorstep.

Chapter 2

Jonah Kincaid stood outside the baron’s office. The stone floor was cold beneath his boots, and the air was colder still.

The guards who had escorted him here had said nothing after leading him down the long corridor. They had simply stopped at the carved wooden door, gestured for him to wait, and left him there as though he were a parcel left at someone’s gate.

He breathed shallowly. Every inhale tasted of dust, old smoke, and the faint metallic scent of weapon oil. The longer he stayed in that hallway, the more the tension pressed against him. Jonah tried to keep his posture straight, but his thoughts would not settle. They moved restlessly, flickering like shadows across the walls.

What would the baron want this time? What would it cost? What more could be taken?

For a second, he saw his sister Cora’s face. She was freckled, bright-eyed, and at nineteen-years old only seven years younger than him.

The memory struck hard enough to make him swallow. He forced his gaze forward, to the door with its ornate carvings of hawks and laurels. He tried to picture her safe and warm, but the images kept blurring and slipping away.

A minute passed. Then another. Each one felt like it dragged longer than the last.

Jonah shifted, then stilled again. He didn’t want to risk seeming impatient if anyone on the other side of the door happened to be listening. His palms were already damp, but he clasped his hands behind his back to hide it.

Finally, the latch clicked.

The heavy wooden door swung inward with a slow groan.

After that, Jonah stepped inside.

The office was larger than he thought it would be. It was broad and nearly silent.

No fire burned in the tall stone hearth along the right wall. The air hung coldly as if even the drafts feared crossing the baron’s threshold.

A long, dark rug stretched across the polished floor. Shelves lined the far wall; each filled with leather-bound ledgers and small gilded boxes. A single table near the window held a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses that had never been used.

Silas Wynn stood closest to him.

The baron’s right-hand man, Silas had his arms crossed over his chest. He was tall and well-dressed. In the dim light, his features made him appear even more rigid than usual. He didn’t greet Jonah. He only regarded him with that same expression he had worn the last time they met.

Jonah’s jaw tightened at the memory. He forced his focus forward.

At the far end of the room, a man sat in a large chair behind a massive desk, his back angled toward the window. The morning light edged him in a pale outline. The baron did not turn. He merely tapped a finger against the armrest.

It felt wrong for Jonah to be in such a room wearing his miner’s uniform.

Quietly, Jonah waited. No one spoke.

Finally, the baron whispered a few words under his breath to his trusted agent. He didn’t lift his head or acknowledge Jonah at all. Whatever he murmured was for Silas alone.

Silas inclined his head.

Two men stepped forward from the shadows near the shelves. Jonah hadn’t even realized they were there. They grabbed him by the arms. Before Jonah could adjust his stance, a third man seized his right wrist and pressed it down against a wooden block laid atop a small side table.

Instinctively, Jonah’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t resist.

He had expected something like this. Not the details, perhaps, but the feeling. The inevitability.

A fourth man appeared with a glowing iron in hand.

The heat shimmered around it, staining the air with a faint red ripple. Jonah’s heartbeat picked up, pounding against his ribs, but he kept his breathing steady. He stared straight ahead, fixing his mind on the only thing that had ever helped him survive these moments.

His sister’s face.

He pictured her laughing on a warm summer afternoon, her hair in a messy braid. He pictured her cooking beside him in their old kitchen. He pictured her safe. He had to.

The iron lowered.

He could feel the heat before it even touched his skin, an unbearable radiance that made every instinct in his body scream to pull away. The men holding him tightened their grips.

The iron met his wrist.

Pain shot up his arm like a burst of fire. It was immediate and all-consuming.

However, Jonah didn’t move. He didn’t even make a sound. He kept his jaw clenched, breathing slowly through his nose, refusing to give the baron the satisfaction of a reaction. He had endured worse. He could endure this.

The smell reached him next. Burned flesh. A thick and sickening scent that clung to the back of his throat. His eyes watered from more than just the heat, but he blinked only once, forcing the world to stay steady around him.

At last, the iron lifted.

The men released him abruptly, and his arm fell to his side, trembling involuntarily. The charred mark on his wrist throbbed with a pulse of its own.

Jonah kept staring forward.

The baron murmured again, still without turning. His voice remained quiet, almost bored, as though Jonah were no more interesting than a ledger entry.

Silas approached the desk, leaning in to listen. Then he straightened and turned toward Jonah. A small, pleased smile touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t kind. It never was.

He held out an envelope.

“You’re in,” Silas said simply. “You may leave.”

Cautiously, Jonah took a few steps toward Silas and grabbed the paper with his unburned hand. His fingers had hovered near the edge of the paper, careful not to let the shaking show.

Silas watched him with that same assessing stare, as though he was cataloging every movement for later use.

Jonah inclined his head. It was a gesture of acknowledgment rather than respect. Then, he turned to go.

The guards were already at the door waiting for him. One opened it and the other stepped aside.

Neither looked at him. Neither said anything. Jonah stepped out into the hallway again.

The air outside the office felt warmer, though only by comparison. He moved down the corridor slowly, not trusting his legs to carry him too quickly. His wrist burned with every small movement, sending bright spikes of pain up his arm.

He didn’t stop.

Not until he reached the end of the hall, out of sight of the guards and the baron’s door.

He leaned against the stone wall, closing his eyes. His breath came in short bursts. He counted them to calm himself down. He focused on the sensation of the cool stone beneath his palm.

His thoughts spun, but he forced them into order.

After all, he had chosen this. Not because he wanted power, or the baron’s approval, or any place in the man’s inner circle. But because it was the only way to secure what he needed.

A future for his sister.

That was worth the pain. Worth the brand. Worth the risk.

He needed to leave. Right away.

Before the iron-shaped agony on his wrist made him falter. Before the smell of his own burnt skin turned his stomach again.

Shoving the letter deep into his pocket, Jonah continued walking until the manor was looming behind him.

The air outside stung his face, but it was much better than what he had been breathing in there. It was like a reminder that the world still moved, even when he felt scorched hollow.

Jonah pulled his sleeve down over his wrist as he walked, teeth gritted against the throbbing heat. He wasn’t going home yet. He needed a stronger sensation than fresh air to carve out the agony in his bones.

The saloon’s lanterns flickered in the distance, their warm light a promise of numbness.

He kept his head down as he crossed the street.

That was when something collided with his shoulder.

His reaction was instant. His body was already wired tight from the branding, and from the fear he hadn’t let show. He spun toward the stranger with a bark of anger already rising.

“Watch where you’re—”

His voice cut off.

A young woman stood before him, arms wrapped around a bundled infant pressed protectively against her chest. Her posture snapped into a defensive curve. Her shoulders squared and her body angled, one foot sliding back as if to shield the child.

Her eyes hit him first. Grey, fierce, blazing with a warning so primal it crackled in the air between them. Like a she-wolf baring her teeth over her cub.

The woman’s dark auburn hair was tied in a knot, though Jonah could see thick strands fighting their way out and falling across her face.

Such a sight made him freeze.

The words he’d meant to throw snapped back into his throat, replaced with a stab of guilt. He lifted his hands slightly in surrender.

“I… sorry. I didn’t see you,” he said, clearing his throat.

She didn’t soften.

“Back off,” she snapped.

Her voice was strong and firm in a way that didn’t match her slender frame. She didn’t step away. She just stared him down until Jonah stepped back himself.

“Right,” he muttered. “Right. My mistake.”

Her gaze lingered for one second longer before she turned and continued down the road. The baby made a soft noise, and she adjusted her hold.

Jonah let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

What the hell was that?

He watched her, but she was quick, already disappearing into the dusk like she’d never been there at all.

His shoulder still tingled where she’d collided with him.

You idiot, he told himself. She was just walking.

And those eyes…

Dismissing the thought, he shook his head hard and pushed open the saloon door.

Warmth washed over him immediately. Voices hummed through the haze, laughter and murmured conversations blending with the faint notes of a piano playing in the corner. Jonah made a beeline to the bar.

The bartender glanced up. “You look like hell.”

“Then give me something strong enough to fix it,” Jonah replied, dropping into a rickety stool.

A glass of whiskey slid his way. He didn’t sip. It wasn’t a night for sipping. He tipped half the glass back at once, the burn hitting his throat like fire and racing downward until it pooled warmly in his stomach.

Better.

He set the glass down, breathing through the sting in his wrist. The brand throbbed in pulses beneath his sleeve, but the whiskey softened the edges and smoothed the panic that occasionally threatened to claw up his throat.

He signaled for another.

As he waited, his mind drifted back to the woman in the street. Those eyes.

Not just fierce. Not just protective. There had been a haunting glimmer in them too. It made the hair on the back of his neck lift, not from fear, but from… interest? Recognition?

He rubbed the side of his jaw, trying to chase away the memory, but it stuck stubbornly like a burr on fabric.

The bartender refilled his glass. Jonah drank again, slower this time.

He shouldn’t be thinking about her. He had enough trouble already. He didn’t need some stranger’s fire-eyed glare getting lodged in his head.

He had a sister depending on him. A brand now marking him. A baron’s order sealed in an envelope in his pocket. His life was already tangled enough.

But when he closed his eyes, those grey eyes flashed behind his eyelids again. Sharp as flint, bright as sparks striking stone.

Frustrated with himself, he exhaled.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to scrub the image away. It didn’t work. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it returned. The way she’d stood her ground. The way she’d clutched that baby. The way she’d looked at him like he was a threat she was ready to tear apart if she had to.

“Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t some lovesick fool. He didn’t have time or space for distractions, especially not ones wrapped in mystery and carrying infants in the dark.

He tapped the bar once.

Enough.

It was time to focus.

After letting the whiskey settle enough to steady his thoughts, Jonah reached into his pocket and pulled out Silas’s envelope.

The seal caught the dim saloon light.

His future. His sister’s future. The price he had just paid, still blistering under his sleeve. He turned the letter over in his hand, thumb brushing the wax.

A sick mixture of dread and determination curled in his stomach.

Whatever lay inside would dictate the next step. The next risk. The next cost. Jonah drew in a breath.
Then, he broke the seal and opened Silas’s letter.