Chapter 1: The Ambush and the Knife at His Throat
The air in the stagecoach was thick with dust and the sharp, anxious scent of her chaperone’s lavender water. Daphne Ainsworth pressed her forehead against the grimy window, watching the dying town blur past—a monotonous stretch of bleached wood, slumped false fronts, and despair. Somewhere up ahead, a dog barked, the sound swallowed by the vast, baked silence.
“Keep the curtain drawn, darling,” Mrs. Peabody chided, fanning herself with a folded newspaper. “It isn’t proper for a young lady to gawk.”
Daphne let the curtain fall, casting the plush interior into a gloomy bronze light. Proper. The word sat on her tongue like a bitter pill. Out here, propriety was as useful as a silk parasol in a hailstorm. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal hidden in the seam of her skirt. Her father’s parting gift, pressed into her hand with a grimace. “Just in case,” he’d muttered, as if the words themselves were distasteful.
The coach lurched violently, the horses screaming. A gunshot cracked the afternoon wide open.
Mrs. Peabody shrieked, clutching her pearls. Daphne’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Through the curtain’s sliver, she saw shapes—men on horseback, swirling dust, the driver shouting before another shot cut him short. The coach ground to a halt, listing to one side.
Boots crunched on grit outside. A voice, low and threaded with dark amusement, cut through the chaos. “Ladies. The welcome committee’s here.”
The door was wrenched open, flooding the cabin with searing light. A silhouette filled the frame, broad-shouldered and haloed by dust. He reached in, a gloved hand closing like a vice around Mrs. Peabody’s wrist, pulling her out with a yelp. Then he turned to Daphne.
“You too, princess. Time to disembark.”
His face came into focus as he leaned in. Younger than she expected, maybe her age, but his brown eyes held a century’s worth of hardness. Dark hair escaped from under his hat, brushing a jaw set in a line of grim satisfaction. This was him, she realized. The one the broadsheets whispered about. Cain.
His hand, rough and warm, closed around her wrist. A spark of pure, undiluted fury ignited in her chest. He pulled.
She let herself tumble forward, a feigned stumble, right into the space between the coach and his body. The world narrowed to the scent of leather, sweat, and sun-warmed earth on his skin. In one fluid motion, her free hand slipped into her seam, found the carved handle, and drew the blade. She spun it up and pressed the cold, sharp edge against the exposed column of his throat, just above his bandana.
The shouting around them stuttered. A half-dozen outlaws froze, hands hovering over holsters.
Cain went utterly still. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. It transformed him, carving a dimple in his cheek and lighting a dangerous fire in his eyes. He didn’t look down at the knife. He looked right at her, his breath a soft puff against her forehead.
“Well,” he whispered, the word meant only for her. “Now who’s the outlaw, princess?”
Her hand didn’t shake. She kept the pressure steady, watching his Adam’s apple bob against the steel. “Let everyone go. Now.”
He held her gaze, the grin not faltering. “Or what? You’ll add another notch to that pretty little blade? You’ve got the look for it, I’ll give you that. All that fire.”
From behind her, one of his men chuckled nervously. “Cain…”
“She’s got spirit, Eli,” Cain said, his eyes never leaving Daphne’s. “Thought they raised ‘em tame in those big stone houses.”
“This one’s not tame,” Daphne snapped. She adjusted her grip, the bone handle familiar in her palm. “This one’s desperate. And a desperate person with a knife tends to slip.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind sighing through the deserted street and a horse pawing at the dirt. His men watched, a tense semicircle of confusion. Their leader had a girl’s knife to his throat, and he was smiling.
“You win this round,” Cain murmured. He raised his voice slightly, a command. “Let the old bird go, boys. Empty the strongbox. Leave the passengers.”
Mrs. Peabody, released, scrambled back toward the tilted coach, sobbing. The gang moved with efficient speed, prying open the luggage compartment. Coins clinked.
Cain’s hand, still wrapped around her wrist, didn’t loosen. His thumb moved, a slow, deliberate stroke over her frantic pulse. “But the game’s not over, Daphne Ainsworth.”
Her breath hitched. He knew her name.
His grin turned razor-sharp. “I’ll be seeing you. Count on it.”
With a movement too fast to follow, he released her wrist and caught her knife hand, twisting it away from his throat with effortless strength. He didn’t take the blade. He just pushed her arm down, leaned in so his lips were a hair’s breadth from her ear, and whispered, “Next time, aim for the artery. It’s messier, but it gets the job done.”
Then he was gone, swinging up onto a restless black mare with a fluid grace that spoke of a life in the saddle. He tipped his hat to her, that infuriating grin still in place, and let out a sharp whistle. His men fell in behind him, and they kicked up a rooster tail of dust as they thundered out of town, leaving the broken stagecoach, the weeping chaperone, and Daphne standing alone in the sudden, silent street.
Her hand ached where he’d held it. Her skin burned where his breath had touched it. The knife felt heavy and foolish in her grip.
In the distance, the lowing of cattle carried on the wind. Somewhere, a door creaked open, and a cautious face peered out from a saloon. The world began to move again, but it felt different. Shifted. The line between proper and outlaw, between her world and his, had just been drawn in the dust with the edge of her own blade.
And he had been the one to hand her the charcoal.