Timeless western love stories filled with hope, courage and emotional journey.
Elias Cormier read the letter standing on the landing dock at Widow’s Point, with the mail packet still creaking against the pilings behind him and the gulls working the
The ferry bell had stopped ringing an hour ago, and Margaret Ashford was still sitting on the last crate on the Salt Hollow dock, watching the fog come in
The mail boat came twice a month, when the sea allowed it, and on the last Tuesday of September it brought four crates of lamp oil, a sack of
He said it on a Tuesday morning in the sixth week, with the porridge going cold between them and the fog still sitting thick over the strait outside the
Mara Voss had wept twice in her life that she could remember — once when her father’s boat came back without him, and once, seventeen years old and half-drowned
The village of Bittern Cove clung to the Maine coastline the way a barnacle clings to a hull — stubborn, salt-scoured, and unwilling to be shaken loose by weather
Iris Doyle had not slept in a bed since the night she buried her husband. For five nights she had kept watch on the floor of a sagging adobe
Jonah Calder had not spoken a full sentence out loud in three days, and the silence had begun to feel less like an absence and more like a second
The first frost of the season had silvered the grass along the Judith River when Iris Calloway knelt in the dirt behind the smokehouse, working a splinter of stove
Frost had come late that year, later than any Emmett Voss could recall his father marking on the barn calendar in thirty years of Aprils, and it had come
The wind had been at the mill most of the night, and by the gray hour when Cole Ostrander came out to the truck it had knocked the tail
The letter had been sitting on the kitchen table for three days before Adelaide Whitfield worked up the nerve to read it twice, and both times it said the
Colorado Territory, 1891. The Cray place had stood empty for three years, and before that it had been Emmett Cray’s whole life — two hundred and twenty acres tucked
The advertisement was three inches of type wedged between a notice for a lost mule and an announcement of the Grange’s spring social, and Selah Vance almost turned the
The frost came early that year to the bottomland along the Bighorn, silvering the cottonwood leaves before they had properly turned, so that the whole river seemed dressed for
