PART 1: THE KISS THAT BROUGHT HIM TO HIS KNEES

“I’ll bet fifty dollars I can kiss any woman in this saloon.”

The handsome cowboy grinned as the men around him erupted in laughter.

Ten minutes later, he was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, with a furious blacksmith’s daughter standing over him.

And neither of them knew that they had once promised to marry each other.

It was a Saturday night in 1887, and the Silver Spur Saloon in Red Creek, Montana, was overflowing with cowboys, ranch hands, and travelers.

At the center of the commotion stood twenty-nine-year-old Jackson Cole, the most charming and notoriously arrogant cowboy in three counties.

Jackson had dark brown hair, broad shoulders, striking blue eyes, and a smile that had persuaded more than one young woman to forget her better judgment.

He had returned to Red Creek only three days earlier after spending fourteen years traveling across the West.

And apparently, those years had done nothing to improve his manners.

“Any woman?” asked his friend Wade, raising an eyebrow.

“Any woman,” Jackson repeated confidently.

Wade pointed toward the saloon entrance.

“Then how about her?”

Jackson turned.

A young woman had just entered carrying a small wooden crate filled with horseshoe nails and metal fittings.

She wore a faded cream blouse with rolled-up sleeves, dark trousers, leather boots, and a worn brown apron. Her thick chestnut hair was braided down her back.

Unlike the elegantly dressed women drinking near the piano, she looked as though she had spent the entire day working.

Because she had.

Her name was Abigail Turner.

She was twenty-seven years old, the only daughter of Red Creek’s respected blacksmith, Samuel Turner.

Since her father had injured his back the previous winter, Abigail had been running the forge almost entirely by herself.

She could shoe a stubborn horse, repair a wagon axle, and swing a blacksmith’s hammer harder than most men in town.

She had absolutely no patience for foolish cowboys.

Especially handsome ones.

“Not her,” Wade chuckled. “That’s Turner’s daughter. She’ll break your jaw.”

Jackson laughed.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be especially charming.”

Abigail placed the crate on the counter.

“Mr. Bennett, your order is ready. Twelve sets of fittings, just like you asked.”

The bartender thanked her and reached for his money.

Before Abigail could leave, Jackson stepped into her path.

“Evening, sweetheart.”

Abigail looked up.

“Move.”

The men behind Jackson snickered.

He tilted his hat.

“Now, that’s no way to greet a gentleman.”

“When I meet one, I’ll remember that.”

The laughter grew louder.

Jackson’s smile tightened.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, Miss None-of-Your-Business, how about giving a lonely cowboy a kiss?”

Abigail stared at him.

“How about you step aside before you embarrass yourself?”

Someone slapped a silver dollar onto the table.

“Come on, Cole! You’ve got fifty dollars riding on this!”

Abigail’s expression changed.

She slowly turned toward the laughing men.

“Fifty dollars?”

Jackson hesitated.

“It’s just a friendly wager.”

“You made a bet about kissing me?”

“Not specifically you, darling.”

Abigail folded her arms.

“Then I suggest you find someone interested in your little game.”

She moved to walk past him.

But Jackson, unwilling to lose face before his friends, made the worst decision of his evening.

He caught her wrist and leaned toward her.

“Come on, sweetheart. Just one little kiss.”

“I said no.”

What happened next took less than three seconds.

Abigail twisted free, seized his arm, stepped across his balance, and sent the astonished cowboy crashing onto the wooden floor.

His hat flew beneath a table.

His boots struck the floorboards with a tremendous thud.

The entire saloon fell silent.

Abigail stood over him, breathing hard.

“Next time a woman tells you no,” she said coldly, “try listening.”

For one stunned moment, nobody moved.

Then the room exploded with laughter.

Wade nearly fell out of his chair.

“Fifty dollars, Cole! Best money I ever spent!”

Jackson lay on the floor, his pride in considerably worse condition than his back.

But when Abigail turned to leave, something caught his attention.

A small silver horseshoe hung from a leather cord around her neck.

One side was slightly crooked.

Three tiny marks had been scratched into its surface.

Jackson stopped breathing for a moment.

He knew that necklace.

Fourteen years earlier, a frightened fifteen-year-old boy had stood beside a river outside Red Creek, holding a crude silver horseshoe he had fashioned with his own hands.

He had given it to a thirteen-year-old girl with chestnut braids and an unforgettable laugh.

“If I ever have to leave,” the boy had whispered, “I’ll come back for you.”

“Promise?” the girl had asked.

“Promise.”

They had hooked their little fingers together beneath the cottonwood trees.

But the next morning, the boy had disappeared from Red Creek without a goodbye.

Now, fourteen years later, Jackson pushed himself upright.

“Wait.”

Abigail stopped at the doorway.

“What now?”

He stared at the necklace.

“Where did you get that horseshoe?”

Her hand immediately rose to her throat.

“Why?”

Jackson swallowed.

“Because I made one exactly like it when I was fifteen.”

Abigail went completely still.

Outside, thunder rolled over the Montana hills.

Jackson slowly stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance.

“There were three scratches on the back,” he continued quietly. “I made them because I couldn’t carve a proper heart.”

Abigail’s face lost its color.

Her lips parted.

“Jack?”

No one had called him that in fourteen years.

Jackson’s expression softened.

“Abby?”

For a heartbeat, the crowded saloon seemed to disappear.

Then Abigail’s eyes filled with tears.

But they were not tears of happiness.

She took one trembling step backward.

“You promised you’d come back.”

Jackson opened his mouth.

“Abby, I can explain—”

“Then explain why my father buried an empty coffin with your name on it fourteen years ago.”

The laughter stopped.

Jackson stared at her in horror.

“What coffin?”

Abigail reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a yellowed envelope.

“The letter that told us you were dead.”

She held it up with shaking fingers.

Jackson recognized the handwriting immediately.

It belonged to the one man he had spent fourteen years trying to escape.

And that man had returned to Red Creek that very morning.