*Chapter 1: Wild Hearts*
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The oak doors slammed open and Amara Bellewood blew into the foyer like a storm that refused to ask permission.
“Father! You’ll never believe—”
“Amara.” Richard Bellewood didn’t even turn from the window. “One. Breathe. Two. Stop dripping on my floors. Three. What happened to you?”
She froze mid-stride, looking down at herself. Muddy boots. Tangled curls. Smudge of dirt on her cheek like she’d been dueling with the earth and won.
“Oh. This?” She wiped the mud with her sleeve, only smearing it more. “This is character, Father. You should try it sometime.”
That got him to turn. His eyes swept over her from head to toe. The newspaper in his hand crumpled slightly.
“You look like you’ve been wrestling cattle.”
“Mustangs, actually.” She beamed. “Wild ones. Much more exciting. Cattle are boring. They don’t chase you.”
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Amara Bellewood. You are twenty years old as of this morning. Twenty. Young ladies do not get chased by horses.”
“This one did!” She kicked off a boot. It thudded against the marble. “And then I went swimming.”
“You went—”
“In the creek! Yes! The water was freezing and perfect and Hilda’s going to kill me for losing her hair ribbon but it was worth it.”
“Amara.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Where did you go after the creek?”
Her grin turned a little too innocent. “I made friends.”
Richard closed his eyes. “God help me. What kind of friends?”
“The Lakota kind! The kind who know which berries won’t kill you and how to read the river like it’s telling stories. One elder said I have a wild spirit. I said ‘I know, sir. That’s why it’s called Spirit.’”
The newspaper hit the desk with a slap.
“Amara! Young ladies of your station do not fraternize with—”
“With people who taught me more before lunch than my tutors taught me all month?” She tilted her head. “Father, why is ‘proper’ always code for ‘boring’?”
“Because ‘proper’ keeps you alive!” He threw his hands up. “Because ‘proper’ means you don’t end up drowned in a creek or trampled by a horse or—”
“Or actually living?” She finished, softer now. She stepped closer and took his hand. Mud and all. “Father, I know you’re scared. I know you miss Mother every day. But I’m not her. I can’t be her. I can’t sit in parlors and embroider flowers while the world is out there, big and loud and beautiful.”
Richard looked at her hand in his. At the dirt under her nails. At the fire in her eyes that looked so much like his wife’s it hurt.
“You want to do things girls your age will never do,” he said quietly.
“I am doing them,” she said. “And I’m doing them well.”
He sighed, long and defeated. “Great. Left with the wildest child in three counties... and my wife just had to weasel out of it by dying.”
Amara’s smile wobbled for exactly one second. Then she patted his arm like he was the child. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll live enough for both of us. Now, does Hilda still make that stew? Because I earned it.”
She spun and started up the staircase two steps at a time, calling over her shoulder: “Save me a plate, Hilda! I’m starving!”
Richard stared after her, then muttered to the empty foyer: “Lord, give me patience. And maybe a leash.”
From the kitchen, Hilda’s voice floated out: “You can’t leash a wild heart, Richard. Trust me. I’ve tried.”
