In a novel of high-riding adventure and long-simmering desire, New York Times bestselling author Joan Johnston brings to life a sweeping story of lost love, shattering secrets, and a passion waiting to be reclaimed.   More than twenty years ago, young Verity Talbot made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the man she loved: She married the brute who'd threatened to kill him. Verity, now the Countess of Rushland, also kept a shattering secret, allowing the son of Miles Broderick, Viscount Linden, to be raised as another man’s heir. Now a widow, Verity and her grown son, Rand, arrive in the Wyoming Territory to begin a new life—only to face a reckoning.   When Miles makes the stunning realization that he’s just saved the life of the only woman he has ever loved—who chose to marry another man—he is torn between anger at her betrayal and uncontrolled desire. Miles is shattered and rages against fate when he learns the truth about the son he never knew existed—until Rand is captured by a Sioux warrior. Suddenly, Miles realizes that the only future worth living is one with Verity—as they race to rescue their son and fulfill their dreams. Joan Johnston  is the  New York Times  and  USA Today  bestselling author of more than sixty historical and contemporary romance novels. She received a master of arts degree in theater from the University of Illinois and graduated with honors from the University of Texas School of Law at Austin. She is currently a full-time writer living in Colorado. 1 Wyoming Territory 1875 “Rand and I are going to ride ahead, Lady Talbot.” Verity, Lady Talbot, Countess of Rushland, shifted to a more comfortable position in her sidesaddle, wishing she could race across the vast Wyoming plains herself instead of plodding along beside a wagon pulled by oxen. Experience had stolen her freedom to do impulsive things. “Is it really wise to ride off without knowing what’s ahead of you, Winnifred? You might get lost.” “How could we possibly get lost? You can see for miles and miles in every direction.” “Freddy is right, Mother,” Rand said. “Besides, I promise to take good care of her.” “And I’ll take good care of Rand,” Freddy added with an impish grin. Rand laughed. “Oh, I do hope so, minx. In every way. And very soon. Our wedding isn’t far off now.” Freddy, bless her heart, blushed a fiery red. She always did when Rand teased her about their wedding night. It was easy to see why her son had chosen Lady Winnifred Worth as his bride. Freddy had stunning red hair, and her figure made an eloquent statement in a dark green habit trimmed in military braid. But ­Verity wasn’t sure Rand knew what he was getting. Freddy—­imagine a young Englishwoman preferring such a name—­was as wild and brazen a young lady of seventeen as the Countess of Rushland had ever met. Verity smiled inwardly. That was probably why she liked Freddy so much. The girl reminded her of herself at the same vulnerable age. Verity had grown up, grown staid, grown careful. Mistakes, she had learned to her regret, could be costly. Verity dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with a lace-­trimmed handkerchief. It came away smudged with dirt. “I know the wagon is awfully slow—­” “And an utter dustbucket!” Rand said, brushing at kerseymere trousers that would have appalled his valet, if that man could have been persuaded to leave the hallowed shores of England and journey to the American West. The toes of his Hessians sported a layer of fine dust. “It’s a good thing Robert can’t see me now. He’d have an apoplexy.” “You folks better stay close to the wagon,” the teamster driving the wagon warned. “There’s Injuns hereabouts. Sioux ain’t all sittin’ on the reservation eatin’ agency beef, no sirree Bob. Chances are we’ll butt heads with some hostiles.” “You’ve been threatening us with Indians ever since we left Cheyenne two days ago,” Freddy said. “I haven’t seen so much as an eagle feather, let alone a band of murdering savages. Just grass, grass, and more grass. I think you’re making it all up!” “Ain’t no joke, lady. Usually don’t see Injuns till it’s too late,” the teamster said. “Show ’em, Rufus.” The man riding shotgun for the teamster lifted his hat. Freddy gasped. “What happened to your head?” “Scalped,” the man said flatly. Freddy reached up to smooth the thick bun of auburn hair gathered into a net at her nape, then snugged the brim of her Spanish leghorn hat, brushing at the jaunty golden plume that skimmed her cheek. “They wouldn’t dare touch one hair on a ­lady’s head!” “Ain’t no ladies come this way much.” The teamster spat a glob of tobacco juice onto the dusty trail that led north from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie. “You ain’t safe just ’cause you’re female, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. That red hair of yourn is sure to catch some Sioux buck’s eye. He’d take your scalp same as ol’ Rufus here.” “He’d have to catch me first!” Freddy kicked her Thoroughbred mare into a gallop, and with a shout of excitement, R