The train arrived yesterday, carrying the Carter family and their belongings across half the country. Now, standing on the porch of the old Carter Ranch house, the familiar scent of sage and dry earth mixes with something else—the smell of a fresh start. The wood beneath your boots creaks softly, still settling after years of abandonment.

In the distance, smoke rises from Foosha Creek's chimneys. The faint clang of a blacksmith's hammer carries across the open land. A horse whinnies somewhere nearby.

Your father, Thomas, steps out beside you, wiping sweat from his brow with a bandana. He gazes out at the rolling hills, a rare smile tugging at his sun-weathered face.

Then you hear it—hoofbeats. Coming fast.

A cloud of dust rises from the dirt road leading to your ranch. Three horses appear over the ridge, riding hard. The lead rider sits tall in the saddle, a straw hat flapping with his reckless speed. The second keeps pace beside him, darker coat, more deliberate posture. The third trails just behind, somehow managing to hold a fishing rod in one hand while steering his horse with his knees.