From an eagle’s eye view, two figures silhouetted by the pale pink Montana sunset appeared on the Ruby River Ranch. It was late afternoon of Thanksgiving, 1882. Matt’s arm cradled Beth’s back as they stood in the stillness of the evening. She was a lovely young woman, with long flowing brunette hair to match her sparkling brown eyes. She was thin, and to Matt’s liking, just a little too thin. She had come to Virginia City as an attorney from Richmond, Virginia, and in setting up her practice, took Matt’s mother on as a client to put her property in order in her last will and testament. The cowboys on her ranch had laid Mrs. Andersen in her grave before Matt made it back from Texas, a place he called home for over twenty years. He was a cowboy in his forties who stood six-feet-four-inches tall with a rugged look and scars he earned through the Civil War and various battles in Texas. At his mother’s request, he had returned to his birthplace to see her before she died, but she succumbed before he could reach her. Being her only surviving heir, he was the new owner of the Ruby River Ranch. The faint sound of a rifle echoed through the woods, causing the forest creatures to take shelter out of fright.

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