1875 - Montana - Nate feels a cold drop of sweat meandering down his brow and he senses an even colder pit form in his stomach. Thunder is rolling up the road. The sound shakes the foundation of his cottage and rattles the various objects around his home. There is a storm on fast approach to Nate's ranch, brewed not by clouds, but by blood and money, and by sins and guns. Nate's heart pounds in his ears. His hands shake. For a moment, he is a composer, a maker of music orchestrating a song of painful memories, a ballad of trauma, an anthem of war. A hue of red fogs Nate's vision. Abruptly, he is clad in Union Blue lined with gold at his shoulders and splashed with crimson blood. Nate is ripped from his visions of the civil war, back to the present. The skin on his palms creak against his revolver and the hilt of his sword, one in each hand. The storm advances still. The thundering grows louder as hooves savagely beat the earth. The ice being pumped through Nate's veins puts a cold, frigid look upon his face. The American frontier has its fair share of gangs, raiders, and thieves, but that cold sweat is a different feeling, this is a different storm, this is a new fight barreling toward his ranch. Heaviness looms in the air like a dark haze. The word sinister is the first to come to Nate's mind. Regardless of who or what comes, Nathaniel Shepherd will do whatever it takes to protect his wife, his infant child, his ranch, and to survive the encroaching storm.
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