“Dawson?”
Jack lowered the rifle.
“Eli?”
The cabin door opened a few inches.
A bearded face appeared beneath a dripping hat.
Elias Bennett.
Freight scout.
Occasional trapper.
Full-time nuisance.
Jack had never been so glad to see him.
“Hell of a night to camp,” Eli said.
Then he saw Emily.
His smile vanished.
“What happened?”
“Pregnancy trouble.”
Eli entered immediately.
Behind him stood another rider.
An older woman wrapped in a heavy black cloak.
Jack stared.
“Margaret?”
Margaret Bell pushed past both men.
“Move.”
Jack did.
Margaret was sixty if she was a day, with gray hair pinned tightly beneath her bonnet and the direct manner of someone who had delivered babies while grown men fainted around her.
She placed a leather medical bag on the table.
Emily tried to sit up.
Margaret touched her shoulder.
“Stay down, sweetheart. I’m Margaret Bell.”
Emily looked from her to Jack.
“You said she lived twelve miles away.”
“She does.”
Margaret began checking Emily.
Jack looked at Eli.
“What are you doing here?”
“Bridge washed out near my place. Rode east looking for two cattle hands who never came in. Found Margaret trying to get home from the Watkins family.”
Margaret spoke without looking up.
“And if Mr. Bennett had listened to me, we’d already be home.”
Eli rolled his eyes.
“She threatened to walk.”
“I would have.”
Jack almost laughed.
Almost.
Margaret examined Emily carefully.
“How many months?”
“Seven.”
“First child?”
“Yes.”
“Pain when?”
“Several hours.”
“Bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Water broke?”
“I think so.”
Margaret looked toward Jack.
“You felt the abdomen?”
“Yes.”
“Hard?”
“Very.”
Her expression became serious.
Emily saw it.
“Please don’t whisper around me.”
Margaret looked at her.
“I don’t whisper.”
“What’s happening?”
The older woman sat beside her.
“Could be part of the afterbirth pulling away too soon.”
Emily went pale.
“Can you stop it?”
“Sometimes these things settle. Sometimes they don’t.”
“Is my baby alive?”
Margaret placed both hands over Emily’s belly.
She waited.
Pressed.
Changed position.
Then smiled faintly.
“That little one just kicked me.”
Emily sobbed.
Jack turned away so she would not see the relief on his face.
Margaret continued.
“But we still have trouble.”
“What kind?”
“Your water may have broken early. And you’ve lost blood.”
Emily whispered, “Am I going to have the baby tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“Will it survive?”
Margaret’s face softened.
“Seven months is early. But I’ve seen babies smaller than yours fight harder than grown men.”
Emily nodded.
“Then what do we do?”
“We get you somewhere cleaner and warmer.”
Jack stepped forward.
“My cabin.”
Margaret looked at him.
“How far?”
“Six miles northwest from here. Lower elevation than your place. Trail should drain better.”
Emily looked at Jack.
“You have a cabin?”
“House.”
Eli snorted.
Jack glared at him.
“What?”
“You call that a house now?”
“What would you call it?”
“A fortress with a roof.”
Margaret ignored them.
“Any women nearby?”
“No.”
“Supplies?”
“Yes.”
“Clean linen?”
Jack hesitated.
Margaret sighed.
“Of course not.”
“I have linen.”
Emily raised a hand.
“In my things.”
Jack remembered.
Her bedding chest.
Margaret stood.
“We leave at first light.”
Jack frowned.
“You said she may deliver.”
“She may. She may not. But if she worsens, I want more space than this shack.”
The next four hours passed slowly.
Margaret stayed beside Emily.
Jack boiled water.
Eli slept sitting against the wall.
At one point Margaret caught Jack hovering.
“You’re making the room nervous.”
Jack looked at Emily.
She smiled weakly.
“She’s right.”
Jack stepped outside.
The night smelled newly washed.
Clouds moved across the moon.
His horses stood under the rock shelter, heads lowered.
Eli joined him several minutes later.
“She your wife?”
Jack stared at him.
“No.”
“Woman?”
“No.”
Eli scratched his beard.
“You hauled her through that storm for no reason?”
“She was stranded.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jack looked toward the cabin.
Eli followed his gaze.
“How long you known her?”
“Four days.”
Eli laughed quietly.
“That bad, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“You look like someone tied your heart to a runaway horse.”
Jack turned away.
“Go back inside.”
“Sure.”
Eli took two steps.
Then paused.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“You’re allowed.”
Jack did not answer.
“To care about somebody again.”
Jack’s face hardened.
Eli went inside before Jack could tell him to mind his own business.
The words remained outside.
You’re allowed.
Jack stared toward the mountains.
Ten years had passed since Anna.
Ten years since his wife and infant son had died during childbirth.
Almost no one knew the whole story.
Jack had been away hauling timber when Anna’s labor began.
By the time a rider found him, it was already too late.
He had returned to a silent house.
Two graves followed.
Afterward, Jack built his life around distance.
Distance from towns.
Distance from weddings.
Distance from children.
Distance from any future that could be taken from him.
He had become useful instead.
Freight.
Timber.
Horses.
Repairs.
People paid Jack Dawson because he could cross territory other men avoided.
No one asked whether a mountain cared about being lonely.
Then Emily Carter appeared beside a broken wagon.
Widowed.
Pregnant.
Terrified and stubborn.
And now Jack found himself standing outside a cabin with the same fear he had spent ten years avoiding.
He went back inside.
Before sunrise, Emily awoke to Margaret’s hand on her wrist.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“Pain?”
“Less.”
“Baby?”
Emily touched her belly.
As if answering, the child moved.
Margaret smiled.
“Good.”
Emily looked across the cabin.
Jack sat asleep in the chair.
His head had fallen forward.
One enormous hand still rested on the rifle across his knees.
Emily studied him.
“He stayed awake most of the night.”
Margaret followed her gaze.
“Men like Jack don’t know how to do anything halfway.”
“You know him well?”
“Long enough.”
“What happened to his wife?”
Margaret’s eyes moved sharply to Emily.
“He told you?”
“No.”
“Then it isn’t mine to tell.”
Emily understood.
But now she knew there had been a wife.
Something about that explained the shadows she occasionally saw in Jack’s eyes.
An hour later they departed.
Margaret rode inside the freight wagon with Emily.
Eli rode alongside.
Jack drove.
The storm had transformed the country.
Streams appeared where none had existed.
Trees lay broken across parts of the trail.
Mud sucked at the wheels.
But the sky was clear.
For several hours Emily’s condition remained stable.
Then they reached the ridge.
Jack’s house came into view below.
Emily stared.
“That’s yours?”
Eli laughed.
“Told you.”
It was much larger than Emily expected.
A two-story log structure stood against the mountain with a stone chimney, a barn, smokehouse, storage shed, fenced pasture, and several acres of cleared land.
“You live there alone?” Emily asked.
Jack did not turn.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Eli opened his mouth.
Jack pointed at him without looking.
“Don’t.”
Eli grinned.
They were halfway down the slope when riders appeared near Jack’s barn.
Three men.
Jack immediately slowed.
“That’s not right.”
Eli’s hand moved toward his pistol.
“Expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The riders saw the wagon.
One raised an arm.
Jack recognized him.
“Tom Weaver.”
The local sheriff rode forward.
Beside him were two ranchers.
“Dawson!”
Jack stopped.
“What?”
Sheriff Weaver looked exhausted.
“Bridge south is gone. Creek took two cabins. We’re checking everyone up this way.”
Then he noticed Emily.
Margaret leaned from the canvas.
“We need the house.”
The sheriff’s expression changed.
“Baby?”
“Maybe.”
All three men moved instantly.
Within minutes, the freight wagon reached Jack’s porch.
Emily expected him to help her climb down.
Instead Jack simply lifted her into his arms.
“Jack!”
“Complain later.”
She held his neck because she had no choice.
The front door opened.
Emily saw a huge main room.
Stone fireplace.
Wooden table.
Heavy beams.
Shelves filled with jars.
Everything neat.
Everything spare.
And almost nothing that suggested a woman had lived there.
Almost.
On the wall near the stairs hung a small embroidered cloth.
Faded flowers.
The words:
BLESS THIS HOME.
Jack saw Emily looking.
His face closed.
He carried her upstairs.
Margaret followed.
The bedroom Jack gave Emily had clearly not been used in years.
He opened the shutters.
Sunlight filled the room.
There was a bed.
A washstand.
A wooden dresser.
And in one corner, covered by a sheet, stood something Emily could not identify.
Margaret ordered everyone except Jack out.
“You stay.”
Jack blinked.
“Why?”
“Because she trusts you.”
Emily looked at him.
She did.
That realization frightened her in a completely different way.
Margaret examined her again.
Bleeding had slowed.
The baby was moving.
The pains had become less frequent.
Margaret exhaled.
“We may have bought time.”
Emily almost laughed with relief.
“How much?”
“Could be hours. Could be weeks.”
“Weeks?”
“If you stay in bed and nothing else goes wrong.”
Emily stared at the ceiling.
Margaret continued.
“You are not climbing stairs. Not hauling water. Not lifting anything.”
“I can’t stay here weeks.”
Jack spoke immediately.
“Yes, you can.”
Emily turned.
“This is your home.”
“Yes.”
“I was going to Fort Bridger.”
“Fort Bridger isn’t going anywhere.”
“My money—”
“I don’t want money.”
Emily stiffened.
“I’m not charity.”
Jack’s expression hardened too.
“Didn’t say you were.”
“I can pay something.”
“You nearly bled to death yesterday.”
“I still have pride.”
Jack leaned toward her.
“And your child needs you alive more than your pride needs protecting.”
Margaret quietly stepped backward.
Emily glared.
“You enjoy telling people what to do.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I enjoy people not dying.”
“That may be the most irritating thing you have ever said.”
“Not even close.”
Margaret coughed into her fist to hide a smile.
Emily looked away.
Then the child moved.
Her anger faded.
“All right.”
Jack nodded.
“Good.”
“But only until I’m safe to travel.”
Jack paused.
“Fine.”
Neither of them believed it would be that simple.
Later that afternoon, while Margaret slept downstairs, Emily woke to find Jack standing beside the covered object in the corner.
He had apparently forgotten she was awake.
He pulled off the sheet.
Emily’s breath caught.
A cradle.
Small.
Beautifully carved.
Dustless despite years of storage.
Jack noticed her watching.
His face changed.
“I should move it.”
“No.”
He froze.
Emily looked at the cradle.
“Was it his?”
Jack did not ask whose.
“Yes.”
“Your son?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Emily waited.
Jack touched the edge of the cradle.
“Never used it.”
Emily’s eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once.
“What was his name?”
Jack stared at her.
No one had asked that in years.
“Samuel.”
Emily smiled sadly.
“That’s a beautiful name.”
Jack covered the cradle again.
He turned to leave.
“Jack.”
He stopped.
“You don’t have to hide him because he died.”
Jack’s shoulders became rigid.
Emily continued softly.
“I tried doing that with Daniel. Every memory hurt, so I thought maybe surviving meant putting them away.”
Jack looked toward her.
“It doesn’t work.”
“No.”
“No,” Emily agreed. “It doesn’t.”
For several seconds they simply looked at each other.
Two people standing on opposite sides of losses they had not chosen.
Then Jack nodded.
“I’ll bring your husband’s cradle pieces upstairs tomorrow.”
Emily smiled.
“Thank you.”
That evening, Sheriff Weaver returned.
Jack met him on the porch.
Emily could hear voices through the open window.
“Found your woman’s wagon,” Weaver said.
“She’s not my woman.”
“All right.”
A pause.
“Found Mrs. Carter’s wagon.”
Emily smiled despite herself.
Then the sheriff said something that wiped the smile away.
“There was another rider near it.”
Jack’s voice sharpened.
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Tracks washed out partly.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Looked like someone searched the wreckage.”
Emily pushed herself upright.
Jack appeared in the doorway seconds later.
She had already heard enough.
“My wagon?”
Jack’s face told her the truth.
“Someone found it.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
Emily suddenly remembered something.
A leather document case.
Daniel’s papers.
Land claim certificates.
Letters.
And one item she had never told Jack about.
Daniel’s final journal.
She looked at him.
“There was something hidden beneath the wagon seat.”
Jack stepped closer.
“What?”
“A packet Daniel told me never to lose.”
“What was in it?”
Emily’s hands went cold.
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
She looked directly at Jack.
“That the fever didn’t kill my husband by accident.”
And suddenly the danger waiting outside Jack Dawson’s house was no longer only the Wyoming wilderness.