By the time Amos reached the lower slopes, the trail behind him had disappeared.
Snow came sideways.
Not gentle flakes, but hard grains driven by a wind powerful enough to push the wagon whenever the horses crossed an exposed ridge.
Monica lay beneath three heavy buffalo robes.
Samuel rested against her chest, wrapped so thoroughly that only his small nose and mouth showed.
The baby had taken several ounces of goat milk.
It was not enough.
But he was warmer.
He had cried twice.
Both times Monica almost laughed with relief.
Now the wagon climbed.
Every jolt sent pain through her ankle.
She bit down on the edge of a blanket rather than make noise.
Amos heard anyway.
"You'll break your teeth."
Monica pulled the wool from her mouth.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
She almost smiled.
He spoke like a man irritated by facts.
"How much farther?"
"Two miles."
"You said seven."
"We've gone five."
"It feels like fifty."
"Mountain roads do."
A crack of thunder rolled over the peaks.
One horse shied.
Amos leaned hard on the reins.
"Easy, Ruth. Easy."
Monica raised her head.
"You named your horse Ruth?"
"No."
"You just called her Ruth."
"Her previous owner named her."
"And the other?"
"Boaz."
Despite everything, Monica smiled.
Amos glanced backward.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing."
"It was something."
"I didn't expect a man like you to own horses named Ruth and Boaz."
"What kind of man am I?"
Monica considered that.
"I haven't decided."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Means you're not completely foolish."
The wagon continued upward.
Monica watched his broad back.
Something about his bluntness was easier than kindness.
Kindness could be false.
Daniel had been kind.
Daniel had opened doors for her when they first courted. Daniel had told her she was beautiful on their wedding day. Daniel had kissed Emma's scraped knees and once walked five miles through rain for medicine when Monica had pneumonia.
Then the trail stripped away all the comfortable things.
And Daniel had discovered where his mercy ended.
Amos Calder offered nothing soft enough to misunderstand.
That made her trust him more than she wanted to.
An hour later, Monica saw the cabin.
It sat in a protected hollow between pines, built from massive logs darkened by years of weather. Smoke rose from a stone chimney. A stable stood nearby, along with a woodshed and fenced enclosure half buried under snow.
Amos pulled the wagon beside the porch.
"Stay there."
Monica almost laughed.
"I wasn't planning to run."
He disappeared inside.
Within minutes smoke thickened from the chimney.
Then Amos returned.
He lifted Samuel first.
Monica's arms resisted instinctively.
"I've got him."
She slowly let go.
Amos held the baby awkwardly but securely.
Samuel looked impossibly small against the mountain man's chest.
Monica watched him carry the child inside.
He returned.
This time he did not ask.
He lifted Monica.
"You're going to ruin your back."
"You're going to freeze."
"You always this stubborn?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Why is that good?"
"Stubborn people live."
Inside, warmth hit Monica's face.
The cabin was larger than expected.
One main room.
Stone fireplace.
Heavy table.
Two chairs.
A narrow bed against the wall.
Shelves filled with jars, dried herbs, ammunition, tools, and books.
Books.
Monica noticed those immediately.
Amos set her on the bed.
Samuel lay nearby inside a nest of folded blankets.
Monica reached for him.
"Leave him a minute."
Her head snapped up.
"He needs me."
"He needs you alive."
Amos crouched near her ankle.
"Boot comes off."
She swallowed.
"I tried."
"You'll scream."
"I won't."
"You will."
He cut the boot.
Monica screamed.
Afterward she apologized.
Amos ignored it.
The ankle was severely sprained, perhaps fractured.
He wrapped it with cloth and splints.
Then he brought hot broth.
Monica drank until her stomach cramped.
"Enough."
"I'm hungry."
"Your stomach has been nearly empty three days."
"I said I'm hungry."
"And I'm saying you'll throw it all up."
Her pale eyes flashed.
Amos almost smiled.
There was life in her yet.
He divided the meal.
Small portions every half hour.
Broth.
Soft bread.
A little honey.
Warm milk for Samuel.
As darkness fell, the storm sealed the cabin away from the world.
Monica stared toward the shuttered windows.
"Emma is out there."
Amos added wood to the fire.
"Maybe."
"She hates storms."
"Most children do."
"She sleeps holding my hand."
Amos paused.
Monica's voice broke.
"I told her I'd never leave her."
"You didn't."
"To an eight-year-old, does that matter?"
Amos did not answer.
He understood children remembering promises.
Better than she knew.
Monica looked at him.
"You said you're a trapper."
"Among things."
"What other things?"
"Things that keep me fed."
"You're not very conversational."
"No."
"Are you married?"
His hand stopped above the firewood.
Monica saw the change.
Tiny.
But unmistakable.
"No."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"My wife died."
Monica went quiet.
"Long ago?"
"Twelve years."
"Children?"
Amos stood.
"Sleep."
That was the end of the conversation.
Later, Monica woke to Samuel crying.
The fire had burned low.
Amos sat in one of the chairs holding the baby.
Samuel's tiny fist had wrapped around one of Amos's fingers.
The mountain man did not know Monica was awake.
His face looked different in the firelight.
Not hard.
Not exactly.
Empty.
As though the child in his arms had opened a door Amos had spent years holding shut.
He whispered something.
Monica barely heard it.
"Don't do that."
Samuel tightened his fist.
Amos's eyes closed.
"Don't make me remember."
Monica shifted.
Immediately Amos's face hardened again.
"He woke."
"I see."
"He ate."
"Thank you."
Amos placed Samuel beside her.
Their fingers brushed.
He pulled his hand back.
"What happened to your wife?"
Monica asked.
Amos looked toward the fire.
"You don't need that story."
"Maybe you need to tell it."
His expression warned her.
Monica settled Samuel against her chest.
"Fine."
Silence.
The storm raged outside.
Ten minutes passed.
Then Amos spoke.
"We had a daughter."
Monica did not move.
"Anna."
His eyes stayed on the fire.
"She was five."
Monica felt a chill unrelated to weather.
"Fever came through a mining camp. We were passing nearby."
He swallowed.
"My wife wanted to help."
Amos's hands curled.
"I told her not to. Told her people brought trouble."
"What happened?"
"She went anyway."
His voice had become almost mechanical.
"She got sick first. Anna next."
Monica whispered, "And you?"
"I lived."
Two words.
An entire graveyard inside them.
"Both?"
"Three days apart."
Monica's eyes filled.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"Why?"
"Sorry doesn't change dirt."
He stood.
"That's why you live alone."
"That's why I live."
Monica understood then.
His rule.
Never take responsibility for another soul.
Not cruelty.
Fear.
Amos checked the door.
"Storm may last two days."
"My daughter could be forty miles away by then."
"Or five."
"What does that mean?"
"Bell's train had failing animals. Snow hits them in the pass, they stop."
"Then Emma—"
"I said they stop. Didn't say they're dead."
"When the storm clears, will you help me find her?"
Amos stared at Monica.
She saw the answer before he spoke.
"No."
Her expression collapsed.
"I saved you because you were in front of me."
"You said—"
"I asked her name."
"Yes."
"That wasn't a promise."
"Please."
"No."
"She's eight."
Amos turned away.
"You're asking me to chase a wagon train through winter country with a woman who can't walk and a newborn that may not survive another night."
"I can stay here."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you don't know this country."
"I know how to stay inside a cabin."
"You don't know the stove. You don't know where the traps are. You don't know which direction the nearest settlement is."
"Then show me."
"No."
Monica's anger rose.
"You're afraid."
Amos turned.
The room seemed to shrink.
"Careful."
"You're afraid of caring whether she lives."
His voice dropped.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
Amos stepped closer.
Monica did not retreat.
"You found two strangers dying and carried both into your home. You fed my son. You sat awake holding him because he cried."
"That doesn't mean—"
"You don't hate people, Amos."
His name sounded strange in her voice.
"You hate losing them."
The fire cracked.
Neither moved.
Then Amos said, "Sleep."
He went outside to check the horses.
Monica watched the door close.
Hours later she woke again.
Dawn had turned the shutters gray.
Samuel slept.
Amos was gone.
Panic struck.
"Amos?"
Nothing.
She grabbed the edge of the bed and forced herself upright.
Pain tore through her ankle.
"Amos!"
The door opened.
He entered carrying saddle bags.
Snow covered his shoulders.
"Stop shouting."
"Where were you?"
"Stable."
She saw the rifle over his shoulder.
The packed provisions.
Her heart began pounding.
"Why?"
Amos put ammunition on the table.
"The storm's breaking faster than I thought."
Monica stared.
He avoided her eyes.
"I can reach the wagon road by noon."
"You said no."
"I changed my mind."
Her mouth opened.
Amos pointed toward her.
"You're staying."
"I—"
"Not negotiable."
"But Emma—"
"If Bell's train is where I think it is, I'll find signs."
"And if you find her?"
Amos looked at Samuel.
Then back at Monica.
"I bring your daughter home."
Home.
The word slipped out casually.
But Monica heard it.
So did Amos.
He frowned.
"This cabin. I mean here."
Monica's eyes filled.
"Thank you."
"Don't."
"What?"
"Thank me when she's standing in that doorway."
He picked up his gloves.
Monica studied him.
"What if Daniel refuses to let her come?"
Amos opened the door.
Cold air rushed inside.
He rested one hand on the Colt at his hip.
"Then Daniel Hale and I are going to have a conversation."
The door closed behind him.
Monica looked down at Samuel.
For the first time since the wagons disappeared over the western ridge, hope frightened her more than despair.
Because despair could not be taken away.
Hope could.