Sheltered by the Widow’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

The world was painted in blood and lamplight.

Sarah ran, skirts snapping around her legs, the slap of her shoes echoing off stone walls slick with steam and smoke. The air smelled of acid and fear. Voices shouted over one another. Orders, pleas, and the ragged chorus of the dying. Her hands were crimson to the wrists.

She couldn’t tell whose blood it was anymore.

“Clamp that artery… no, not there!” She heard herself cry.

The ward blurred past in a whirl of white sheets and wounded men. Lanterns swung overhead, throwing wild shadows across bandaged faces. Somewhere glass shattered, and a man screamed for his mother.

She pressed a cloth to a soldier’s side, felt the shuddering pulse beneath her palm, and moved on. There was no time to breathe. No time for prayer. Only the endless motion of saving one and losing another.

Then she saw him.

Oliver.

He lay on a gurney at the far end of the hall, surrounded by chaos. The world narrowed until all she saw was his face. Ashen beneath the blood and eyes half-open. For a moment she couldn’t move. Her breath hitched.

“Oliver?” The word tore from her throat. Sarah pushed through the crowd, knocking a tray of instruments to the floor. “Let me through… please, that’s my husband!”

The doctor looked up, sweat gleaming on his brow. “Mrs. McAllister—”

“Sarah,” she corrected automatically, already reaching for the wound at Oliver’s chest. Her fingers found the gash, warm and slick. “He needs pressure… get me gauze!”

“Sarah—” The doctor caught her wrist. “You shouldn’t—”

“He’s bleeding out! I can stop it—just let me—”

She wrenched free and pressed her hands to the wound. The blood welled between her fingers, bright and relentless.

“Stay with me, Oliver. Please stay—” Her voice broke. “You’re going to be all right. You have to be.”

His eyes fluttered, unfocused. “Sarah?” His lips barely moved. “It hurts.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know. Hold on.”

The constant flashing of lightning outside sped up, then faltered. Someone shouted for a surgeon. Footsteps thundered past. The smell of iron filled her lungs.

“Get her away,” the doctor said, gentler now. “It’s too late.”

“No!” She clutched at Oliver’s shirt. “I can save him!”

Hands pried her fingers loose, firm and unyielding. The cloth she’d pressed against his chest slipped away, sodden.

“You’re letting him die!” she cried, but the doctor’s expression was final.

“He’s gone,” he said.

The words hit harder than any bullet.     

Everything around her dissolved, and she was falling through silence, clutching the echo of his last breath. Her hands, her skill, her very purpose… all useless. She had failed him. Failed everyone.

The world went black.

***

“Mrs. McAllister?”

A soft voice broke through the darkness.

Sarah gasped and sat upright, her breath catching in her throat. The room was dim, lit only by the faint gray light of dawn creeping through the frost-rimmed window. The scent of smoke and wool replaced the stench of blood. She didn’t know where she was. She only knew that her heart hammered like a trapped bird.

“Sarah,” the voice said again, gentler. “It’s all right. You were dreaming.”

June stood beside the bed with a candle in hand and her curls loose around her face. The flame trembled slightly, throwing soft gold across her wide brown eyes.

Pressing a hand to her chest, Sarah forced air into her lungs. The coarse fabric of her nightgown clung to her damp skin. “I—Lord, June. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.” The nineteen-year-old set the candle on the small table by the bed. “Well, not much. Rusty started barking, and then I heard you cry out. Are you alright?”

“Just a bad dream,” Sarah replied, wiping her hands against the duvet.

Her voice came out hoarse, heavy with the remnants of grief. She managed a faint smile.

“You can go back to bed,” Sarah added. “I’m fine now.”

“You were calling for him again.”

The words hung in the cold air. Sarah looked away toward the window where snow fell in soft flakes. Beyond the glass, the world was white and silent.

“I know,” she murmured. “It happens sometimes.”

June’s gaze softened. “It’s been almost six months, hasn’t it?”

“Five,” Sarah corrected quietly. “Five and two weeks.” She tried to count the days, but they all blurred together. The endless chores, the lonely nights, the child growing heavier beneath her heart. Time no longer moved in days but in the measured rhythm of survival.

“I’ll make you some tea,” June said quickly, as if warmth could mend what memory broke.

Sarah almost refused, but the girl’s earnestness stopped her. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

When June left, the room fell still again, save for the faint crackle of the dying fire. Sarah pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. The dream clung to her, sticky as cobwebs. She could still feel the slick heat of blood on her hands. She could still hear Oliver’s last whisper.

Her gaze drifted to the rocking chair by the hearth. On its seat rested the small wooden cradle her ranch hand, Mason Hawthorne, had built a week before Oliver died. It was solid oak. Simple but sturdy. She had lined it with the quilt she’d sewn during the long nights alone.

The sight of it steadied her. Life went on, even when the heart refused to follow.

Rusty padded into the room with his tail low and his eyes watchful. The border collie nosed her hand, whining softly.

“It’s all right, boy,” she whispered, scratching behind his ear. “Just a dream.”

He settled at her feet with a sigh, his head warm against her toes. She envied his easy trust in the world.

The burden of guilt pressed heavier than Sarah’s belly.

It wasn’t just Oliver’s death that haunted her. It was the hollowness that followed. The way her grief refused to take the shape everyone expected. She mourned him, yes, but what gnawed at her deepest was the sense that she’d lost something greater than a husband. She’d lost her purpose.

Once, her hands had healed. Once, her skill had meant life or death. Now, those same hands did nothing but mend shirts and knead dough.

Sarah had never imagined that widowhood could feel like freedom and failure all at once.

She ran a trembling hand through her hair.

“We’ll be all right,” she whispered, though whether she meant herself or the child, she didn’t know. Rusty’s tail thumped once, slow and steady, as if agreeing.

Moments later, June returned balancing a tray with tea and a plate of buttered bread. The girl’s curls were escaping their braid again, glowing like spun gold in the firelight.

“Here,” she said, setting it carefully on the bedside table. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

In return, Sarah managed a grateful smile. “You fuss over me too much.”

“I don’t fuss enough,” June said with mock sternness. “Dr. Hale said you should be resting more, and you hardly ever do.”

“Resting won’t keep the firewood stocked,” Sarah murmured, but she took the cup anyway. The warmth seeped through her fingers, easing some of the ache in her joints.

June hesitated before sitting at the edge of the bed. “You dream about the hospital often?”

“Only when I’m foolish enough to sleep,” Sarah replied.

“Do you miss it?” June asked. “The nursing, I mean?”

A bitter smile tugged at Sarah’s lips. “Every day.” She took a slow sip of tea. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I thought marriage would make me whole. Instead, I laid aside the best parts of myself to keep the peace.”

“You loved him,” June said as her eyes filled with sympathy.

“I respected him,” Sarah corrected softly. “And I’m grateful for what he gave me. But love…” She trailed off, ashamed of the truth that had been left unsaid.

“You don’t have to explain,” June replied, reaching for Sarah’s hand.

She met her gaze, the girl’s warmth seeping into her like sunlight through frost.

“You’re a good soul, June,” Sarah said. “Too good for this lonely place.”

“Maybe,” June said with a shy laugh. “But someone has to look after you.”

Sarah chuckled faintly and set the cup aside. “Then help me up, nurse.”

“You’re not… Sarah,” June stammered. “You just woke from a nightmare—”

“I’m fine.” Sarah pushed the quilt aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the cold floorboards with a soft thud. “There’s work to be done, and daylight’s wasting.”

The girl sighed but slipped an arm beneath Sarah’s, helping her to her feet. June was small but sturdy, her touch gentle yet firm.

“Stubborn as a mule,” June muttered.

“Comes with age,” Sarah said dryly.

Together they made their way into the kitchen. The hearth had burned low overnight, and the air was sharp enough to sting. June stoked the embers while Sarah fetched her shawl from the peg near the door. Every movement was careful. Her body forced her to slow as the baby grew. Still, she refused to let herself be idle.

Soon the familiar rhythm of morning filled the house. The scent of bread warming over the fire mingled with woodsmoke and the faint tang of frost that crept in every time the door opened.

For a while, the simplicity of it soothed her. But as the sun climbed pale and distant over the hills, restlessness stirred.

She glanced toward the window. Beyond the glass, snow stretched across the pasture, dazzling and untouched. The barn roof was rimmed in ice, and the fence line was half-buried. Somewhere out there, Mason would already be at work.

“I’ll go see how Mason’s faring,” Sarah said.

June turned from the stove, alarmed. “Now? You shouldn’t be trudging through snow in your condition.”

“I’m not made of glass, June.” She grabbed her coat and buttoned it with determined fingers. “He’ll need another set of hands.”

“But he said he’d manage.”

“He always says that.”

Rusty stood, tail wagging at the sound of her decision.

“At least let me fetch your gloves,” June replied with a sigh.

“Thank you,” Sarah said, though her tone left no room for argument.

The moment she stepped outside, her breath fogged white in the air, the wind tugging at her braid. The snow crunched beneath her boots, crusted with ice. Rusty bounded ahead, his black-and-white coat a blur against the pale world.

The barn loomed dark and solid against the light, its doors half open. She caught the rhythmic sound of hammering before she reached it.

Mason Hawthorne stood inside with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as he drove a nail into a loose plank. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the cold. He turned at the sound of her approach, surprise flickering across his sun-browned face.

“Sarah.” His voice was deep. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“I was getting tired of sitting,” she said. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

He frowned, setting the hammer aside. “You shouldn’t be walking this far in the cold.”

“I’m pregnant, not infirm.”

Mason wiped his hands on a rag, studying her. There was a guarded warmth in his eyes. Respect mingled with a feeling she didn’t dare name.

“You’re stubborn as ever,” he said.

“So I’ve been told.”

She moved past him toward the stalls. The earthy scent of hay and animal musk filled the air. The cows shifted lazily, their breath steaming in the chill. She checked the feed troughs, running her hand along the rough wood.

“I was going to finish here and chop more firewood,” Mason said, following her slowly. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I’m working.”

He chuckled. “You just can’t stand sitting still, can you?”

“Not when there’s work to be done.”

Leaning against a post, Mason crossed his arms. “Oliver used to say the same thing about you. That you’d work yourself to the bone if someone didn’t stop you.”

The mention of Oliver’s name made her stiffen. She kept her gaze on the trough.

“Oliver liked things done his way,” she replied.

“That he did,” Mason said, his tone unreadable.

Silence settled between them, filled by the low murmur of animals. Then Mason said quietly, “You know, a woman shouldn’t have to handle a ranch alone.”

Her hands froze mid-motion. “I manage just fine.”

“I know you do,” he said quickly. “But winter is hard. You need someone to help. Someone you can rely on.”

Slowly, Sarah straightened, turning to face him. “Are you offering yourself, Mason?”

Color crept up his neck. “I’m just saying it’d make sense. A man to handle the heavy work. To look after you and the baby.”

“I’ve been looking after myself since I was twelve,” she said evenly. “And this ranch since the day Oliver died.”

He met her gaze, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, this feed needs checking.”

She moved toward the far stall, her breath short but her steps steady. The cow inside shifted nervously as she approached.

“Easy, girl,” Sarah murmured, reaching for the bucket. Rusty barked once outside, startling the animal.

The heifer lurched, swinging its head in panic. Sarah stumbled backward, one hand instinctively clutching her belly. Her boots slipped on the straw. The next instant she was on the floor, breath knocked from her lungs.

“Sarah!”

Mason was there in an instant. He dropped to one knee beside her, his hand steadying her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, dazed. “Just winded.”

“Can you stand?”

She tried, but her swollen belly made it impossible to rise without help. Frustration burned through her like acid.

“Easy,” Mason murmured. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.

“Put me down,” she protested. “I can walk.”

“You’re in no shape to argue.”

Her cheeks flushed hot against the chill air. She clenched her jaw and looked away. “This is unnecessary.”

“Maybe,” he said, carrying her toward the door. “But it’s happening all the same.”

Rusty trotted alongside them. By the time they reached the porch, Sarah’s anger had cooled to weary resignation. Mason set her gently on her feet, steadying her with one hand.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“You’re welcome.” He hesitated. “You really should take it easy. The baby—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “But I can’t just sit and watch everything fall apart.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “Nothing’s falling apart. You just don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Sarah opened her mouth to reply but found no words. The kindness in his voice disarmed her more than his strength.

At that point, June appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Sarah said quickly. “A cow got spooked, that’s all.”

Mason shot her a look but said nothing.

“You’re trembling,” June said, reaching for her arm.

“I’m fine,” Sarah insisted, though her knees still felt weak. “Just help me inside.”

Between them, they guided her to the hearth. The warmth washed over her as she sank into the chair by the fire. Rusty curled at her feet, and for the first time since dawn, she let herself breathe.

June fetched another blanket, fussing until Sarah finally laughed. “You’ll smother me if you keep that up.”

“I’d rather you smother than freeze,” June said.

Mason stayed near the door, hat in hand.

“I’ll finish up in the barn,” he said after a moment. “You get some rest.”

Without looking at him, Sarah nodded. When the door closed behind him, the cabin fell quiet save for the crackle of flames.

June perched on the edge of the table, studying her. “He cares for you, you know.”

“He cares for the ranch,” she replied.

“Maybe both,” June said softly.

Sarah stared into the fire, the flames dancing in the hearth. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for anyone to take Oliver’s place.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

The flames blurred before her tired eyes as Sarah considered the question.

“Peace,” she said at last. “Just a little peace.”

Chapter Two

The stagecoach lurched hard to the right, and Luke’s shoulder slammed against the cold windowpane. The jolt rattled through his bones, and he caught himself with a gloved hand before the next bump pitched him forward.

Outside, the world stretched wide and colorless. The sky hung low and gray, heavy with the promise of more winter.

Inside the coach, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, leather, and the faint tang of pipe tobacco. The wheels clattered over the frozen ground, the sound steady as a heartbeat.

Luke shifted on the worn bench and glanced across at the only other passenger. He was a stout man in a brown overcoat, his silver beard neat despite the dust of travel. The man had introduced himself an hour earlier as Mr. Avery Holt, a merchant from Sweetwater returning home after selling his wares back east.

“Storm’s coming quicker than the driver thinks,” Holt said now, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “You can smell it in the air. Sharp as a blade.”

Saying nothing, Luke nodded.

Holt chuckled. “Not much for talking, are you?”

“Talk don’t keep you warm,” Luke replied, his voice roughened by disuse.

“True enough,” the merchant said good-naturedly. “Still, the miles pass easier with company.”

Luke gave a faint, polite smile and turned his gaze back to the window. The countryside slid by in shades of white and gray, the horizon smudged like old charcoal. He let his mind drift, focusing on the rhythmic sway of the coach, the groan of wood and metal, the snort of the horses up ahead.

His hands rested in his lap, fingers curled around a tattered flat cap. The fabric was threadbare, the brim frayed where it had been handled too often. He traced the seam absently with his thumb, as though it were some kind of anchor.

“That cap’s seen some miles,” Holt said.

“It’s not worth much,” Luke replied quickly.

“Worth and meaning ain’t the same thing.” Holt’s tone softened. “Belonged to someone, did it?”

“You ask a lot of questions, mister.”

“Habit of mine,” Holt said, unoffended. “Merchant’s curse. Always trying to know a man’s story.”

“There ain’t much to tell.”

Holt smiled faintly. “I doubt that.”

Luke said nothing, his mind already far away… back to a time he’d rather forget. The sound of a child’s laughter echoing down an alley. The smell of smoke and iron. A gunshot. He blinked hard and forced the memory down where it belonged.

The coach hit another rut, jolting them both. Holt grunted and adjusted his coat.

“Driver says we’ll reach my place by sundown,” he broke the silence. “You sure you want to keep on through the storm? Next town’s a good ten miles past mine.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll freeze before you make it halfway,” Holt said.

“I’ve done worse,” Luke replied simply.

The merchant studied him for a second, as if weighing whether to argue. In the end, he only sighed and leaned back.

“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, my door is open. It’s just me and the young ones now. Could use an extra pair of hands for supper.”

Luke nodded his thanks but didn’t answer. He didn’t need anyone’s charity. Not again.

They rode in silence for another hour, the sky dimming to bruised purple. When the coach finally crested a ridge, Holt pointed with a gloved hand.

“There.” He raised his voice over the groaning of the wagon. “That’s home.”

Below them, tucked against a line of bare cottonwoods, stood a small log cabin with smoke curling from its chimney. A faint glow of lamplight flickered through the single window. Even from this distance, Luke could see movement. A figure darted across the yard, a flash of color against the snow.

The sight stirred a feeling in him. He couldn’t name it. Maybe it was nostalgia, or the ache of a loss long ago.

The driver reined the horses in, and the coach slowed to a halt near the gate.

As Holt stepped down, the cabin door burst open and three children spilled out, their laughter cutting through the cold. Two boys and a girl, all barefoot despite the snow, their cheeks pink with cold and delight.

“Papa!” the youngest cried, rushing forward. Holt barely had time to brace himself before the boy collided with his knees.

Luke watched from the coach, his fingers tightening around the cap.

“Good Lord, I missed you lots,” Holt said, his voice warm with joy. He crouched to scoop up the smallest child, hugging him tight. The other two crowded close, clamoring for attention.

A woman’s voice called from the doorway. It was older, worn by years but still strong. “Get inside, you scamps, before you catch your death!”

The children ignored her, too busy showing off to their father the wooden horse they’d carved, the scarf they’d knitted, the rabbit tracks they’d found behind the barn.

Holt turned and waved at Luke. “Come on, stranger. Supper’s on, and the missus will skin me if I let you ride on empty.”

He could smell the stew already. Onions, venison… something hearty. Luke’s stomach twisted in longing.

But he shook his head. “Appreciate it, but I best keep moving.”

“You sure?” Holt asked. “It’ll be dark soon.”

When Luke climbed down, his boots sunk into the snow.

“I’ll make camp off the road,” he replied. “Don’t worry about me.”

The merchant studied him, brow furrowed with concern. “You running from something?”

At that, Luke’s hand tightened around the cap. “Just heading west.”

“Ain’t we all,” Holt replied.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrapped bundle of bread and cheese.

“Take this, at least,” the merchant said. “For the road.”

There was hesitancy in Luke’s eyes. His pride warred with hunger. Finally, he took it.

“Thank you,” he said.

The merchant smiled, lines deepening around his eyes. “Safe travels, friend.”

Giving a single nod, Luke tucked the bundle into his coat. The snow had started again. Thin flakes swirled lazily at first, then thickened. He turned toward the road, the chill nipping at his ears, but paused when a small voice piped up behind him.

“Papa, did you bring it? The cap you promised?”

He half-turned. The youngest boy stood beside his father, eyes bright with hope. His wool coat was two sizes too big, patched at the elbows, and his hair stuck out in all directions like straw.

Holt laughed softly and ruffled the boy’s head. “I’m sorry, son. The shop in town was clean out. Maybe next trip.”

The child’s face fell. “But you said you would.”

“I know, I know. But things don’t always go to plan.”

Luke’s hand brushed the pocket where his own cap rested. The familiar fabric met his fingertips. It had traveled more miles than he could count. He’d slept under it, bled on it, cursed into it. It was the last thing he owned that meant something.

He looked back at the boy.

The child was trying not to cry, his small fists clenching at his sides. The sight tugged at a part of him long buried… something Luke had spent a long time trying to forget.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped forward. “Here.”

The boy blinked up at him.

Pulling the cap from his pocket, Luke brushed the snow from its brim.

“Your pa didn’t forget,” he said, holding it out. “He just asked me to deliver it for him.”

Holt looked startled, opening his mouth to speak, but Luke gave a small shake of his head.

The merchant’s eyes softened in silent understanding.

The boy’s face lit up as he took the cap in both hands, reverent as though it were made of gold. “For me?”

“For you,” Luke said.

He forced a smile. It was thin, brittle, but enough.

“Says it’ll keep your head warm and your dreams good,” Luke added.

The child laughed, the sound pure as spring water, and jammed the cap over his ears. It was far too big, slipping down over his eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you, mister!” he said, beaming.

Luke swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You take care of it now. It’s a lucky one.”

“I will!” The boy turned, shouting for his siblings to look. “Papa brought me my cap!”

Holt met Luke’s gaze over the boy’s head, his expression unreadable but kind. He tipped his hat in quiet gratitude.

After returning the gesture, Luke turned away before the warmth in his eyes could thaw anything dangerous inside him. He stepped back onto the road, boots crunching through the snow. Behind him, laughter followed. Small voices carried on the wind, fading with each step.

He kept his head down, the world narrowing to the rhythm of his stride and the bite of cold against his face. He told himself he didn’t need the cap anymore… that maybe giving it away meant a new beginning. A kind of letting go.

But the truth gnawed at him. With every gust of wind, the absence on his head felt sharper, the air meaner. He could almost feel the ghost of the fabric brushing his hair, the warmth it used to hold.

He didn’t look back.

***

The road stretched on, white and endless. The storm thickened, a wall of snow that blurred the horizon. By the time the last hint of Holt’s cabin vanished behind him, Luke’s world had narrowed to mere feet of visibility.

The wind roared out of the north, slicing through his coat as though it were paper. Snow lashed his face, stinging his eyes. He hunched his shoulders and pushed forward, one slow step at a time.

It wasn’t the first storm he’d walked through, but it might have been the worst.

His thoughts drifted between the rhythm of his boots and the silence that followed them. He imagined he could still hear the boy’s laughter. It chased him like an echo, warm against the cold.

He’d told himself that giving away the cap was mercy. But mercy had a way of cutting both ways. He’d spent years chasing that same lie. He had been calling cruelty by softer names.

Duty. Loyalty. Family.

Luke had stayed in that gang long after he should’ve left, telling himself it was for the boys who didn’t know better, especially Tommy, a wiry kid of fifteen who reminded him too much of himself.

Always smiling, always hungry to prove he belonged. Luke had tried to keep him out of the worst of it. He tried to make sure Colton never broke him the way he broke others.

But the night everything went to hell, none of that mattered.

The snow fell thicker and faster. His boots sank to the ankle, then the calf. The world turned into a blur of white and wind.

He tried to count his breaths, tried to measure his progress by the rise and fall of the land, but the landmarks were gone. The trees, the fence posts, even the road had vanished beneath the storm’s fury.

It didn’t take long for Luke to lose all sense of direction.

The wind howled louder. It was a living thing now. Biting and hungry. His hands went numb, his fingers stiffening despite the gloves. He pulled his coat tighter around him, tucking his chin against his chest.

He should have turned back. He knew that. But pride was a stubborn fire, and he had spent too long feeding it to let it die now.

“Keep movin’,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “Just keep—”

A gust hit him hard, driving him sideways. He stumbled, caught himself on one knee, and felt the ice bite through his pants.

When he stood again, his vision swam. The edges of the world blurred. He blinked, but the snow only thickened, swirling like a curtain closing around him.

He pressed onward, though his steps grew slower and heavier.

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes?

Time lost meaning.

At last, through the white haze, he saw a stand of trees. A small grove of pines hunched together against the storm. He staggered toward them, legs burning with effort. The ground rose slightly, the snow deepening to his knees.

When he finally reached the trees, he dropped to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the lowest branches. The wind was weaker there, muffled by the pines.

He collapsed against the trunk of one, panting, his body shaking uncontrollably. His coat was crusted with frost. His breath came in shallow bursts that misted and vanished.

He fumbled with his fingers, trying to strike a match, but they wouldn’t obey. The box slipped from his grasp, disappearing into the snow.

A curse trembled on his lips, but even that took too much strength.

He slumped back, head hitting the bark behind him. Snow fell softly through the branches, dusting his hair and his lashes. His eyes fluttered shut, too heavy to lift again.

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard a boy’s voice laughing, high and bright.

He saw Tommy, running along the riverbank with cap askew, calling for him to follow.

“Keep it safe, kid,” he whispered to no one.

The storm swallowed his words.

He tried to move, to fight the cold creeping into his limbs, but the warmth was too seductive. It seeped in slow, like honey through cloth, dulling pain, thought, and regret.

His heartbeat slowed to a sluggish drum. His eyes drifted closed.

The last thing he felt was the soft snow settling over him, gentle as a blanket.

Chapter Three

The mare’s breath misted in the cold air, a soft plume that rose and vanished against the lantern’s dim glow. Sarah brushed a gloved hand down the horse’s neck, her touch meant as much to soothe herself as the restless creature before her.

“There now,” she murmured. “It’s only the wind. Nothing to fret over.”

The mare, Ellie, stamped once, the muscles along her flanks trembling beneath her winter coat. She was near foaling herself. Her belly was swollen, and her breathing was uneven. Sarah pressed her cheek against the mare’s side, feeling the warmth beneath the hair and hide and the faint flicker of life within.

“You and I,” she whispered, “we’re in this together, aren’t we? Both of us waiting. Both of us wondering how we’ll manage.”

Outside, the storm had not yet arrived, but the air carried the promise of it. Snow drifted in lazy flakes through the open door, the kind that never looked threatening until they gathered.

Her hand slowed as she stroked Ellie’s mane.

“You’ll be a good mother,” she said softly. “You have no choice but to be.”

Sarah didn’t realize she was smiling until her throat tightened with the ache of it. Ellie turned her head, dark eyes meeting hers, and Sarah felt that wordless connection that came when a creature seemed to understand more than it should.

Maybe the mare did. Maybe they both knew what it meant to carry something precious into a world that didn’t care if it survived.

“I used to think Oliver would be here,” Sarah said to the horse. “That he’d hold our child, teach him how to ride before he could walk. Now it’s just me.”

The horse shifted, nudging her shoulder. Sarah let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not afraid of work, Ellie. I’ve been doing that all my life. But this—” Her hand dropped to her own swollen belly, the curve heavy beneath her coat. “This is different. What if I can’t do it alone?”

The wind howled through the rafters, shaking the walls. The lantern flickered, and she glanced toward the door just as footsteps crunched over the packed snow outside.

“Sarah?” Mason’s voice carried through the gale.

“In here,” she called back.

A moment later he appeared in the doorway, his breath visible in the cold. He pushed his hat back, revealing wind-tossed hair and a furrow of concern across his brow.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “Sheriff Cooper’s come up from town. Says he needs a word.”

Sarah brushed hay from her skirts slowly. “The sheriff?”

“He’s waiting in the kitchen,” Mason said. “Didn’t look too pleased about riding out this far in the weather.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth. “He never does.”

Mason’s eyes watched her a moment longer than necessary.

“Let me walk you in,” he said, offering an arm.

“I can manage,” she replied, gathering the lantern. “Go on ahead. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

He hesitated, then inclined his head. “As you say.” He stepped back into the snow, his boots crunching toward the house.

Sarah turned back to the horse and gave Ellie’s muzzle a final pat.

“Keep warm, girl,” she whispered, then turned toward the storm.

The wind hit her like a wall. She kept her head down as she crossed the yard, her steps slow on the slick ground. The house loomed through the curtain of snow, a soft glow spilling from the windows. It was a small comfort against the vast white that surrounded it.

When she reached the porch, Rusty was waiting with his tail thumping against the boards. He barked once, and she smiled despite herself.

Inside, the warmth of the fire wrapped around her like a blanket.

Sheriff Samuel Cooper stood by the hearth, brushing melting snow from his coat. His hat and gloves lay on the table beside him, and the familiar scent of pipe tobacco clung faintly to his clothes. June hovered by the stove, pouring coffee into three mismatched cups.

“Evenin’, Sarah,” the sheriff said, his deep voice filling the small room. “Didn’t mean to intrude, but I figured I’d best check in before the storm locks us all down.”

“You’re always welcome, Sheriff,” she said, removing her gloves. “What’s the news?”

He gestured toward the window. “Storm’s comin’ hard from the north. Roads’ll be buried by nightfall, maybe for days. I came to make sure you’ve enough supplies… and to offer you a place in town till it passes.”

Sarah’s stomach tightened. “You mean stay with you and Martha?”

“That’s right. You’d be more comfortable there. Closer to Doctor Hale too, in case…” He glanced meaningfully at her belly. “In case the little one decides to come early.”

She exchanged a look with June, who froze mid-pour.

“I appreciate it, truly,” Sarah said, “but we’ll manage here. The house is sturdy, the pantry’s full, and Mason’s seen to the woodpile.”

“Still,” the sheriff pressed, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s a long ride to town if anything goes wrong.”

“I’m not riding anywhere,” Sarah said quietly. “Oliver built this house for us. This land… everything we have… it’s ours. I won’t leave it.”

The sheriff studied her face for a long moment, his blue eyes full of something between admiration and concern.

“You’re a stubborn woman, Sarah McAllister.”

He sighed and accepted the cup June offered.

“Then promise me you’ll send for help if you need it,” he said. “I’ll leave one of my men to check in every few days if the roads allow.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That means a great deal.”

Mason’s voice drifted in like the cold chill from outside. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“We’ll keep an eye on her, Sheriff,” he said. “Between me and June, she won’t lift a finger.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mason Hawthorne,” Sarah said, giving him a pointed look.

The sheriff chuckled softly, though the lines around his eyes deepened. “She’ll have you both runnin’ in circles, I expect.”

June smiled shyly. “That’s true enough.”

The wind howled again outside, rattling the shutters. The sheriff glanced toward the door.

“I should be heading back before it gets worse,” he said.

“You sure you’ll make it?” Mason asked.

“Rode through worse in my time.” The sheriff pulled on his coat and hat, his expression softening as he turned to Sarah. “If Oliver were here, he’d tell you to take it easy.”

“If Oliver were here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Sarah replied.

The sheriff touched the brim of his hat. “You’re right. But he’d still want you safe.”

When he was gone, the door shut behind him with a gust of cold air. The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire.

Carefully, Sarah sank into a chair, feeling exhaustion settle in her bones. The baby shifted inside her. It was a slow, insistent movement that made her wince. June was beside her in an instant.

“Here, drink this.” She pressed a steaming mug into Sarah’s hands.

“Thank you.” Sarah took a sip, the warmth spreading through her chest. “You don’t have to hover.”

“I like hovering,” June replied with a smile. “Makes me feel useful.”

Rusty padded over, resting his chin on Sarah’s knee. She scratched behind his ear, and her thoughts drifted further away.

Mason paced slowly by the window, watching the impending storm.

“Sheriff’s right, you know,” he said without turning. “It’s not safe out here, not with that wind and the baby due soon.”

“I’m not running from a little snow.”

“It’s more than a little,” he said, turning to face her. “If something happens—”

“Then you’ll help me handle it,” she said firmly. “Just like you said you would.”

A flicker passed through his eyes. It might have been admiration… maybe frustration. Maybe both.

“You’re a hard woman to argue with, Mrs. McAllister,” he said.

“I’ve had practice,” she said, setting the mug down. “Now go make sure the shutters are tight before the house freezes through.”

He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mason’s boots creaked over the wooden floor as he left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud. The wind howled against the shutters, its pitch rising and falling like a voice caught between a plea and a warning.

For a second longer, Sarah sat staring into the fire. Her reflection danced in the wavering light. Pale skin, hollowed cheeks, eyes too old for her years. A nurse’s hands, a widow’s face. She exhaled slowly and pressed a palm against the life inside her belly. The baby shifted again, as if in response.

“Just a storm,” she whispered. “It’ll pass.”

By the time Mason returned, June had laid out supper. It was stew that had been warmed over the fire, thick slices of bread, and a pot of tea gone slightly bitter from over-brewing.

The air smelled faintly of smoke and thyme. They ate in near silence, save for the wind rattling the eaves and the faint groan of the rafters.

Rusty, usually stationed loyally at Sarah’s feet, was nowhere to be seen.

She didn’t notice at first. But when June leaned over to refill her tea, Sarah’s gaze swept instinctively to the hearth. Empty.

“Where’s Rusty?” she asked, frowning.

June looked up. “I thought he was with you.”

“He was here earlier,” Sarah said, setting down her spoon.

Opposite her, Mason paused mid-bite. The usual soft thump of the dog’s tail against the floorboards was absent. The silence deepened, sharpened by the roar of the wind outside.

“He’s probably in the barn,” Mason said after a moment, though his tone lacked conviction.

“No,” Sarah murmured, rising to her feet. “He wouldn’t wander in this.”

“Sarah—” Mason started, but she was already reaching for her coat.

She pulled it on over her shoulders, fastening the buttons with trembling fingers. The child inside her shifted again, but her fear for Rusty drowned out everything else.

“He’s just a dog,” Mason said gently, grabbing his gloves. “You don’t need to—”

“He’s family,” she snapped, the words sharp enough to make him flinch.

“All right,” he said, voice low. “I’m coming with you.”

The door flew open to a wall of white. Snow whipped through the entryway, stinging their faces. The storm had arrived in full force, the wind tearing across the fields like a living thing. The lantern Mason held flickered wildly, throwing bursts of light that vanished as quickly as they came.

Sarah pulled her scarf up over her mouth and pushed forward into the gale. The world had shrunk to a blur. The sky and the ground were indistinguishable. The path had been erased. Her boots sank deep, each step an effort.

“Rusty!” she shouted, her voice swallowed by the wind. “Rusty, here, boy!”

No answer.

Mason’s voice came faintly behind her. “Sarah, wait—slow down!”

But she couldn’t. Panic clawed at her chest. Rusty had never strayed far, not since Oliver’s death. The dog had slept at her bedside through every nightmare, guarded the door when thunder rolled. The idea of him lost out here alone was unbearable.

“Rusty!” she cried again, louder this time.

A faint bark answered. Distant, but clear.

Her pulse leapt as she froze. “This way!”

She veered toward the sound, ignoring Mason’s curse as he trudged after her. The snow bit at her legs, her skirts heavy and soaked. The lantern light wavered, caught by the storm’s fury, but she pressed on.

Another bark, closer now. Then a shape emerged from the white.

“Rusty!”

The collie stood at the edge of the property, his fur crusted with snow, barking and circling something half-buried near the fence line. Sarah stumbled forward, sinking to her knees beside him.

At first, she thought it was a fallen log. Then the wind shifted, revealing a man’s form. It was still and pale. One of his arms was outstretched as though he’d been reaching for something before the storm claimed him.

“Oh, Lord,” she breathed.

Mason caught up, panting. “What in on earth—”

“Help me turn him,” she ordered.

“Sarah, you can’t—”

“Now!”

The edge in her tone cut off further protest. Mason dropped to his knees beside her, brushing snow from the man’s face.

He was young. Late twenties, maybe. His dark hair was frozen in uneven strands, his lips blue, skin pale as wax. A scar ran along his jaw, faint beneath the frost.

“Still breathing,” Mason said, surprise in his voice. “Barely.”

Sarah pressed her gloved fingers to the man’s neck, finding a weak, erratic pulse. Relief flared through her chest like fire. “We can’t leave him here,” she said. “He’ll die.”

“You don’t know who he is,” Mason warned. “Could be anyone. A drifter, a thief—”

“Or someone’s son,” she cut in sharply. “Someone’s husband. He’s alive, Mason. That’s all that matters.”

He met her gaze, the protest dying on his lips.

“You’ll be the death of me, woman,” he muttered.

Together they lifted the man. Mason took most of the weight, and Sarah supported his head. Rusty trotted close, whining softly as they struggled back toward the house through the deepening snow.

The lantern went out halfway, swallowed by the wind, leaving them guided only by the faint glow of the windows ahead. Sarah’s breath came in ragged bursts. Her arms burned, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop.

When they finally reached the porch, June flung open the door, her face pale with alarm.

“What—who is that?”

“Get blankets!” Sarah gasped. “Hot water, bandages… anything you can find!”

They carried the stranger to the hearth, laying him gently on the rug. Mason shut the door against the storm, bolting it tight. Snow fell from their coats, melting in dark patches across the floor.

June hurried in with towels and blankets. Sarah dropped to her knees beside the man, her nurse’s instinct taking over. She loosened his coat, fingers deft despite the cold, and pressed her hand to his chest.

His breathing was shallow but steady. His skin, though icy, still held the faint warmth of life.

“Frostbite on the hands,” she said quickly. “Pulse is weak but present. We’ll need to warm him slowly. No fire directly, just heat from the blankets.”

Nodding, June fetched more blankets from the bedroom. Mason knelt opposite her, watching as Sarah worked.

Rusty lay nearby, tail thumping once against the floor, as if proud of his find.

When June returned with another armful of blankets, Sarah covered the man layer by layer, then rubbed his wrists and arms to restore circulation. The color began to creep back into his face, faint but visible.

“Will he live?” June asked, voice trembling.

Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “If we keep him warm. If the cold hasn’t gone too deep.”

She sat back on her heels, breathless. Her hands were numb, but her mind was sharp and alive in a way it hadn’t been for months.

“You sure about this, Sarah?” Mason asked. “Taking in a stranger like that?”

“If he dies under my roof, I’ll never forgive myself,” Sarah replied, meeting his eyes.

He studied her for a long moment before nodding. “All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll keep my gun close, just in case.”

“Do what you must,” she replied.

She looked back at the man. His face was now peaceful in unconsciousness. His dark lashes were dusted with frost, and his chest was rising faintly with each breath.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured to him, the same words she’d spoken to countless wounded before.

But this time, she wasn’t sure if she was reassuring him or herself.