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Rocky Mountain Widow
Jillian Hart
A widow’s second chance…Disillusioned by marriage, Claire Hamilton’s heart is as cold as the Montana snow. She resolved to stand alone – against a blizzard of murder accusations, violent attempts to seize her land, and the hungry wolves of winter.Until Joshua Gable saved her life… Standing warrior-strong beside her, Joshua offered to keep Claire safe from harm. And as his closeness ignited the flames of passion within her, Claire knew he could be the one to prove that it was possible to love again…


Praise forJillian Hart
ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAN
‘This book’s intense emotions reach out to touch
readers. Betsy’s unwavering belief in Duncan and
willingness to fight to save him from himself is so
moving you’ll want to cry with happiness as
Hart plays on your heartstrings.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
HIGH PLAINS WIFE
‘Finely drawn characters and sweet tenderness tinged
with poignancy draw readers into a familiar story that
beautifully captures the feel of an Americana romance.
Readers can enjoy sharp dialogue and adorable child
characterisations while shedding a tear or two.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
MONTANA MAN
‘Ms Hart creates a world of tantalising warmth
and tenderness, a toasty haven in which the reader
will find pure enjoyment.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
COOPER’S WIFE
‘…a wonderfully written romance
full of love and laughter.’
—Rendezvous
“You don’t owe me a thing, Claire.”
“I owe you everything.”
“You can keep your money,” Joshua responded.
“But that would be charity, and I can make my own way.”
“I don’t doubt that one bit.” The centre of his chest tightened. He’d make sure she was safe, no matter what it cost him. It was the right thing to do. But this wasn’t about responsibility. He wanted good things for her, this woman with a place in his soul.
And then she came up on tiptoes, so close every hair on his body stood up on end, and pressed a silken kiss to his cheek. His heart thumped as she sank her white even teeth into her lush, rosebud-soft bottom lip, as if she were in deep thought. As if she were debating telling him one more time to butt out of her life.
No way, lady. Emotion drove him, a fierce need that had his fingers cradling her delicate chin. He breathed in her sweet rose scent and slanted his mouth over hers.
Jillian Hart grew up on her family’s homestead, where she raised cattle, rode horses and scribbled stories in her spare time. After earning an English degree from Whitman College, she worked in advertising before becoming a writer. When she’s not hard at work on her next story, Jillian can be found chatting with a friend, stopping for a café mocha with a book in hand, and spending quiet evenings at home with her family.
Novels by the same author:
LAST CHANCE BRIDE
COOPER’S WIFE
MALCOLM’S HONOUR
MONTANA MAN
BLUEBONNET BRIDE
MONTANA LEGEND
HIGH PLAINS WIFE
THE HORSEMAN
ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS
(short story in A Season of the Heart)
MONTANA WIFE
ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAN
ROCKY MOUNTAIN BRIDE
(short story in Western Weddings)

Rocky Mountain Widow
Jillian Hart





MILLS & BOON

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u7377e367-a273-545b-9398-4d7b5a8c2b35)
Praise (#ub40b37b1-9174-5cfb-bfd9-4b20700ab492)
Excerpt (#ub51854ee-9f9b-54da-a8f9-7d9bd1a97ddf)
About the Author (#u58e4129c-8832-5c08-b715-c5dcf6f52f22)
Title Page (#u3912fd49-c02b-5a0f-83bc-88a15677189d)
Prologue (#ua5563f9d-6443-5218-bd29-07110ef15972)
Chapter One (#uedf2d911-e99e-5c8e-bef9-7ef554628b8a)
Chapter Two (#u49f85bcc-e2ad-50e9-be1a-a5fec340d298)
Chapter Three (#u04537a83-7ac2-50a7-977d-856dcd1ae7de)
Chapter Four (#u0ba574b2-083c-5dd3-8faf-741fb42e9132)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eightteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
Bluebonnet County, Montana Territory 1884
“You shamed me again, woman.” Ham towered on the board wagon seat beside her, nothing more than a shadow in the night. “Again!”
Claire rubbed the bump her gold wedding band made beneath the mitten on her left hand and tried not to give in to the rising resentment. He wasn’t through maligning her for the night, not by a long shot. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t said a word while she’d waited outside in the cold for hours until Ham decided he’d had his fill of whiskey and poker.
Or that during this long wagon ride home across the high country plains, she’d never said a word, either. Not of his drunken state, his careless driving, or the fact that the ground had hardened with ice and no other driver was out on the roads in this frigid night. That anyone else had more sense than that. But not Ham. No, not Ham.
He chucked in his throat, a disgusting sound, and spit with great skill. “You made me look bad in front of the boys.”
The boys being a table full of grown men playing poker in the smokiest, seediest saloon in the county. Claire held her tongue, because she’d learned the hard way that when he’d been drinking hard, Ham became mean and was always looking for the chance to get meaner.
He was not a good husband. Was there a chance he could be a decent father? She rested the palm of her hand on the round of her slightly swollen stomach. The doctor today had said she was doing well and the baby’s first kicks were strong. That was happy news. But she’d had some spotting.
“You must be careful.” The doctor’s tone had been grave. “Follow my advice. Go home. Put your feet up. Have Ham get Mrs. Simms to come over and take care of things for a spell.”
She hadn’t gotten up the courage to tell Ham anything, and he hadn’t asked. He never did, especially when he’d been drinking. The alcohol changed him, and when he was like this she had to be careful not to anger him.
Mama had warned her about men. Whenever one comes courting, he’s the best man on earth, she’d said. Punctual, attentive and decent. He has manners and treats you right. Once he gets a ring on your finger, then it’s a different matter.
You were so right, Mama. Claire glanced sideways at the man who’d wooed her and charmed her and made her believe in the impossible.
As she looked at the bulky man swaying drunkenly at her side, reeking of cheap whiskey and stale tobacco smoke, it was hard to fathom a time when he had been mistaken for wonderful.
Her judgment had been poor and she regretted it greatly.
“What are you lookin’ at, woman?” Just like that, Ham had worked himself up into a fury. “You don’t got any right to judge me, woman! I’ll drink what I want, when I want and with who I want.”
“All right, Ham,” she said quietly, gently, for it was the wisest way to manage him when he was like this. When he was so irrational, he was like dynamite ready to explode and devastate everything.
“And don’t you go givin’ me that look.”
It was better for her if she kept him calm, so it was desperation that made her set aside her anger. She didn’t like the way he treated her. She didn’t like how she had to behave to keep him rational. What else was she to do?
She wasn’t big and strong like a man. There was no way she could stop or overpower him. No, the best she could do was to keep him from getting more upset while he was so drunk. They were almost home. By the time they reached the little shanty at the top of the hill, he’d be ready to pass out.
And I’ll be safe until morning.
She took a shaky breath and purposely tried to appear serene, as if nothing were wrong and he’d never shattered one illusion about love and marriage.
“Oh, so now you think you’re better’n me.” He spit out another stream of tobacco and swiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Do ya? I’m gettin’ tired of you and your attitude, woman.”
“I’m sorry, Ham,” she soothed, sensing he was near to balling up his fist. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just thinking about—” Home, she thought as the blow struck.
Pain shattered her left cheekbone where he’d slugged her. Her head snapped to the side and the muscles in her neck tightened with more pain. Her head whirled, she saw dancing white lights in front of her eyes, and she clutched the seat to keep from falling.
“Maybe that’ll teach ya to smart-mouth me.”
Tears blurred her vision. Her jaw hurt too much to speak, so she only nodded obediently. There was no other way to behave. She knew, because she’d tried everything over time to find peace between them. Or at least, to avoid the pain she was in now. Her skull hammered from the shock and she swiped at her eyes.
Crying only made him angrier. She blinked hard until the blackness subsided and made sure she sat perfectly still. She’d learned a lot from her three years of marriage. Things she never thought anyone should know, but they made a difference now as Ham muttered on angrily about a woman’s place and how he worked hard and how costly she was to him.
He could rage on, use his fists and his words like weapons, but he wouldn’t break her. Despite the chilly night, for winter had come early to these high Montana plains, and despite the fact that her coat was thin and she wore light mittens, she refused to so much as shiver.
She had every reason to fight, for she could feel the faint fluttery kicks of her child. She’d not been sure this new life was a blessing. A helpless baby would be vulnerable to Ham’s drinking and his temper. It was a serious situation, but oh, her heart lit up again, like a lamp left too long unlit, and burned so brightly.
I will love you enough to make up for it, little one, she vowed, willing the promise through her fingertips and into her womb. I swear I will take such good care of you. First thing was to figure out how to convince Ham to hire the neighbor lady to come do the heavier housework. And then—
The wagon lurched, and in the dark night it was hard to know why. The horse gave a frightened whinny and the vehicle began to tip. Ham’s temper exploded. His swearing boomed as startling as thunder, frightening the horse more as he reached for the whip.
“Stay on the damned road, you worthless nag!” The whip shot into the air, hissing toward the mare’s flank. The rasp as the lash cut into flesh was followed by the mare’s sharp neigh of pain.
As if time had stretched out, Claire was aware of the wagon tilting to the right, and no matter how hard she tried to brace herself, she was falling. Ham’s weight pressed against her as he wrestled with the horse, fighting the mare’s panic. There was nothing but darkness—no moonlight or stardust to see by, just the hulking blackness of the high rolling hill and the prairie floor below.
We’re going to roll over. Her pulse filled her ears, making the screaming horse and Ham’s horrible shouting seem distant. Then came the clack and groan of the wagon wheels skidding.
Breaking.
They were going to die. There was no way she could stop it. This was the way her parents had died, and she could taste the panic on her tongue. Feel it crawl with icy fingertips across the back of her neck.
What about the baby? The seat beneath her seemed to heave and then suddenly, it was gone. She was falling, her arms flinging out. She tried to grab for anything, anything in the dark, but there was only air and gravity and the terrifying scream of the horse.
There was so much noise—the explosion as the wagon broke, the avalanche of earth beneath them, the horse’s hooves digging into the bank, and Ham’s voice bellowing foul curses. Loudest of all was the cadence of her pulse, eerily slow as time became meaningless. She was thrown backward through the dark and the night. Weightless.
The ground struck her like an ax in the center of her left shoulder blade. Air whooshed out of her lungs and pain slammed through her as the rest of her back crashed against the rocky earth. Her head reeled back and struck granite.
No, not my baby. She curled up to protect her child. She had to stay awake, she had to. But her vision flashed and her consciousness faded piece by piece, like a curtain being drawn against the sky. Wagon fragments and debris rained down on her.
Somewhere far away the mare squealed in pain, an eerily human-sounding scream of agony and then there was Ham rising up over her, miraculously standing, with the whip in his hand. She saw his mouth open and his arm raise, but her vision slid away.
There was nothing but blessed silence.
This was the last time, the very last time he was going to put up with Hamilton’s villainy.
Rage beat through Joshua Gable’s veins with the power of a fueled train barreling down the bottom side of a long steep slope, and he wouldn’t be surprised if, like a locomotive, steam whistled out of him. Likely the top of his head was near to blowing off he was so angry.
I’d like to wrap my hands around Ham’s throat and squeeze. Pain shot through his molars and he tried to relax his jaw. His teeth had been gnashed enough for one day.
But then the image of what he’d just come away from sent renewed fury through his body and his teeth clacked shut so tight, the audible grind echoed like a whiplash in the silent breadth of the cold winter night.
Wait—that wasn’t his teeth making that sound. It only seemed that way. That’s a whip. Striking flesh. A horse’s panicked neigh rang through the vast night, a hair-raising human sound of agony and terror.
Trouble.
His hand fisted around the reins and he was digging in his heels before it was a conscious thought. The pinto cannoned into the dark, hooves striking the frozen earth.
What mad men are out here tonight? Joshua bowed his head into the frigid wind and pressed his mount harder. He was glad he had his .45 strapped to his thigh and loaded. And, in case he needed it, his repeating Winchester strapped in its holster to the saddle.
Faster. Whatever trouble lay ahead, the coyotes began to howl somewhere nearby. The womanlike screams of the horse rose in pitch, shattering the night, tolling across the vast reaches of the prairie like an echo without end, and when the terrified scream ended abruptly, the silence spoke of death.
I’m too late. Remorse ripped like razor-sharp talons through his chest. He hated an animal’s suffering. Which was why his rage was fueled tonight. He’d come to stop Ham.
And if that no-good bastard was abusing another animal… Joshua felt the pressure build beneath the top of his skull. That horse better be all right, or I’ll—
A flash of lightning stabbed from the heavens, and in that brief instant of white, eye-burning illumination, he saw the motionless body of a horse sprawled dark against the crusted white rise. A shattered wagon. A beefy man with his arm uplifted and the sinuous lash snaking back for another strike, but it was not directed at the horse.
Is that a woman?
The skin prickled at the back of Josh’s neck with a horrible foreboding. As the flare faded into impenetrable black, he made out another shadow on the ground, but the darkness came too swiftly for him to recognize it.
And then his mind latched onto the image, and rage burned so hot he became like the night. Like the clap of thunder, he struck, uncoiling the lasso at his saddle horn. And as Ham’s whip snapped in the indecipherable shadows, Joshua felt destiny begin to unravel like his coiled rope. Fate was set when the noose fell and caught.
Got ya. One jerk was all it took to disarm the lowdown varmint who wasn’t even fit to be called a man. He vaguely registered the foul cursing of a drunk—yep, it sure sounded as if Ham was liquored up good.
Joshua hauled in his noose, coiled up the lariat for later use and seized the captured whip in his left hand. This left his right free in case he needed to draw.
“Hamilton, you coward. Are you always gonna pick on women and animals? Or are you ready to take on someone who’s your own damn size?”
“I could take you down with one hand tied behind my back, you son of a bitch. Get the devil off my land.”
“Or what? You’re gonna throw me off? I’m a man, not a helpless sheep.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ham growled like a rabid dog ready to fight. His teeth were bared as another bolt of lightning knifed overhead in warning.
“It means I’ve found one carcass too many. How long have you been killing my sheep now? One month? Almost two? It’s not gonna drive me off the grazing land. And since the deputy won’t do a damn thing, I’m gonna make my own justice.”
The mare that lay like a hump at the side of the road became more visible as the clouds churning in the sky gave off a blue-black glow from the lightning. There was movement—not only the ripple and toss of mane and tail in the rough wind, but her sides rising and falling—short and uneven, but the mare was breathing.
He remembered the animal’s tortured screams and his guts clenched so tight he could taste the bile on his tongue. She was a greater concern, but Joshua knew if he mentioned the helpless woman as equally still on the ground, then Ham’s temper would go.
And Ham was much closer in proximity to his wife. He’d hurt her first, the vicious bastard. Joshua gripped the leather until the braid’s pattern bit into his palm, scenting the metallic smell of blood in the air and sour fear on the wind. The boiling rage that had first coursed through his veins turned to ice. Not from fear, but determination.
“When you kill my livestock, you’re taking from me. From my family,” Joshua growled.
“I didn’t kill those sheep. Not last week, not a month ago. Not today. Besides—” Ham’s voice rose in volume and acidity. “This is cattle county.”
Joshua didn’t miss the muted rasp, although Ham pitched his voice high enough to try to hide it. Ham was sneaky, but Joshua had learned long ago how to deal with sneaky varmints. And he knew exactly what Ham planned to do next.
As the blackness closed around them, thunder cracked overhead. Joshua let the rolling crash from above hide the snap as he sent the whip snaking through the darkness. It struck with a vengeance before Hamilton could draw.
Victory. Joshua tasted it as Ham cursed in pain and the gun thudded to the earth.
“I need three things from you, Hamilton.” He aimed his .45 at the drunk’s chest. “Restitution for the sheep you killed—”
“That’s what happens when those worthless varmints are too stupid to stay where they belong.”
“I leased the grazing lands fair and square. They’re mine, and they belong there—” Joshua paused as the woman moaned. He waited. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“She’s about as dumb as one of your lambs. Too stupid to live. I—”
“Shut up, Ham. This is a matter for the law.”
I’m not dead. Claire tried to concentrate, but the voices faded and then returned. The pain in her head boomed like a firing cannon inside her skull. She tried to move, but pain paralyzed her and she realized that something warm was trickling down her face.
Blood. She also realized Ham towered over her, jerking and trembling like he did in a rage, right before he became lethally violent.
Her thoughts were fragments. What had happened? Was the baby safe? Who was shouting at Ham? She couldn’t recognize the man’s voice. Couldn’t he understand the danger? Ham had to be talked to quietly, steadily until he calmed. It was the only way. She had to get up and intervene. Groggy, she tried to sit up.
I can’t move.
Panic crowded into her throat and she shoved at something hard. Something wooden. A piece of the broken wagon pinned her hips to the ground. Her fingers gripped the broken edge of board and she gritted her teeth, heaving. She felt as if a razor blade sliced through her low abdomen.
The baby. She collapsed onto the ground, dizzy as the heated voices rose in volume and threats. What was going on? She could only see an upward slash from the ground to the sky until lightning blinded her.
Ham’s furious bellow. It was going to be even worse for her as soon as Ham got her home. “I ain’t takin’ this from a sheep man!”
“The deputy is your good buddy, I know, but listen up good—”
Claire caught a glimpse of the intruder as the rolling thunder drowned out their argument. He sat on horseback, a big bold cut of a man as dark as the night, as powerful as the thunder, and as lethal as the fierce lightning that pounded overhead.
Ham’s fingers inched to his revolvers, ever present in their holsters, strapped to his thighs within easy reach. How many times had he threatened her with those guns?
Claire closed her eyes, trying to find strength where there was none. Hope when she’d given up. Whatever tiny drop of relative safety she’d been able to forge for herself in her marriage was about to be gone, but she couldn’t let Ham hurt this man, she couldn’t—
Ham’s fingers curved around a beloved revolver. She could smell his glee—he loved to cause harm, or worse. And the mounted man, he didn’t see the danger, Claire realized as she tried to shout a warning, but there was no voice. Something was wrong with her throat.
Hell exploded. Thunder merged with bullets, lightning with gunfire, and the pummeling ice that fell like hunks of granite from the vengeful sky beat so loudly she could not hear or see, only feel the danger as violence and murder rose on the heartless wind.
Ham fell to the ground beside her, cursing in pain and clutching his shoulder. It wasn’t over, she knew with chilling certainty as Joshua Gable kicked the fallen revolvers out of harm’s way and consciousness faded. She heard Ham’s threat to kill Gable come from very far away, and then steeled arms lifted her from the ground and carried her away.
She woke up later in her own bed, alone. She heard the echoing sound of a single gunshot, and knew by the silence that followed that someone was dead.

Chapter One
Eight Days later
It was a bad day for a funeral.
Joshua Gable swiped snowflakes from his eyelashes so he could see into the heavy gale, then jammed his gloved fist back into his coat pocket.
It had taken the grave diggers most of the week to cut through the frozen ground. As if the Fates had done everything in their power to hold back this death. There would be no peaceful passing for Halbert Hamilton, Jr. Instead, a fury of cutting north wind and vicious iced snow made it feel as if hell had frozen over, had burst up from the new grave in the ground to welcome a like soul.
For a man few could stand and most despised, a lot of the local folks on this sparse corner of the county had come. Some attended out of relief, Joshua suspected, that the hard man was gone. A few grieved his passing. But most were here out of curiosity, for no one knew what had befallen the rancher—if one could call him that—and what had rendered him dead.
Well, some knew.
Joshua swallowed hard, glad he stood back from the bulk of the crowd. It took all his self-control to fight down the tight grip guilt had on his stomach. If he’d had his way, he wouldn’t have come. He had no respects to pay the man who’d been his sworn enemy. He had not an ounce of grief or sorrow to express.
He was damn glad the man was gone—not glad that he was dead, but relieved that Ham was no longer a thorn in his side and a drain on the family’s income. He hadn’t killed the man—just left him lying in the road with a flesh wound, although he’d have been in his rights to have killed the man in self-defense that night. But knowing the woman would never forget seeing her husband killed before her eyes stopped him.
I shouldn’t have left like that. But the woman, half-unconscious, had begged him to go. His conscience had told him not to listen, but she’d been so desperate. He wondered if she remembered that time now. And if she’d been the one to pull the trigger later that night in self-defense.
No, I never should have left her.
Across the crowd spread out on either side of the grave came the curious probe of the deputy’s gaze. Coop Logan, his badge obscured by the thick snow covering the front of his fur coat, seemed one of the genuine mourners. He and Ham had been friends as far back as any could remember. And now the lawman studied the crowd as if looking for vengeance.
Yep, it sure would have been good if he’d had his way, Joshua thought, wishing he’d been able to stay at home and far away from the deputy’s measuring stare. Home, where he had fencing to replace and a troublesome cougar to track. The bitter winter weather wouldn’t have kept him from it, not on this one day. He’d come only because of his grandmother.
“We have to be there, Blythe would have wanted it,” Granny had insisted, and he’d never had the heart to say no to her. He adored the cantankerous old woman, and he knew she’d been close friends with Ham’s grandmother. With the dear woman gone from this earth, Granny Adelaide felt it her duty to attend.
He couldn’t let her out in these near-blizzard conditions alone, and he’d been unable to convince her to take one of his other brothers—lazy Jordan especially, who had nothing better to do as the youngest and the baby of the family. Gran had thought taking Jordan along with them was a fine idea and made the boy help with the driving.
Not that she needed either of their help. He studied her sideways rather than make eye contact, which would only invite her criticism. His grandmother seemed as fierce as always and attending a funeral did not soften her. The wind blew to him the faint scent of her Irish whiskey. She remained the epitome of a no-nonsense pioneer woman, stoic as the snow began to cloak her in white.
“Stop looking at me, boy, be respectful and mind your manners,” she scolded him in a low, commanding voice, as if he were still a small child. “By the grace of God, that could be you dead in a grave. Life is fleeting.”
Granny, you have no notion how right you are. Re minded of his fate, and of Ham’s, Joshua drew soldier straight and knew that nothing would ever be powerful enough to make him forget this day, this moment.
If he shifted his weight onto his left foot and tilted a bit, he could see past the mourners and over the minister’s shoulder to where the new widow stood, shrouded in white so that the ragged black coat she wore was barely discernible. She could have been a snow angel tipped back against the white earth for the way she stood motionless.
No tears stood on her face, so pale the snow clinging to her eyebrows and eyelashes had more color. The crying that came from those who mourned did not come from her.
Ham’s mother cried, his brother, Reed, choked back tears, but the young widow, who did not look to be a day over twenty, bowed her face toward the ground, as if watching the snow accumulate on the toes of her Sunday-best shoes. She appeared to be in silent grief.
Joshua knew the truth.
She stood before the opened scar in the earth where Hamilton’s casket lay. As the reverend intoned on, his words whipped and battered by the cruel winds, she dipped her head, then covered her face with both slim hands. Rich dark curls tumbled down from beneath her woolen cloak.
“Such a pity,” Granny’s whisky-rough voice could not be disguised by a whisper but rang as loudly as if she’d bellowed. “So young to bury a husband. How long were they wed?”
“Several years, Granny,” he answered in a low whisper while those mourners surrounding them turned to give them scolding, be-quiet looks.
“While none of my grandchildren have yet wed.”
“Not here, Granny.”
“What will become of the poor thing now?”
A good question. Joshua said nothing more as his youngest brother, Jordan, who had no desire to be here as well, gave Joshua a pained, telling look. She always embarrasses us when we take her anywhere.
Jordan was young. He’d had less experience with embarrassment. And since he had his eye on the young Potter girl with whom he’d finished public school last year, his apparent reputation seemed at greater risk. He didn’t realize that if he succeeded in wooing, courting and wedding the fair Felicity Potter, Granny’s behavior would continue to embarrass him after the wedding.
Any woman who would be so bold as to marry into their family may as well know the hazards beforehand.
Felicity, plump and glowing rosy from the cold, offered a shy wave to Jordan across the cemetery, and it made Joshua feel old. Infinitely, accusingly old. Thirty-six was not so ancient, but as he glanced around, he was the only one of an adult age unmarried.
Except for Claire Hamilton. Her heartbreak echoed in great silence that reached him all the way across the cemetery, carried by the persistent wind. The feel of it left him hollow and cold inside.
What have I done?
The minister’s final amen ended the ceremony. At last. Aware of Deputy Logan’s focus on him, he knew he could not leave yet. It would look suspicious if he did not stand in line, but the hell if he could stomach pretending any amount of sorrow.
“Have you no manners, boy?”
He felt a hard tug on his sleeve. His little grandmother looked sweet, but she was nothing of the sort and he liked her for it. Respected her more for it. In her day, Granny had been one of the first pioneer women in this county. Even now, her skirt hung low on one side, her dark woolen hem skimming the snow from the weight in her pocket.
Good old Granny carried a pistol deep in her skirt pocket, as she had since she was a bride of sixteen. Although the land was no longer untamed and wild.
“Come! Hurry along!” she demanded.
He didn’t argue with her and besides, she wouldn’t want to stand in the condolence line alone. For with the way Jordan was smitten with Felicity, he was as good as absent.
That’s why I’m never falling in love.
He wasn’t about to give that much control of his life, his faculties and his freedoms to a woman who, even if kind, would do anything to get exactly what she wanted.
His own dear sister was no exception.
He swore never to hand his life over to a woman, sweet or harsh, pretty or plain, for they were all the same. They wanted utter and complete control over a man.
No, thank you. He’d rather visit the brothel in town and burn in hell. Or, if his mother ever found out she’d likely send him there herself.
“She’s such a lovely thing,” Granny felt it her duty to add as they took their place in line. “Probably will be looking for a husband. You oughta court her.”
“No. And don’t talk about that here of all places.”
“It was just a suggestion.” She leaned around the Potter family to get a better look at the young widow. “She’d make a fine wife. Seems as quiet as a mouse. Not at all like Ham’s mother. All drama, that one.”
“And you’re not?” He couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious, even if it earned him a playful cuff on his ear. The woolen earflap from beneath his hat took most of the blow. “Careful, Granny, I’m no longer five and shorter than you.”
Her face wreathed up into a crinkled network of laugh lines. For all her hardships and her advancing years, Granny had lived. Not merely existed. She’d wrung the most out of her life.
He envied her that. He was likely to spend the rest of his days branding and fencing and tracking and haying and endlessly looking after his family. A man’s duty, even if unmarried, came with responsibilities as it was.
The line shuffled forward, giving him a perfect view of the widow Hamilton.
Now I have one more responsibility.
In no time, he was at the head of the line and there was Claire, looking up at him with her melted-chocolate eyes. Guilt washed over him and in an instant scudded away like wind-driven snow, gone forever. She’d tried to cover it, but a faint bruise darkened her left eye. What purple coloring remained could be mistaken for the shadows of sheer exhaustion.
He knew better.
Her small, gloved hands curled around his big one, and she shook casually as she’d probably done with everyone else. But he felt the squeeze of emotion that came with the contact.
“Mr. Gable?” Her voice was as delicate as spring wildflowers and out of place on this harsh winter day. “I’m so glad you came. Thank you.”
In her dark eyes shone a glint of genuine gratitude. She wasn’t thanking him for attending the burial but for carrying her to her bed while Ham lay bleeding after their fight. Behind him yawned the cruel wound of a grave with the gleaming walnut casket within, becoming lost beneath the accumulating snow, making him remember how furious he’d been that night.
He fought to swallow past a throat dust-dry and past the lump of emotion lodged beneath his Adam’s apple. “It was no trouble.”
He was not speaking of attending the funeral. But of protecting her from her husband. He hadn’t done enough, his conscience scolded him.
The bruise beneath her left eye was not the only mark on her face. No one would notice it if they did not know to look, but she’d arranged her chestnut tresses so that a wedge of hair, twisted down to hide most of her jaw and cheekbone, was pinned carefully to her cloak and collar. Hiding the bruise Hamilton had obviously given her that night.
The clutches of memory gripped him. Faint, dark images of that brutal night crept up like a wraith and took hold. Images of lightning streaking through a merciless sky and of snow falling like rain threatened to take him back in time.
He’d had more than enough of his own problems, but he’d gotten involved. And, in truth, he’d wanted revenge. When he’d returned from carrying her to the house, Ham was gone, leaving a bloody trail. He’d been forced to fetch the doctor for the woman instead of tracking Ham. And if he had, then he and Haskins wouldn’t have returned to find Ham dead behind the barn with a second bullet in his chest. Not the one Joshua had given him.
Guilt choked him. Don’t think about it.
But the woman before him did not deserve the consequences. It was not grief, he suspected, but fear and deep worry that pushed fine lines into her soft oval face. She hadn’t asked for this to happen. She deserved nothing but his kindness.
Maybe even his pity. Life with Ham could not have been easy. Had she been able to sleep at all? he wondered. Her eyes looked puffy and not from crying, he would wager. The thought of her lying awake throughout the night, aching with anxiety and fear, tore at him.
If only he could do something, say something, anything to comfort her. But whatever he tried, he knew he could not make things right.
I’m sorry, Claire. He willed the words into her. Did she sense them?
Tears filled her eyes, the first of the service that he’d been able to notice. It gave him hope.
As if too overcome to speak, she only nodded her thanks.
He released her hand and moved on, and anyone watching would think she was nothing more than a grieving widow. And, in truth, she was too tenderhearted not to be sad. Love, he knew, was a complicated matter. Once spoken, wedding vows were powerful bonds.
He let Granny step forward to offer her terse condolences—she wasn’t one to soften blows. “He was the only family you really had, that’s a shame. What? Speak up, girl!”
Joshua kept Claire in his peripheral vision—those tears on her soft white cheeks could have been liquid drops of silver—when he felt a blow strike the middle of his chest and knock him back a step—and perilously close to the edge of the grave.
What the devil? Before he could recover, Ham’s mother struck him again with all her might. She was a substantial woman, and when the flat of her palm beat against his breastbone, he swore she had the strength to break ribs.
“You!” Her eyes had gone stone-cold. Cold and black and dense with hatred. “You did this! The doc says it was a broken neck, but I saw the gunshot! I saw it with my own eyes.”
Panic licked through him like the frigid wind. The doc had sworn he’d keep the woman away from Ham’s body. Haskins was a good man, a man of his word, so what had happened—
“The deputy saw, too! And I told him what I know. How you’ve been threatening to shoot him in the back one night!” The woman was like a rabid dog, frothing and lost from reason.
He had to stop her. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hamilton. I have threatened him a dozen times before this, as he threatened me in return.”
The truth of his confession boomed like thunder and the chatter surrounding him silenced. Joshua felt time stretch between one heartbeat and the next.
“I saw the hole in his chest!”
“You’re overwrought, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said gently, because she had the right to her grief. He was surprised he felt so much pity for her, in spite of the fact she was reminding everyone of the fact that he and Ham had come to blows before over the grazing lands. And the sheep. A fact he didn’t want to remind the deputy of.
“Doc!” Before he could cast around through the crowd for sight of the only doctor in the entire county, Haskins was there, capable and calm, with medical bag in hand.
Without exchanging so much as a look, Joshua knew the sawbones was on his side. On Claire’s side. With his quiet courtesy, the doctor took the older Mrs. Hamilton by the elbow and made calming noises.
Just keep her calm, Doc. Joshua knew they would talk later, but for now, there was nothing more to do.
“Excuse me.” Joshua touched his hat brim while the woman fell to her knees. He’d help, but he knew it would only aggravate the woman, and that was the last thing he needed or she deserved.
It wasn’t her fault that her sons had turned out the way they did. There came a time when a man—or woman—had to own up to their shortcomings or hardships in life and take on the responsibility of them. It wasn’t Claire’s fault, either. She could not have forced her husband to walk a straighter path, for in the end, Ham’s actions were his own choice.
And choices brought consequences.
All too aware of Claire’s crumpled face, Joshua turned away from her. He could not offer aid, for the deputy was watching closely. Granny was tending to the young widow, whose knees were giving out, and had ordered someone to fetch a chair from inside the church.
Snow pummeled the world as Joshua looked down at the mantled coffin. It was snowing hard enough, as if heaven were in a hurry to bury Ham’s remains.
Goodbye, Ham. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll finally get what you deserve.
The sound of thunder crashed through his head as he remembered the gunshot booming in the dark, the lash of Ham’s whip and Claire huddling on the ground at her husband’s feet. Joshua tipped his cap to the man dead at his feet and felt justice had been served—a rare thing in this world.
He could leave and draw no one’s suspicions since most of the attention went to the widow and Ham’s mother. Joshua turned his back on the dead and started walking, for he could take no more of it. He did not want to remember that night. Soon, the truth would be buried with Hamilton. It was over.
There was no reason to suspect him, Joshua hoped, despite the feud between him and the Hamilton family. Ham had plenty of enemies and the deputy had no evidence.
“C’mon,” he commanded his littlest brother, who was in truth a half inch taller than Joshua. “Stop slathering over a pretty girl and put your mind on business.”
“What business?” Jordan gave his girl a shrug, as if to say, Who knows what my brother is angry at now? The boy gave her a salute while Joshua pulled him away by the collar.
“It’s time you learned some family responsibility. When we get home, you and I have tracking to do. Now get the horses and sleigh before I cuff your ears, boy.”
“Right away, your majesty.” Jordan gave a regal bow before he slouched away in his loose-limbed, carefree manner.
Someone should have swatted that boy on the bottom more when he was young. Joshua pretended it bothered him to no end and he barked out orders for Jordan to hurry up. If the storm got any worse, they’d have a hell of a time getting home, much less getting to work and to the herd needing his protection.
But the livestock weren’t the only ones needing him.
Was Claire Hamilton all right? Worry clutched his chest and he glanced over his shoulder. Granny was holding a flask to Claire’s lips and speaking to her softly. A swallow of Irish whiskey wasn’t likely to cure anything, but she obeyed, choking and gasping. Granny knelt to gather the widow’s hands in her own, speaking low and soft to her.
Maybe Granny could look after her.
It was a bracing thought. He felt Logan’s gaze boring into his back. The lawman was staring hard. Did he think he would be able to see Joshua’s secrets if he looked long enough? Troubled that the deputy continued to observe him, he forced a slow breath through his teeth and kept moving easy and slow.
I’ve got to act like nothing happened. I came to pay my respects, and now I’m dragging my lazy brother home. Like he always did. Surely that was all the lawman would be able to see. Instead of Joshua’s guilt.
“What’s your hurry?” Jordan grumbled as Joshua gave him a shove in the direction of the tethered horses. “I had Felicity Potter taking a sparkin’ to me. Do you know how long I’ve had to work for that?”
“You? Work?” That was a laugh. Joshua forced his attention ahead, instead of behind him. “Get the horses ready and don’t complain to me about work.”
“Golly, what’s put you in a bad mood?” He went about his work, sloppy as usual.
The boy was gonna have to grow up sometime. Shaking his head, Joshua swept the snow from the sleigh cover. He didn’t mind giving up a life of marriage and restriction for the responsibility of taking over after their father’s shocking death.
He’d done what he had to do, making sure the land and animals were managed and the family provided for and protected. But it was more than a one-man job these days.
He sensed the presence behind him a heartbeat before he heard the faint ring of spurs and the pad of a footfall.
“Joshua Gable.” The words carried on the lethal wind, cold and dark. “You’re a dead man.”
His blood iced at the sight of Reed Hamilton, a dark presence more shadow than substance in the thick haze of snowfall. He held loaded revolvers in each hand aimed, dead center, at Joshua’s heart.
Joshua didn’t hesitate. He drew.

Chapter Two
Claire Hamilton couldn’t make the nausea go away, nor the way her head kept feeling as if it were swinging to the right and then the left, like a tree branch caught in the clutches of a spring tornado. Not even the burning nastiness of Mrs. Adelaide Gable’s whiskey could clear her head.
Of course, if she’d known it was liquor, she never would have taken a swig. She’d thought the elderly widow had handed her water.
“Your color is coming back some, my dear.”
Mrs. Gable gave a grandmotherly pat on the side of her face, which was more of a slap. Claire’s eyes watered.
The elderly lady grinned. “That’s more like it. It’s always good to have a bit of fight in you. Now stand up. I’ve got you.”
Mrs. Gable’s gruff kindness heartened her. She was in agony from being around so many people. From having to accept condolences that did not come across as sincere. How could they? She’d done her best, but surely her bruises could only be so well disguised.
Anybody who’d met Ham didn’t particularly like him. Decent folk, anyway.
She was grateful for the older woman’s help. Her quiet assessment was knowing, though she couldn’t guess that it wasn’t grief that troubled her, but a miscarriage. Mrs. Gable’s grip was surprisingly strong for a woman of her advanced years, but then Adelaide Gable was no typical lady. Everyone knew that. She’d raised her sons after the death of her husband and had the respect of nearly everyone in the county. Her bright green eyes had seen a lot in her life and she seemed omniscient.
“Here’s the doc, in case you’d rather stay clear of him.” Mrs. Gable’s rough whisper was loud enough to carry over to Ham’s mother.
It was a fine thing that her mother-in-law was preoccupied by her own grief and distracted by her own circle of comforters. She was quieter now, after having tried to hurt Joshua. The doctor had come. He was on the far side of the crowd surrounding Opal and she could not see him directly, but he was essentially only a few steps away.
She was supposed to be resting, and surely that would be the first thing out of the doctor’s mouth, well-meaning and all. He could easily come to her and ask how she was feeling. What if he mentioned the miscarriage?
The sorrow was blacker than any she’d known, and while she was not grieving her husband, she was mourning her baby. She felt as if some vital part of her had been cut out and she was empty as a forgotten cup gathering dust.
No, she could not take the doctor’s kindness. Memories of his face swam before her eyes, how concerned he’d been. How his was the only kindness she’d known aside from Joshua’s that night, and she could not open her heart. It was too raw, and if Opal overheard, then think of the outcry she would make.
Claire knew the only way she would be all right was if she didn’t dwell on her loss.
It was better to keep her real grief to herself. And that gave her the strength to pick up her right foot, despite the sharp pain in her lower stomach.
It’s only from emotional upset and being up too long, she told herself but feared it was worse. She resisted the urge to lay her hand on her stomach, as if minimizing the movement of her torso would bring less pain.
But such a movement would surely be noticed by one of Ham’s brothers. Rick was watching her beneath the brim of his stained hat, his black eyes as inhuman as a rat’s. Just like her husband’s eyes had been.
It’s almost as if he’s still watching me. She shivered and slid her hands into her coat pockets and kept them there. She limped through the worsening storm, looking like the grieving widow they all expected her to be.
A sudden shout rang through the snow-thick air. What was going on? She became aware that there was some scuffle. A crowd had gathered around so that she couldn’t see. She could barely focus on the ground in front of her, as flakes clung to her lashes and the downpour pounded so hard the snow closed in like a shroud.
Her big toe stubbed what felt like a rock, and she stumbled. Adelaide’s grip tightened on her wrist, keeping her upright. Pain sizzled like lightning up her leg, into her groin and into the very center of her belly.
She needed to get home. Everything would be all right if she could reach the sleigh and get the horses headed home. In a storm like this they would hurry there on their own, without a lot of guidance from her.
Alone, she’d be able to close her eyes, rest her head. That’s all she needed.
Then the deputy ran past and folks started yelling. Two gunshots fired, popping overhead like thunderclaps. Then she saw the shadows of two men through the snowy mist. One was facedown on the ground, felled by a wide-shouldered man who had his back to her.
She took a step closer and knew it was Joshua Gable. She could make out only his impressive silhouette. Shrouded with white, covered with snow shadow, he was no less awe-inspiring. His over-six-foot height was matched by his strong, working-man’s musculature. He held his attacker down with one boot dug into the smaller man’s back and cradled a Colt .45 in one hand, cocked and with his finger resting on the trigger.
A truly powerful man.
“Joshua!” Adelaide polarized with fear for her grandson. “Oh, you must excuse me, dear. That’s my boy, and he’s in trouble!”
Claire hardly realized the elderly lady was talking. She’d forgotten Mrs. Gable was even holding on to her. Her entire being seemed to focus on the smoking revolvers gleaming black in the pure snow, fallen from the downed man’s grip. She recognized the elaborate ironwork on the handle. That was Reed’s gun.
Reed had thought to attack a Gable? What, was he drunk, too? As if in answer, the powerful scent of the cheapest whiskey wafted up on the cutting wind. Reed was a coward, and even she could glance at the boot tracks already filling with snow to see that Reed had come up on Joshua from behind. Reed could have killed him.
The deputy was there, at Joshua’s side, and the men began to argue. Heated words melded together like flames in a growing fire and all she could hear were the hard brutal threats and accusations. Onlookers became involved, and Ham’s other brother, Rick, shouldered in, reaching to draw his gun.
In a flash, Joshua reached out and yanked the revolver from Rick’s holster. The crowd hushed, but they shouldn’t be surprised by Gable’s agility. Claire had seen him in action before.
Don’t remember, she commanded, taking a wobbling step sideways and leaning heavily against a tree trunk. Her forehead rapped on the thick limb—she didn’t notice it. Haze misted her vision and everything went white. Gasping, feeling strangely sick, she rested and counted the thrum of her heartbeats loud in her ears.
No one knew of that night. Only she and Joshua.
As if he could sense that she was thinking about him, his shoulders tensed and he turned toward her enough that he could see her over the impressive ledge of his shoulder. There was no looking around to find her in the murky snowfall. His eyes snapped to hers as if by destiny.
Look away, every instinct within her shouted. But logic told her the whiteout conditions would keep others from noticing. She indulged a long moment while their gazes remained bound.
Was he sorry? she wondered. Was he wishing he’d never met her and Ham on the road that dark night? Look at the trouble it had caused him.
The deputy leaned close to speak with him, a somber matter judging by the tight lock of the lawman’s jaw. Coop Logan had come often to her and Ham’s high country ranch, not that she saw him. When he did ride up to the house, he didn’t come to the front door like decent company but kept to the back door.
Mostly, he waited at the corner where the hill sloped steeply downward and out of sight to the prairie below. Ham would make his way from the house or the barn. What they spoke about or the purpose of the lawman’s calls, she couldn’t say. She wondered if he would arrest Ham’s brothers, as he obviously ought to, for drawing and firing guns on innocent people.
Well, perhaps not so innocent, she remembered with a painful wince. And she felt the punch of it move through her and reflect in Joshua Gable’s face. A muscle worked in his jaw and he gave a barely noticeable nudge of his head toward the street, where her horses and sleigh waited.
He wanted her to go home. First, she had something to say to the deputy. She grabbed Logan by the forearm and yanked down the hand holding metal cuffs.
“My brothers-in-law are in the wrong and you know it.” She spoke loudly, scolding him, and she was surprised how her voice carried high above the others’, silencing them. “They’ve been drinking. Everyone here can smell it. They must have been at it all night. Or worse.”
“This is hardly a matter for a woman.” The lawman said the last word with contempt. “Gable here is holding a gun on your brothers—”
“Former brothers-in-law,” she corrected. An important distinction in her mind. “I am no longer part of that family. Let Mr. Gable go.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have some questions I need to ask him.”
“And not Reed? Look at him. Even I can see he tried to shoot Mr. Gable in the back.”
Joshua stepped forward, cutting between her and the deputy. “Mrs. Hamilton, it would be wise if you left this to me. Go home. You must need rest.”
His words were not condescending, but they were not kind. Not that he could be in front of these men. She and Joshua were two people who did not know each other—except for the night Ham died.
The last thing she wanted was for anyone to start wondering about how she knew Joshua. Especially the deputy. She could not ever risk putting this man in danger, not the only man who’d ever stood up for her.
She eased back, already forgotten by the lawman and Ham’s brothers arguing. Pain spasmed like a fist, opening and closing low in her abdomen and the pain traversed down the front of her thighs.
Time to do as Joshua asked, she figured as she walked carefully through the uneven accumulation of snow. Breathing carefully, she felt only the worst of pain when her shoe slipped or the snow gave beneath her heel.
It looked as if Adelaide Gable had joined the fray and the deputy was forced to deal with the real wrongdoers.
That was a change around here. Not that she was going to get used to it. Claire stopped to swipe the snow from her lashes. The street wasn’t far. She could make out the dark humps of horses and vehicles ahead. And a bright flash of red where she’d tied her team.
Trouble. She’d lived with Ham long enough to know the impending feel of it. Easing onto the street, she came close enough to see Ham’s mother being helped into the sleigh—Claire’s sleigh. And the matched bay horses gave nervous sidesteps beneath their blankets.
Those are my horses now, she thought, feeling rage roll through her. Rage that she’d kept contained during the funeral. Rage she’d held back instead of grabbing the nearby shovel, left by the grave diggers, to beat the casket with all her strength. That man had made her lose her child. He’d tormented her from the moment she’d stepped away from the church, a hopeful and dreamy new bride.
And his family had cheerfully made her miserable days since even more unbearable. And to think that woman, that greedy mother of his, was helping herself to the horses Claire had saved more times than she could count due to Ham’s careless treatment of them.
A new woman rose within her like the leading edge of a blizzard. She was no longer a modest and obedient wife but a widow of her own determination. She grabbed Thor’s bridle by the bit and held him firm. “Where do you think you are going?”
Opal had the audacity to look insulted. “Home. I’m not well.”
“Here you go, Mother.” The youngest Hamilton, a sister a few years older than Claire, was quick to slide in beside her mother and seize control of the reins. “Claire, scat. You’re in our way.”
“You’re in my sleigh. And these are my horses.”
“My dear brother would not want these fine animals to fall to you.” Annabelle lifted her dainty chin. She’d married well and had the attitude to prove it…and the avarice. It seemed to taint her sneer as she narrowed her small black eyes. “You are nothing but a mistake Ham never should have made. Move aside or I’ll run you down.”
“You will do no such thing.” Thor obeyed her, and well he should, since they were friends, and she held his bridle hard, pulling downward.
Annabelle gave the thick reins a resounding smack. The big gelding whinnied and shied, as Claire knew he would. She spoke low to him, keeping him in place, and by association, his smaller brother, Loki, who was harnessed to him.
“Release the horse!” Annabelle demanded. “Or I shall get out and be forced to—”
“What? I have shoveled out Ham’s horse barn twice daily since I married him.” While Opal moaned in her grief, renewed by the sound of Ham’s name being spoken, Claire bent, despite difficulty and the pain in her midsection.
She unbuckled the single strap that held the whiffletrees to the traces and forcefully met Annabelle’s eyes. “Come and get them if you can.”
She wasn’t surprised Ham’s family turned into vultures, only that they were trying to take what they could so soon.
Claire stepped up onto the sturdy tracing between the horses and, with a snap, yanked the leather straps from Annabelle’s kid-gloved hands. Ignoring her fierce, angry shouts and Opal’s sobs, she eased onto Thor’s back and sent him and Loki into a fast walk.
Pain jolted through her. It was far too much pain. “You need rest,” kindly Doc Haskins had said. “Complete bed rest. No stress or strain. No housework and no ranch work. No upset of any kind.”
She was only supposed to be up for the funeral. But now she wished she’d never come. She had thought saying goodbye to Ham would give her the chance to cast off the painful memories as well, but it had not worked.
At least she could go home now. The thought of her own bed and the soft flannel sheets made her moan with longing. Exhaustion settled like lead into the marrow of her bones. She had to escape, not only her relatives, but everything.
Sadness overwhelmed her, and to her disappointment, there was no quick escape. Already the swarm of the funeral crowd was buzzing close to the streets, and she drew Thor and Loki to a halt.
Why was everyone stopping? She strained to see over the big covered surrey in front of her. A sled had skidded off the road into the ditch at the crossroads that made up the trading post, the only civilization aside from the church on this remote corner of the county. The vehicle and team had caused a blockage on the only place where the two main roads through the county intersected. They were already receiving help from others nearby, although the traffic wasn’t likely to begin moving anytime soon.
Of course. Annabelle was still shouting, and she sounded closer. Claire didn’t have the energy to spare to look over her shoulder and in truth, she didn’t care. They could have the sleigh, but these were her horses. Hers alone.
And my friends, she thought as she ran her gloved hand along Thor’s sleek neck.
The warmth of him permeated the wool, reminding her of what mattered. She had survived. She was still here. Ham had not harmed the deepest part of her. Three years ago on a day more bleak than this, she’d become a bride and naive enough to believe she would be starting a wonderful new life.
Looking back, it was hard to believe she could have been that dreamy girl. She closed her eyes, and she could almost see the young woman who had worked a double shift every day for two months at the boardinghouse, cleaning and doing laundry to scrape enough money together to buy fabric and notions for a beautiful wedding dress.
That dress was the nicest thing she’d ever owned in her life or in her marriage since. She’d loved the delicate sage lawn with the tiniest little embroidered rosebuds of matching sage that looked as fine as anything the wealthier ladies in town wore. And the dainty pearl buttons hadn’t been real mother-of-pearl, but they’d looked as if they were. And that had been enough. She’d worn it for Ham, to mark the momentous honor of becoming a bride, his bride.
As that young woman spoke the vows in the echoing chill of the sanctuary, she’d meant them with all her heart. She fully intended to love and cherish, honor and obey her very dashing husband.
Obey—she hadn’t realized the impact of that one four-letter word until later. In the church holding Ham’s hand, her entire being had shone with happiness and hope for a good future.
When the minister had proclaimed them man and wife, she’d nearly floated to the ceiling. She’d been an orphan and little more than a servant in her uncle’s home, but now she had a family. A home. A fine man to love.
Claire’s heart wrenched with sorrow so deep and dark she could no longer see the present, only the past. The memory of that happy young woman seemed to ride by like a ghost and then became forever lost in the tenacious downpour of snow. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear the joyful music of that doomed bride’s laughter.
“Claire.”
She instinctively turned at the sound of the rumbling baritone. Joshua Gable was nothing more than a hint of a shadow in the shroud of snowfall, and then a silhouette of horse and rider, confident and powerful as he rode closer, and then he was beside her, dusted with white, and flesh-and-blood real.
What a man. How he had sneaked up on her, she didn’t know. She could feel his nearness like a summer’s wind against her skin. And now she could sense him like a whisper in her soul—a whisper she didn’t want.
Like that night, he came to her out of a storm, and although she was free from her marriage, she was not free from her fear. Joshua Gable wanted something. He was a man. She’d learned the hard way there were no heroes left to believe in. True love did not exist except in fairy tales.
She was no longer a girl of eighteen. She was a woman who’d learned the truth about life and marriage. She was a widow with experience and hard lessons learned. She would never believe in a man again.
Not even in Joshua Gable, who was hardworking and sincere and had shown her kindness on a night without mercy.
But that was over now, and they could never speak of it again. Before he could say another word, she shook her head, stopping him from saying whatever he’d come to her to say.
With a twist of the reins, she guided the horses down into the fallow field siding the road and nosed them toward home, grateful for the storm that whipped around her in a swirl of white and haze, stealing her from Joshua’s sight.
She didn’t look back.

Chapter Three
Claire didn’t know where she was or if the horses had been able to find the way, for the snow was falling so hard she couldn’t see the tips of Thor’s ears. She only knew the storm was worsening. And so was the pain knifing from her womb and radiating down her inner thighs. Unbearable ripping pain.
I’m just tired, that’s all. She clung stubbornly to that thought as tightly as she gripped the leather top of Thor’s shoulder harness. She needed to get home and lie down. Rest, just like the doc said. And then she’d be fine.
She was up too soon after losing the baby, that was all. She willed the pain to stop. Willed it with all of her strength, all of her being. The rock of the giant horse’s gait lanced through her midsection. If she could make it home, that’s what she needed. But how far?
The prairie stretched out around her, lost in the blinding whiteout. She couldn’t tell exactly how far she’d already come. The snow scrubbed like ice at her eyes as the storm worsened. Gradually she could see nothing but endless white, whirling snow. Not even her own mittens in front of her face.
Thor will get me home. The thought sustained her. Time had passed—how much she didn’t know, but enough that they had to be nearly home. And that meant rest.
Her bed was waiting, the feather mattress would feel like a cloud after this hard ride, and the flannel sheets and thick goose-down comforter as warm as melted butter. She’d lay her head on her feather pillow and let her heavy eyelids drift shut.
Thor’s pace seemed to pick up. Maybe he sensed her need. That would explain why the pain came more quickly. And if the pain changed from hurt to agony, from agony to killing, then it was because she was tired. And if she felt warm instead of cold and then hotter, it was her desperation.
We’re almost home, she thought, surprised at how hard it was to breathe. Her pulse drummed in her ears and her head seemed to throb with it. Air rasped into her lungs. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.
Maybe it was the storm. Or the cold. She didn’t know. Or the shock of seeing Joshua Gable at the funeral. Of having him act as if nothing had gone on between them, as if he hadn’t roped Ham like a steer and berated him for his cruel treatment of her. He hadn’t deserved Ham pulling a gun on him, and he’d defended himself. He’d defended her.
Joshua Gable’s gunshot had been the cause of Ham’s death, but she wasn’t going to tell that to anyone.
Thor’s gait became horribly jarring. It couldn’t be the pain was getting worse. No, she couldn’t allow that thought. Because she had to hold on. She’d lost her baby, she didn’t want to lose her life.
A pain clamped like a vulture’s claw and then squeezed. Talons dug deep into her insides, tearing. Ripping. Warmth slid from her body. No, after all she had survived—Ham’s treatment and beatings and the wagon accident, her miscarriage and now this, she would not give up now. She buried her face in the horse’s ice-caked mane and gritted her teeth, hanging on with all her might.
She tried to hold back the next pain, but it was too strong, an enemy too big to fight or to placate. A sickening wave of nausea washed through her and she fought that down, too. She would not give in. She’d will the contractions to stop, the warm seep of blood to cease. She was going to be okay. She had to be.
Agony seized her from the inside, the talons turning into something more monstrous. It was as if her entire abdomen was being vised from the inside out, and the torture blinded her. Seemed to enter every inch of her body until she was screaming helplessly.
She was slipping, her arms and hands clutched Thor’s harness but her muscles turned watery. Her strength drained away and she was sliding down the horse’s flank, falling like the ruthless snow, tumbling until she hit the unforgiving ground.
Someone help me. The vise within her twisted hard. There was only the bright flash of white sparks before her eyes and then she felt the vising gain strength. She lay helpless on the ground, shrouded by snow. Alone.
The physical pain tearing like a hungry predator at her flesh was nothing, nothing at all. Her heart was shattering, and that pain was why she cried out in the worsening storm, why the icy crust of snow beneath her or the dangerous cold did not hurt her.
Unable to move, lost and alone, feeling the life’s blood drain out of her, she listened to the storm rage on, cruel and lethal, as if there was no more hope in this bleak and bitter world.
Joshua cursed the timing of the storm. No, it couldn’t blow over, not on this day when responsibility weighed like an anvil around his throat. The blasted storm seemed to be gathering speed for an all-out blizzard.
It was too early in the year. He’d prepared for bad weather early. This was Montana Territory, and unforgiving storms were a possibility every year. He considered himself a top-notch rancher who accounted for every possibility, but not today. He had some things to say to Claire Hamilton and they needed to be said now. Today. Before Logan or Ham’s brothers decided to make good on their threats to find the truth.
The truth would stay buried with Ham, and Joshua would make damn sure of it. But nothing had been that simple. Ham’s brothers had made it clear they didn’t like him, yet how did either of them know he’d been out Ham’s way that night? Claire. He had to talk to her. He had to know what she might have said—either intentionally or by mistake.
The widow wasn’t his only problem. As Joshua pulled his hands out of his coat pockets to shake the thick layer of iced snow from his muffler and hat, he figured his brother and grandmother ought to have reached the shelter of home by now. His brother—that troubled Joshua, too.
The boy had taken one of the horses, leaving the mare of the matched team to pull Granny’s sleigh to the family ranch. But his younger brother knew something was amiss.
“I thought you had a fire beneath your britches to get chores done,” Jordan had observed, slouched as usual in the seat. “Now you’re headin’ off and orderin’ me to drive Granny home?”
He had been too irritated, Joshua realized in hindsight as he jammed his fists back into his pockets. “I have things that need seein’ to.”
“Things.” Jordan had sounded doubtful as he’d exerted enough effort to shake the snow from his hat brim. “Why in the hell are you watchin’ the road to the mountains? Maybe you could enlighten me, oh lord and master.”
“At least you acknowledge my supremacy,” Joshua had ground out, his fury rising at his brother’s pesky questions. Of course he was in charge. Where would they be if Jordan had taken over the reins of the family? They’d all be starved, homeless and slouching. “Just follow orders and take Granny home. There’s something I gotta do.”
“What? We’re heading into the mountains, eh? Agggh!” Jordan slugged the dashboard in frustration. “I can’t believe you’re doin’ this! I know where you’re going.”
I should have left the conversation there, Joshua thought as he nudged his left spur gently against General’s flank, keeping him on the road that was nearly impossible to see. I should have let him think what he wanted instead of tipping my hand. And now…
A hard gust of wind lashed against him, driving ice through the layers of fur, wool and flannel. Joshua shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. If Jordan guessed any of the truth, then an innocent woman would go to jail, for the simple fact of defending herself. For what other reason could gentle Claire Hamilton have killed her husband?
He remembered the image of that night, when Ham had first come into sight with his arm back holding a whip ready to strike the fallen woman. Why, he should have killed the man himself and saved her the trouble.
Bile filled his throat. Father had always been one to look the other way, not to get involved in other fools’ problems, and look where it had gotten him, shot in the back and left to bleed out in the far grazing fields. Playing it safe had not protected Father one bit. And yet, matters could not have been worse if he had taken aim and pulled the trigger instead of Claire. It was a mess.
But like this blizzard, it would soon pass and be forgotten. What he had to do was make sure of it.
General had veered off the road again, fetlock-deep in drifting snow. It wasn’t fair to drag the horse out in this. He’d put in a hard day hauling yesterday. Riding into the brunt of the storm was wearing on him. Joshua took his hand out of his pocket to pat the gelding’s neck, encouraging him. He’d make sure the horse got warmed mash as soon as they got home.
“We gotta keep going, fella.”
When the gelding didn’t respond to knee pressure or a flat edge of the spur, he lifted the reins from the saddle horn, shook off the caked snow, and added pressure to the bit.
General sidestepped to a halt. His opinion was clear. He didn’t like the storm any more than Joshua did.
“Sorry, buddy, we gotta—”
Was it his imagination, or did the wind have a strange keel to it? He stopped and cocked his ear. There was something in the wind, a low note to the eerie howling of the wind. A horse? A rider in trouble? “General, you are a fine horse. You take me to ’em.”
He gave the gelding his head, and the big animal stumbled in the drifts of snow and hidden clumps of dead buffalo grass. As if the storm were a living thing, determined to hold them back, the wind pummeled them, driving the snow horizontal, closing them off from the world.
While he knew the grand rise of the Rocky Mountains ought to be jutting straight up from the prairie floor directly ahead, he could see only an endless curtain of gray-white that fell around him, draping him from the rest of the world.
It was damn dangerous letting General wander off the road. More good men than he could count had become lost in weather like this. The sounds of the wind and the thickly blowing snow confused a man’s sense of direction and isolated him from every visual landmark. A man would wander off course and freeze to death, sometimes having come within a few feet of his own house or barn.
But one thing was certain—if he didn’t help, then whoever or whatever was in trouble was facing a death sentence.
He did his best to fix in his mind the position of the road. If he could find the road and keep to it, then eventually it would lead him to shelter. If he could survive the below-zero winds.
General was a well-trained horse, a pure Morgan, strong, sturdy and smart as a whip. He had good horse instincts, and they served both of them well as he pricked his ears, listening. The wind seemed to be teasing them with its sound. It had become a living thing, a lethal force, allowing them a hint of sound and then blowing it away.
But General was true—he halted abruptly and stood. Whatever he found was at his feet.
“Good boy.” Joshua dismounted, stiff from the cold, and without a saddle beneath him, slid easily to the ground. He sank into snow well over his ankles. He couldn’t see a thing. “What did you find, boy?”
Then he heard it—a faint nicker. Not a nicker exactly, but it was some animal in trouble. Joshua trudged forward, keeping a hand on General to guide him along. A shadow moved in the endless swirl of snow. A big Clydesdale with his head hung low lumbered out of the shadows and bumped confused into Joshua.
The impact nearly knocked him off his feet. Joshua realized the animal was panicked and suffocating. How long he’d been standing in this was anyone’s guess. And he was not alone. Another draft horse huddled behind him, looking even more frightened.
All it took was a hand to the animal’s frozen muzzle and most of the snow that had iced to his warm nostrils broke away. The workhorse shook his head, his sides heaving in strong currents of air.
I hate to think what would have happened to you, fella. Joshua prided himself on his no-nonsense toughness, but he couldn’t abide the thought of any animal suffering. He caught the Clydesdale’s thick reins and realized they were driving reins. He’d been harnessed to something but was loose now.
With the shadows of the storm and the thick mantle of white on the animal’s coat, he couldn’t make out the color of the big boy’s coat, but there was something familiar. Neck-pricking familiar.
“You’re not out here alone, are you, boy?” In the instant it took for Joshua to puzzle out the possibilities—a sleigh accident, a runaway animal, vandals—none of them felt right. The big horse sank his teeth in Joshua’s jacket hem and pulled.
“Hey!” He lifted his arm to try to pry away, but then he realized the horse was deliberately pulling him along. What a loyal friend this horse was. Instead of running off to find shelter and survive, the big fella had stuck with his master. That meant someone was hurt—
And then realization hit him like the full-force wind, and he stumbled. The horse—that was a star on his forehead, wasn’t it? The horse Claire had ridden off on had the same markings. Claire. What had happened to her? If those brothers of Ham’s had slipped away and followed her…
Fury roared through him until he felt ten feet tall and powerful enough that no storm could hamper him. He followed the horse a few more feet and there, sprawled in the snow, looking as if part of the rumpled prairie, was a form.
Claire.
Frigid shock washed through him and he dropped to his knees. Expecting the worst, already seeing her dead frozen face in his mind’s eye, he gently laid his gloved hand on her snow-covered shoulder.
Was she breathing? Was she alive? Agony twisted through him as he wrestled with his glove. Ice crackled, and he finally sank his teeth into the loose wool around his fingertips and yanked. The instant his warmed skin was exposed, the vicious cold sank into it. He ignored the pain as he slipped his fingers beneath the layers of her wraps and felt along the cool satin of her neck for her pulse.
Nothing.
Hell. He didn’t know if his fingers were too numb to feel her pulse, or if there wasn’t one to feel. He suspected it was the latter, and sorrow cleaved through him. He had to cover his face, had to take a breath before he could try to figure out what to do. What had happened here? She’d been pale and weak, he’d remembered that from the funeral. But Granny never would have let her go if she’d been truly ill.
Had it been the Hamiltons? Had they done something to her? Did they suspect the truth? Is that why they’d followed her? But how could the boys have gotten ahead of him on the road, when he’d left them behind arguing things out with the deputy? Well, they could know a shortcut.
The road was the long way around—there was no telling how fast they could have caught up with her had they disregarded property lines and ridden their horses through pastures and grazing land? What had those ruffians done? And to a helpless woman? Agony was torn from his chest as he swept the snow from her motionless form. She lay facedown, with her hands clutched beneath her as if she’d died in agony, her legs akimbo, her face turned away, her soft woolen outer wrapping iced stiff.
It took him a moment to realize the sheen of dark crimson staining the skirt and seeping upward through the snow was blood. A whole lot of it.
I’m so sorry, Claire.
She didn’t deserve this. No woman did. To be struck down and left alone to die. Misery coursed through him. I should have been with you. I should have protected you. He’d played a hand in the course of events. And he knew what the Hamilton brothers would do if they figured out the truth.
That made him responsible for her death, too. Sickened, he let the storm’s fury batter him. He’d failed. It had been a long time since he’d failed someone. He put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. I didn’t want this. Grief left him as cold as the blizzard. As the vicious winds rocked him, he vowed to take care of her now. The past couldn’t be changed.
Life once lost could not be brought back. And he couldn’t think of how he’d go on, knowing he’d failed to protect her. Knowing that his suspicions had been right.
The big Clydesdale nickered, nudging his mistress with his nose, an affectionate gesture. His head hung low and stayed there, his sadness palpable.
I can’t leave her here. Joshua gathered his strength. He’d take care of her from here on out. Too late, his conscience mocked him, as he leaned over her and caught sight of her face in profile, her skin nearly translucent, lying as still as an angel. With her dark lashes long and curled and the ethereal cut of her fine cheekbones and chin, she could have been a snow angel taken form. She’d been such a sweet thing, he thought, though he’d hardly known her.
Maybe it was just his wishful thinking that somewhere in this world there could be a kind and gentle woman, instead of one out for her own gain. Maybe it was how vulnerable she’d been that night he’d come to her aid and how small she seemed now as he gathered her into his arms.
Her lifeless body was still supple and as he adjusted her against his chest, he swore he felt a soft exhale of breath against the underside of his jaw, where his muffler had fallen away. But no, that had to be the feathery snow, for the sensation was cold, not warm.
He just couldn’t believe she was gone, that he was clinging to false hope. The Clydesdale lumbered at his side, his nostrils wide and sniffing over his mistress. An eerie trumpet of a neigh sounded from the big boy’s throat—one of pure sorrow.
General stood at attention, the good horse he was, and he did not balk or sidestep at the scent of blood and death. Joshua supposed some men would think it prudent to strap her body to the back of her horse, but he couldn’t bear it.
She’d died alone. She felt as cold as the wind against him, and seemed to seep a deeper cold into him, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. Hell, he was sick with regrets and grief. He hefted her onto General’s back—she didn’t weigh more than a hundredpound grain sack, and it saddened him as he climbed up behind her.
He gathered her into his arms, her weight falling softly against his chest. He fought a powerful thrust of emotion. His heart felt as desolate as the frozen plains as he turned General and struggled to find their tracks in the wild haze of falling snow.
General’s hoofprints were nearly swept clean. After a few yards, they were gone completely. He was alone with a dead woman and three horses, and no idea which way to safety or the open prairie.
He wasn’t a praying man. He’d lost faith in most things long ago. But a little help wouldn’t be unappreciated, he thought, as he tried to gauge if the wind had a direction—if it was coming from the mountains, west, then he could keep the wind straight at his back and he’d eventually come upon homesteads and, finally, town.
But no, fate wasn’t about to lend him a hand. The wind was twisting and swirling as the blizzard hit its momentum. A clap of thunder echoed overhead—a sure sign the storm was worsening. Even if he could find the road, the temperature was dropping. Well below zero, Joshua figured. He couldn’t sustain his body temperature long enough to reach town.
As for a homestead, there weren’t many on this desolate part of the Montana plains for this very reason. The winters were so brutal few could stick it out.
The only hope he had was to keep going. He’d climb off and walk if he had to. This would keep his blood pumping for a while. But it would only delay the inevitable. If he was as far from town as he figured he was, then he was a doomed man.
Maybe it was justice, he figured, as he brushed snow from Claire’s face, an eye for an eye. One life for another.
She relaxed against his throat and he felt it then, the faintest tickle.
Claire Hamilton was as still as the dead, but one thing was sure. It was impossible. He didn’t believe it even as he ripped off his glove and felt her pulse again—nothing. His fingers were too frozen, that’s what he told himself, even as he figured she had to be gone.
Then he felt it: a weak feathering against his wrist. She was breathing. She was alive.

Chapter Four
Alive. Barely. Joshua cursed the Hamiltons. Who else would have done this to her? The fierce weather would reveal no clue of where they were.
What was the good in finding her if they were lost? Already, he knew she was too cold. She might very well die before General could take two more steps. And the realization forced fear into his veins, then a calmer determination.
He’d not failed her yet. Strong with purpose, he gave General his head. The gelding had good horse sense. “Shelter,” he told the animal, although he knew the wind snatched the words away so that the horse could not hear them.
Cold coiled tight in Josh’s guts as he cradled the widow against his chest. He’d will warmth into her cold body if he could. He’d will life. If they could find a place to weather the storm, perhaps he could save her. Warm her up and tend her wounds and…Who was he kidding? he thought bitterly as General came to a dead halt. They were lost on the open prairie.
Now what? Joshua looked to his right and then his left. Saw only a gray-white shroud. Ahead he could not make out the General’s head—his dark neck rose up into the swirling whiteness and disappeared.
Behind them, he knew Claire’s Clydesdales were there, obediently following their mistress, but he could see nothing of the great animals. If the wind stopped, then they’d have a fighting chance. But as the blizzard raged, there was no change. No way to be sure of a direction.
Their survival was up to him. The horse was confused, and that had been Josh’s last hope. Now, he had to pick—right or left, not knowing if it was north or if it was any other bearing. It won’t matter, he thought sadly, as he lifted one hand from Claire’s limp body to break away at the ice massed over his muffler.
As he rewrapped his muffler, he was intensely aware of the woman in his arms, her weight almost as nonexistent as her life. He brushed the accumulating snow from her head, shoulders and face, and turned the horses right. These efforts might be in vain, Joshua figured as he urged General to a faster pace, but he would not be like some who curled up into the snow to let the blizzard win. He would not go without a fight.
His will was iron strong as he bowed his head into the wind.
Awareness came to her in small pieces.
Claire heard the wind first, the eerie, alive sound of a winter wind at full force. This was the vicious wind that came from the far north and rode the glaciers of the rugged Rocky Mountain Range and swooped down gaining speed on the prairie below.
She recognized, too, the wild shriek of the blizzard as it drove snow in an impenetrable shield. Snow pellets hammered into the ground. The sounds confused her, because she could not remember where she was as she struggled toward consciousness.
But it was too far a length to reach, caught as if in a dreamlike place she feared Ham would find her. The wagon had broken apart, she remembered that clearly enough. The falling. The ruthless pain as she struck the earth. The lash of a whip against her flesh.
That must be why I hurt. She felt it suddenly as if she was slipping into a hot bath—although it was not water that rushed up from her toes and through her legs. Burrowed into her abdomen and raked upward until the backs of her eyes burned. Fiery sensation that was more than pain. Beyond pain.
Images returned. Of Ham drunk, towering over her, cursing and blaming her. She could smell the alcohol and his rage. Memory gripped her and it was good, because she at least knew what had happened. A wagon wreck. She’d fallen and was trapped, unable to move, because there was no way she could make her limbs or fingers stir. And the pain from his steel-toed boots hitting her ribs.
The baby. I must protect my child. She had to regain consciousness before the next blow struck. Her eyes could not see. Her lungs seemed unable to draw in enough air to speak with. She could not seem to make her mouth or tongue form a single word. Ice pellets struck her face as she clawed her way through the darkness of unconsciousness, struggling with all of her strength so that she had a chance. So her babe had a chance.
Fight, Claire. Fight. With all the strength in her soul, she struggled toward a single spot of grayness so far away in the darkness it was like the head of a pin.
But her will was strong and she focused on that single speck until it grew closer and larger still. Until it was the size of a tea saucer and she could see the hail of iced snow shooting from the gray heavens, feel the sharp, cold pricks on her face.
Then a shadow moved over her, shaped like the curving brim of a man’s hat. Ham? Was it Ham?
Panic pummeled her heart and it flapped in her chest. She was not yet strong enough to move. She was groggy, her body unresponsive, heavy and floppy like a rag doll’s. Terror rushed into her blood and she could feel it turn her veins to ice. Feel it drain the strength and the light. Her vision dimmed, and her entire being shouted at the injustice of it. The unfairness.
No! She had to fight. But the darkness was taking her, leaving her helpless as she awaited Ham’s next blow—by whip or fist or boot.
And then a man’s face moved into the fading circle of her sight. It wasn’t Ham’s face. This man had a strong square jaw, unshaved and rough with a few days’ growth. Brackets etched into the corners of his tight, almost harsh-looking mouth. High cheekbones and eyes the color of steel.
Joshua Gable. Realization lifted her up and she was floating away into the void again. Awareness faded even as she dared to hope that he’d come to save her.
I can’t take this anymore. Joshua gritted his teeth, although he couldn’t actually feel them. He was quaking all the way to the core of his bones.
He’d been this cold once—when he’d been hauling hay to the livestock and got caught in a blizzard with Pa. They’d made it home by luck and by good old common sense. He was using his best judgment, but that was no reassurance.
He could have been riding for ten minutes or two hours. He couldn’t tell. Time meant nothing. Distance meant nothing.
If the storm didn’t let up soon, the horse was going to freeze out from beneath him. General’s gait had slowed. There was no sense in even hoping the woman in his arms would live. The pale skin above the scarf he’d covered her face with was a deathly gray.
This was not the way he wanted it, either, he thought, unable to feel even her weight against his chest, her soft presence, her wool scarf. He couldn’t feel the horse beneath him. Or his feet—and to keep the blood flowing, he’d have to start walking soon. But no man had the strength to carry a woman through the foot-high drifts and against the pounding wind. He’d have to leave her on the horse—unprotected from the brunt of the storm.
He needed just a little help, a moment of intuition. An unmistakable landmark that he could make out through the thick curtain of ice. Anything, because chances were he’d missed the road. He’d missed any chance of finding shelter and was heading to the Canadian border, largely unsettled and uncharted.
Death. He’d never figured it would come for him this way. He’d been knocked upside the head by an angry bull a few times. That ought to have sent him into the afterlife, but he’d come out of it with nothing more troubling than a headache.
He’d been pinned against a barn wall by an irate stallion and kicked in the guts by an ornery mare. He had slipped on an ice patch trying to put out a chimney fire one winter years back. Those close calls had taught him he’d likely meet the same end doing his daily work.
He’d lived his life for his family. He did not regret it now, he thought as he brushed snow from Claire’s hood—she felt diminished more than she had earlier, as if something essential within her drained away with every minute that passed.
I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, he said silently to her, his thoughts weighed down by a passel of regrets. You deserved better. He leaned his cheek against her head, a gentle pressure, but the contact somehow tugged at his empty heart.
General stumbled, pitching forward. Joshua’s reactions were slow. He saw the horse going down and he knew what to do—he was kicking his foot out of the stirrup and swinging down, hauling Claire’s body against his chest, but not fast enough. His legs held no strength. His sluggish leg barely cleared the saddle. His knee wobbled as he tried to stand in the remaining stirrup and he couldn’t kick clear.
He went down with his horse, holding Claire up even as his ankle wrenched, caught in the stirrup, and snapped. His knees hit next, and the impact jarred through him like a body blow. He sank into his left hip, Claire unharmed but his body silent with shock.
He was too numb to feel the pain of whatever had happened to his ankle, but his body somehow knew and was reeling. A sick feeling built in his gut.
With the way his luck was going, he’d broken the damn thing. He couldn’t move it, and it was twisted nearly all the way around and stuck in the stirrup. He grabbed hold of his trousers at the knee and wrestled his foot free—and considering it came away at an odd angle only confirmed what he’d already guessed. He’d broken it—and good.
Hell. What else could go wrong? Couldn’t a man freeze to death in peace? Was it too much to ask for a moment of peace in this life, damn it!
Not that he planned to sit here and freeze to death, but a second without misery or disaster would be appreciated. He felt his temper lifting him up and he gave thanks for the tight laces on his boots. It served as enough of a splint to let him move forward one dragging step at a time.
A smart man would accept that he was licked and give in to it. But no, not Joshua Gable, he thought as he settled the woman’s weight against his shoulder.
Not that he’d ever been a smart man. He’d lived with his mother and his sister long enough to have endured numerous insults about his intelligence. You are simply a man, Betsy’s soft alto voice rang in his mind along with the huff of frustration.
You think just like your father, may he not rest in peace! Mother’s shrill drill-sergeant manner actually brought a smile to his hard and decidedly frozen face. He’d miss them the most, he decided as the storm swirled around him, breaking apart to give him a glimpse of the mighty snow-shrouded Rockies towering to his left—before the downfall curtained him again. As for Granny—
Was it his imagination, or was that her red plaid scarf he saw? There was a spot of color hovering in midair, but he couldn’t figure out why he could only see the corner of what looked to be a scarf.
The storm thinned, and he saw it more clearly. A red flannel saddle blanket on a gray horse. A man in a gray wool coat perched atop the saddle.
“Gable? Is that you?” Doc Haskins called out as the snow shrank back and a blinding light seared his eyes. The storm had broken.
Joshua’s knees hit the earth in disbelief, because it wasn’t from weakness or pain. See? He was one tough son of a bitch. Not even a blizzard could best him.
Even if it was a near thing, he admitted more truthfully to himself as he breathed deeply, battled off a wave of dizziness and took time to feel the sunlight wan on his face before he handed over the woman in his arms.
He knew by the look on the doc’s face that it was too little, too late.
She’d hovered like this before in the dreamworld of darkness. The only sense left to her was her hearing; all else had faded. She heard voices. Two men, talking low. Not Ham. She tried to remember what had happened to him, how drunk he’d been, how violent. She couldn’t recall. Only that she’d feared for her baby’s life and then someone had come—Joshua Gable—and driven him away. Shot the gun out of his hand, disarmed him and knocked him to the ground.
She remembered in a distant way how Mr. Gable had knelt at her side, his tentative touch to her shoulder meant to comfort her, to let her know she needn’t be afraid of him.
He’d protected her when she’d needed it the most. And while she’d witnessed the violence he was capable of, she saw too the kindness as he moved the broken piece of wood from the wagon that was pinning her down. Noticed the round of her stomach no longer disguised by the thick fall of her skirts, for the fabric was in disarray, and saw his pity.
Pity she did not need but knew this babe in her womb deserved. Consciousness had bled away as he’d gathered her into his arms and carried her. She’d remembered the last sounds of his boots crunching on the thick ice before silence reigned. And then awakening to an awareness of men’s voices.
Yes, that was what had happened, she figured out now. Mr. Joshua Gable had returned with the doc in tow.
The voices faded and returned and warmth came with it. Like a fire hotly burning. She could hear the crackling of the seasoned cedar popping in the stove. And water, hot, sweet, seeping into her bones, lighting a river of pain in her midsection that made her afraid for her babe.
She would endure any pain, any hardship, any loss. As long as her little one remained safe beneath her heart. Fierce love filled her and she held on when the clawing pain returned. Then the doctor laid something bitter on her tongue and the blackness reached out to imprison her. But nothing—nothing—could diminish this love for her baby.
Just when he thought the chilblains couldn’t get worse, they did. Joshua growled like a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation and he knew he was about as surly as one. He gulped down the bitter concoction Haskins had steeped for him. Nasty. The chalky, acrid taste clung to his tongue like ice to a roof and didn’t let go.
That didn’t improve his mood. The traveling pain in his feet and both hands could have been spikes being driven into his flesh over and over without end. Hardly pleasant. If it had been any other circumstance, he’d have roared in fury at the unrelenting pain, but the truth was, watching Claire Hamilton’s life fade had silenced him.
“She lost too much blood. Some women do after a miscarriage,” Doc said, his examination through as he washed up in the Hamiltons’ tiny kitchen. “I can’t imagine what she went through out there all alone. It’s lucky you found her when you did.”
“Luckier that you found us both when you did.”
He poured two fingers of Ham’s Jack Daniel’s into a cup and tossed it back. The fire in his stomach took some of his attention away from the pain in the rest of his battered body. If he kept working and living at this pace, it would be time to put him out to pasture before General, who he’d best go out and check on.
Better than trying to imagine what Claire Hamilton had suffered alone in the storm before he’d found her. Since it was all he could think about, a change of scenery might help. Because as bad as this pain was, it wasn’t enough to keep his gaze from wandering toward the front room, where a fire blazed in the big stone hearth and, on the other side of the brushed-velvet sofa, he knew Claire lay motionless.
An odd feeling burrowed into his chest. Figuring it for pity, he jumped off the chair with a groan, the chilblain pain spiking new and his ankle tormenting him enough to chase away the hollow of feeling deep in his chest. He wasn’t a man with feelings. He had one feeling—anger. And it drove him now as he lifted his jacket from the back of a chair.
But he hadn’t taken two limping steps before he swung northward to where he could see the widow on her back with her knees elevated, draped in heated blankets. The blood stilled in his veins. “My grandmother will come sit with her, if you think there’s time for that.”
“It’s hard to say why she’s lasted this long.” Haskins dried his hands on an embroidered towel and hung it back up on the dowel over the basin. “Are you gonna let me take a look at that ankle?”
“Maybe. When I get back from the barn.”
“You just keep walkin’ on it. That’s sure to make it better.” The doc rolled his eyes, as if he knew better.
Joshua had no time for a broken ankle. He had the last of the work to get done before the midwinter storms hit in earnest. Until Thanksgiving, a man could expect a lot of sunny days—not warm, mind you, but bright enough the snow would melt and give him plenty of time to finish up with leaky roofs and surprise chimney problems. Livestock moving and hauling in enough grain for the barn and supplies for the house. All of that required hard physical work. None of it would get done if he was favoring his ankle.
Why he didn’t head straight to the door between the front room and the kitchen, Joshua couldn’t explain. He found his boots heading north when they ought to turn east and the roaring heat from the hearth burned against his outer leg as he stared down at Claire.

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