By sunrise, Abigail Prescott was supposed to belong to Josiah Sterling.
Instead, before dawn, she lay beneath nearly three feet of fresh snow with her face against the frozen earth, her satin shoes torn open, and her lips turning blue.
For one peaceful moment, she thought death might be easier.
Then pain returned.
It began in her toes, though she could barely feel them anymore. Her fingers had stopped trembling some time ago, which frightened her because she remembered hearing somewhere that a person stopped shaking only when the body had begun giving up.
The emerald cloak wrapped around her shoulders was no longer green.
Snow had buried almost all of it.
The ponderosa pine behind her offered little shelter from the wind. Every gust tore powder from the ridge and threw it across her body until the world disappeared behind white.
Abigail tried to move.
Her legs did not answer.
“Please,” she whispered.
She did not know whether she was speaking to God, her mother, or her own stubborn body.
“Just a little farther.”
Nothing happened.
Her mother's voice came from memory.
Stay awake, Abby.
“I am.”
Her eyelids closed.
Abigail.
“I’m trying.”
She had been trying for hours.
Trying to outrun a wedding.
Trying to outrun a man.
Trying to outrun an agreement signed by her father at a polished mahogany desk while Josiah Sterling drank brandy and smiled as though he had just purchased another railroad spur.
Only one night earlier, the Prescott estate had been glowing.
White roses filled the entrance hall.
Silver lanterns lined the road.
Servants carried crates of champagne into the ballroom.
Upstairs, Abigail's wedding dress waited on a mannequin beside a pearl-edged veil chosen by Josiah.
He had chosen almost everything.
Flowers.
Music.
Menu.
Guests.
Photographer.
The room where she would dress.
The carriage they would take after the ceremony.
Even the way her hair was supposed to be pinned.
When Abigail objected, Josiah smiled.
“You will learn that marriage becomes much easier when one person makes the decisions.”
She had stared at him.
“And you imagine that person will always be you?”
He had touched one finger beneath her chin.
“I don't imagine it.”
She pulled away.
Josiah's smile disappeared.
That had been the moment Abigail finally understood.
Not that Josiah was arrogant. She already knew that.
Not that he was controlling. She knew that too.
The truth was simpler.
He genuinely believed ownership and marriage were nearly the same thing.
Her father knew.
That was worse.
Charles Prescott had once been a wealthy man.
The Prescott Mine had produced enough silver to build the largest home in Helena County, send Abigail's older brother east for university, and purchase imported furniture that her mother considered embarrassing.
Then everything changed.
A bad season.
A collapsed tunnel.
Legal disputes over water.
Debt.
More debt.
Josiah Sterling appeared at precisely the right moment.
First, he purchased the bank notes on the Prescott mine.
Then he demanded payment before winter ore could be shipped.
When Charles borrowed privately, Josiah purchased those debts too.
Then someone diverted the mountain water line feeding Prescott property.
Without water, processing stopped.
Workers left.
Creditors arrived.
By November, Charles Prescott owned a grand house with no money to heat half its rooms.
Then Josiah made his proposal.
“One marriage settles every outstanding obligation.”
He said it across Charles's study.
Abigail stood near the window.
Her father did not look at her.
Josiah continued.
“Your daughter becomes Mrs. Sterling. The mine remains under family management. Your house stays yours. No foreclosure.”
Abigail's hands turned cold.
“And if I refuse?”
Josiah looked toward her.
“You won't.”
She laughed once.
He did not.
Her father whispered, “Abby.”
That hurt more than Josiah's certainty.
She stared at Charles.
“No.”
He looked older than he had the week before.
“Please.”
“You are asking me to marry him.”
“I am asking you to save what your mother built with me.”
“My mother would never ask this.”
His face crumpled.
That was the cruelest part.
Her father was not heartless.
He was frightened.
And frightened men could still betray people they loved.
He signed.
Ink dried.
Josiah stood.
Then, once Charles had left the room, he approached Abigail.
“You belong to me now.”
Not you will be my wife.
Not I will take care of you.
You belong to me.
That sentence sent her running.
Just before midnight, Abigail stole an emerald velvet cloak from a guest room.
Beneath it she still wore the ivory dancing dress from the engagement supper.
She took no food.
No map.
No horse.
Horses would be noticed.
She slipped through the servants' entrance while musicians rehearsed in the ballroom.
The first mile was easy.
Fear carried her.
The second was harder.
Snow began.
By the third, her satin shoes had split.
Blood marked the path behind her.
At first Abigail felt relief watching snow cover it.
Then she understood the storm was not only hiding her trail from Josiah.
It was erasing every route back to safety.
She continued.
What else could she do?
At some point, she found the pine tree.
Then the ground.
Then nothing.
She did not know how long she had been unconscious when someone found her.
Simon Boone almost rode past.
His mare had already carried him nearly six miles from the cabin, and the storm was worsening faster than predicted.
Simon had spent most of the morning checking steel traps near Miller's Creek.
He disliked leaving animals trapped longer than necessary.
He disliked storms more.
As he turned toward home, his horse stopped.
“Move.”
The mare did not.
Her ears angled toward a cluster of trees.
Simon looked.
Nothing.
Then green.
Barely visible beneath snow.
He dismounted.
Twenty yards closer, the green became cloth.
Ten yards closer, he saw a hand.
Simon swore.
He knew dead people.
A mountain winter produced them with grim efficiency.
Lost hunters.
Drunks.
Travelers who believed confidence substituted for preparation.
This woman looked dead.
Then he touched her neck.
Pulse.
Weak.
But there.
Simon sat back.
“No.”
The woman did not respond.
He looked at the sky.
“Damn it.”
He could have ridden to Miller's settlement.
Too far.
His cabin was closer.
Still difficult.
He lifted her.
She was heavier than he expected.
Not a complaint.
Simply fact.
Simon was six feet five and built from thirty-eight years of mountain work. Carrying her was possible.
Keeping both of them alive while doing it was the problem.
He wrapped his fur coat around her.
Then climbed onto the horse with Abigail held against his chest.
The mare protested the added weight.
“Not today.”
They moved.
Twice Abigail stopped breathing long enough to frighten him.
The first time, Simon pressed two fingers against her neck.
Still there.
The second time, he leaned close.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
His voice hardened.
“Don't make me carry a corpse.”
Her eyelids moved.
Good.
He rode harder.
The cabin appeared through snowfall near afternoon.
Simon carried her inside.
He stripped away frozen outer layers only as far as necessary, wrapped her in blankets, heated stones, made broth, and waited.
She drifted in and out.
Sometimes she spoke.
Mostly nonsense.
Once she whispered, “Josiah.”
Simon filed the name away.
Another time she fought his hands when he tried changing wet blankets.
He released her immediately.
“All right.”
Her eyes remained closed.
“I ain't taking anything.”
She trembled.
“Just keeping you alive.”
By the second morning, fever replaced dangerous cold.
Simon slept in short intervals beside the stove.
He had not shared his cabin with another person for more than a few hours in years.
The silence felt different with someone breathing in the bed.
On the third morning, Abigail woke fully.
Simon was sitting beside the black iron stove cleaning a rifle.
Her eyes opened.
He felt the change before he saw it.
He turned.
She stared.
Fear arrived instantly.
Simon placed the rifle down.
“Easy.”
Abigail pushed backward.
“Where am I?”
“My cabin.”
Her hand found the iron poker beside the bed.
She pointed it at him.
Simon stopped.
“Who are you?”
“Simon Boone.”
“Don't come closer.”
“I won't.”
His hands lifted.
Abigail looked around.
Small cabin.
Frosted window.
Heavy blankets.
Her emerald cloak drying by the stove.
No ivory dress.
Her expression changed.
Simon understood.
“Your clothes were soaked.”
Her grip tightened.
“I changed what I had to.”