The first thing Caleb Ward saw was a wheel.
It stood nearly upright in the snow, half buried beneath a white drift twelve feet deep along the western side of Hollow Ridge.
For several seconds he did not understand what he was looking at.
Then the wind shifted.
A second wheel appeared.
Broken.
A piece of painted wood protruded from the snow farther down the ravine.
Then another.
Caleb stopped his horse.
The gelding trembled beneath him.
Snow had been falling for nearly eighteen hours, driven sideways by a mountain wind violent enough to erase tracks within minutes. Caleb had spent most of the morning searching for two cows that had broken through the north fence before the storm reached its worst.
He had found neither.
Instead, he had found a stagecoach.
Or what remained of one.
Caleb swung down from the saddle.
“Stay.”
The horse did not need convincing.
Caleb pulled his scarf higher over his beard and descended into the ravine.
Every step disappeared past his knees.
Near the wreckage, the snow reached his waist.
The stagecoach had left the mountain road, struck a cluster of pine trees, rolled twice, and shattered against the ravine floor.
One axle had snapped.
The roof was missing.
Trunks had burst open across the slope.
A woman's blue hat hung from a branch twenty feet above the ground.
Caleb's stomach tightened.
He had seen accidents before.
He knew what silence usually meant.
Still, he dug.
The driver was first.
Dead.
Caleb closed the man's eyes.
Two male passengers lay beneath the broken front compartment.
Dead as well.
One appeared to be a traveling salesman.
The other wore a railway coat.
Near the rear of the coach, Caleb found an older woman.
Gray hair.
Velvet hat.
Her body had gone rigid.
He pulled part of a blanket over her face.
Then he saw one more figure.
A woman.
Young.
Half buried beneath a broken bench.
Her dark hair had frozen against her cheek.
Snow coated the shoulders of what had once been an expensive blue traveling dress.
One glove remained on her left hand.
The other hand was bare and clenched around a torn strip of curtain.
Her lips were blue.
Caleb stared.
Nothing.
He turned away.
The storm screamed over the ridge.
He had taken three steps when something bothered him.
Not sound.
Movement.
Barely anything.
He looked back.
The woman's shoulder shifted.
A fraction.
Caleb froze.
He waited.
Nothing.
Then again.
The smallest rise beneath the ruined fabric of her dress.
A breath.
“No.”
He said it aloud.
Not because he wanted her dead.
Because he knew what keeping her alive would require.
His cabin was almost two miles away.
The road was impassable.
His horse could not safely descend into the ravine.
Carrying an unconscious adult woman through waist-deep snow in a blizzard was madness.
Caleb had survived eight years in the mountains largely because he respected the difference between courage and stupidity.
The woman's chest moved again.
Caleb swore.
“Don't do this.”
She did not respond.
“Damn you.”
He climbed back into the wreckage.
The bench pinning her leg was lighter than it looked.
He shoved it aside.
Then he slid one arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees.
She was heavier than the delicate society women who sometimes traveled through nearby towns.
Not enormous.
Not impossible.
Soft-bodied.
Solid.
Real.
Caleb lifted her.
Her head fell against his chest.
For a moment, her eyes fluttered beneath closed lids.
Then nothing.
“Stubborn, aren't you?”
He wrapped his heavy coat around her.
The cold struck him instantly.
He ignored it.
The first quarter mile nearly killed him.
Snow entered his boots.
His arms burned.
The woman's weight pulled at muscles already exhausted from the morning.
Twice he stumbled.
The second time, he dropped to one knee.
Her body shifted against him.
Caleb looked down.
“Still breathing?”
Nothing.
He lowered his face.
A faint whisper of air touched his cheek.
He stood again.
“Good.”
Another hundred yards.
Then two hundred.
Wind erased the world beyond fifteen feet.
Caleb kept moving by memory.
Pine.
Rock shelf.
Creek crossing.
Up the slope.
He had walked this ground for eight winters.
Yet with another human life against his chest, every familiar rise seemed steeper.
Halfway home, the woman's breathing changed.
Too quiet.
Caleb stopped.
He lowered his face toward hers.
Nothing.
His pulse exploded.
“No.”
He pulled the coat away from her mouth.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
“Don't you dare.”
He shook her gently.
Her head rolled against his shoulder.
Caleb felt something inside himself tear open.
“I didn't carry you this far so you could die where I have to look at you.”
His voice sounded angry.
He was terrified.
Then her fingers twitched.
Only once.
Against his shirt.
Caleb stared.
That tiny movement became enough.
He kept walking.
When the cabin finally appeared through the whiteout, Caleb nearly laughed.
Instead, he kicked open the door.
Heat from the dying fire met him.
He carried the woman inside.
The first priority was warmth.
The second was getting wet clothing off her before it killed her.
Caleb worked quickly.
Efficiently.
Without allowing himself to think about modesty.
Frozen coat.
Boots.
Outer traveling dress.
Stockings soaked to the knee.
He stopped there.
Wrapped her tightly in blankets.
Heated stones near the hearth.
Placed them around her without touching bare skin.
Then he found a spare wool shirt and dry skirt belonging to his late sister, clothes that had remained folded inside a cedar chest for nearly ten years.
He left them near the bed.
If the woman woke, she could dress herself.
If she did not...
Caleb refused to finish that thought.
He added wood to the fire.
Then moved to the opposite side of the room.
The cabin had only one large downstairs room and a sleeping loft above.
Caleb sat near the door with his rifle across his knees.
He watched her breathe.
Hour after hour.
Near midnight, color slowly returned to her face.
Not much.
Enough.
Caleb finally noticed how beautiful she was.
He immediately resented himself for noticing.
Her features were soft.
Dark lashes.
Full mouth.
Thick hair now drying into loose waves.
There was roundness in her face and body.
A generosity of shape most fashionable eastern magazines pretended women should hide.
Caleb had no interest in eastern magazines.
He had spent eight years among pine trees, cattle, wolves, and men who smelled like horse sweat.
The woman looked alive.
That mattered more.
Near dawn, she coughed.
Caleb was out of the chair before he understood he had moved.
Her eyes opened.
Green.
Startlingly green.
Confusion entered first.
Then fear.
She looked around.
Cabin.
Fire.
Blankets.
Strange man.
Her gaze returned to Caleb.
“Where...?”
Her voice cracked.
“You're safe.”
That was not what she asked.
Caleb corrected himself.
“My cabin.”
Her eyes dropped.
She realized she was wrapped in blankets.
Then she noticed her ruined dress drying beside the hearth.
Fear sharpened.
Caleb immediately stepped backward.
“I took off what was frozen.”
Her eyes snapped toward his.
“You were dying.”
She pulled the blankets higher.
“I did not touch anything I didn't need to.”
Silence.
Caleb moved farther away.
“My sister's clothes are beside the bed.”
The woman looked.
A deep-blue dress lay folded over a chair.
“Water?”
She nodded.
Caleb poured a cup.
He crossed halfway.
Stopped.
Placed it on the table.
Then backed away.
The woman stared at him.
“You expect me to walk?”
“No.”
“Then why put it there?”
“Because you looked frightened when I came closer.”
That surprised her.
Her expression softened slightly.
Caleb retrieved the cup and approached more slowly.
“May I?”
She nodded.
He handed it to her.
Her fingers shook.
Caleb pretended not to notice.
She drank.
Then coughed again.
“What happened?”
“Stagecoach left the ridge.”
Her face changed.
“The others?”
Caleb said nothing.
That was answer enough.
The cup trembled harder.
“The driver?”
“No.”