Are you sure? He was already shifting the baby into his arms. Elias whimpered, then settled, cheek against Wade’s shoulder. Clara put on the pack wordlessly.
It was then that Finn growled, lo, from deep in his chest. Wadespun riflerising. Clara dropped to her knees behind a rock, shielding Eva.
The first dog broke from the trees seconds later. A rangy hound, mottled gray and brown, tongue lolling, eyes wild, caught their scent and barked, loud and fast. A man followed, burly, mid-thirties, wearing a worn leather vest over a patched duster.
His beard was streaked with ice. His right eye permanently squinted from an old scar. He was not Silas.
He raised his shotgun but Finn lunged before he could aim. The shepherd hit him square in the chest, sending him backward into the snow. The gun discharged into the air.
Clara screamed. Another man appeared at the ridge above, leaner, clean-shaven, aiming a rifle down at them. Wade didn’t hesitate.
He dropped to one knee, rested Elias on the snowbank beside Clara, and fired once. The second man fell. The echo of the shot rippled down the mountainside.
Finn was grappling with the first tracker in the snow, snarling and snapping. The man yelled, tried to punch him off, but Finn was stronger, more precise. Clara reached for a rock, heart racing, but the man stopped struggling.
Finn stood panting, blood on his fur. Wade pulled Clara up. We go now.
They didn’t bury the men. There wasn’t time. Wade did, however, pull their coats and spare weapons.
No sense letting what’s useful rot, he said flatly. Clara said nothing. She was shaking, but not crying.
Just silent, focused. The rest of the day passed in numb urgency. The snow thickened again by afternoon, covering the trail behind them.
The babies slept off and on, the cold exhausting them. Wade led, Finn scouting ahead. Clara walked in the hollow of Wade’s footprints, placing her boots exactly where his had landed.
By dusk, the trees thinned, and they reached a plateau that overlooked the distant forest. Wade stopped, raising a hand. Smoke curled up from beyond a hill, a different shape than firewood.
Rounder, more deliberate. That’s them, he said. The village.
Clara stared at the shape. Tense. A longhouse.
Thin trails of smoke from cooking fires. A scattering of people moving like shadows. Suddenly, she fell to her knees, not from injury but from release.
It was over, or so she thought. A whistle cut the air, then hoofbeats. From the southern tree line, three riders emerged, one in front, dressed in gray wool and a dark coat.
His beard trimmed, his posture too upright to be a trapper. Clara’s breath froze in her lungs. Galen Thornwright.
He’d come himself. Behind him, two hired men rode with long guns slung across their backs. They were still far but gaining.
Wade raised the rifle, aimed briefly, then lowered it. No, he said. We run.
Clara took Elias back and they moved down the hill toward the edge of the Lakota camp. A woman appeared at the boundary. Elderly, wrapped in furs.
Her face was lined and dark, her eyes sharp as needles. Mina Thal Elk. Wade knew her.
She’d been the village healer when he came years ago. Still was by the look of it. She raised her hand when she saw him.
Clara stumbled forward. Please, she gasped. My children.
Mina stepped aside and gestured them in. They crossed the threshold of the village as Galen shouted behind them. That’s my wife.
She’s kidnapped. They’re armed. They’ll kill the children.
Mina turned to Wade, her voice low. There’s no time for talk. She led them behind the nearest tent and just before the curtain fell, Clara looked back.
Galen had reached the edge of the camp, but he wasn’t smiling. He was holding a badge. A federal marshal’s star.
The village of Red Creek Ridge stirred beneath the sky of lead. Snow fell softly now, no longer a threat but a veil. Muting sound, cloaking movement.
Wade Ashford stood in the shadows behind Mina Thal Elk’s lodge, his rifle hidden beneath a wool blanket, eyes trained on the riders approaching from the ridge. Finn sat at his heel, silent, focused, his ears pinned and muscles taut like a bowstring ready to snap. Beside them, Clara Ridgeway clutched Eva in her arms and rocked Elias against her chest.
Her legs trembled from exhaustion, her cheeks pale from cold, but her eyes, green and glinting, had never burned brighter. The edge of fear had been replaced by something else, something closer to fury. Across the village clearing, Galen Thornwright reigned in his black gelding.
His gray wool coat was pristine despite the terrain, and the tin badge glinting from his chest caught every drop of light. His beard was neatly trimmed, his gloves polished. To the untrained eye, he looked like order incarnate, justice even, but Wade knew the look in his eyes.
It wasn’t righteousness, it was ownership. Galen’s voice carried like a shout through a sermon. Federal Marshal Thornwright, acting under territorial authority.
I’m here for the retrieval of Clara Thornwright and her children, stolen from my home by armed fugitives. Gasps whispered through the crowd. Warriors emerged from lodges.
Women gathered their children. Some recognized Clara’s face, half Lakota, half outsider, and remembered her late husband, Joseph. Clara stepped forward before Wade could stop her.
The wind fluttered her shawl, revealing the sling across her chest, where Elias lay half asleep. I am not your wife, she said. You cast me out with nothing.
I walked barefoot through snow with two newborns, and now you come here with dogs and guns. You’re confused, Galen replied, his voice oily smooth. The cold, the stress.
I forgive you. I brought medical aid. We can take you home, where you’ll be safe.
He turned toward the soldiers behind him. Retrieve her, gently. That was his mistake.
From the far side of the gathering, Wise Elk, the tribal elder, stepped forward. He was thin but upright, white braids hanging beside a weathered face that had seen four generations of storms. His voice was not loud, but it cut the air like a blade.
This is not your land, Thornwright, and she is not your wife. She’s a fugitive. She is Joseph Golden Sky’s widow.
These are his children, our blood. Galen’s hand twitched toward his sidearm. You want to challenge federal law, old man? Clara’s voice came sharp and clear.
Then read the law. Joseph and I were married by a circuit preacher in Hamilton. I took his name.
You and I were never wed. You promised me safety in exchange for silence. And when I told you the truth, you threw us into a blizzard.
She reached beneath her shawl and drew out a leather pouch, placing it into Mina’s hands. Mina opened it. Inside, a folded document bearing a preacher’s seal and a tin locket with a photo of Clara and Joseph, taken in better days.
The moment was brief. Then Galen’s man fired. A shot rang through the clearing, striking the ground inches from Wise Elk’s feet.
Chaos erupted. Women screamed. Warriors raised bows.
Finn launched into motion. Wade was already moving, rifle rising. But Clara stepped forward again, shielding the children with her own body.
Stop, she shouted. If I fall, who do you become? A man who shoots a mother before her people. Galen’s hands trembled.