“I thought Christmas was lost to me forever. And then you came into my life”
In the heart of a snow-swept frontier, Alice flees the ruthless gang that killed her husband. Now, she’s left with nothing but her son in the midst of a deadly snowstorm. Christmas, once a time of family and love, has become a bittersweet reminder of all she’s lost.
Joe is an ex-gang member, haunted by his own violent past and the loss of his wife. Though he has found peace in his secluded ranch, the memories of his wife’s murder at the hands of his former gang still haunt him. Until Alice stumbles into his life like a Christmas miracle…
Bundled up to survive the snowstorm, they begin to thaw the walls they’ve built around their hearts. Alice’s determination to make Christmas special for her son awakens a warmth in Joe that he thought was lost forever. When a shared enemy closes in, Joe must confront the ghosts of his past to protect Alice and her son, while Alice must decide if she can trust Joe with her heart and her future.
Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1873
Laughter echoed through the house as Joe darted around the kitchen table, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. Georgia squealed, skirts swirling as she dodged his grasp with fire in her eyes. Outside, fluffy snowflakes fell, blanketing the land in white.
It was the kind of morning that made the world seem untouched—a perfect Christmas. Joe had been working overtime to ensure the house would be ready, and it was. A place of their own.
A perfect home for a perfect love.
“I’m getting coffee everywhere!” Georgia warned, clutching a steaming pot close to her chest as drops splattered the floor.
Joe snorted playfully. “It’s alright, I know the owner!” He stopped short, reaching out, and caught her by the waist.
“Gotcha now,” he whispered in her ear.
She twirled to look up at him, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “You’ve got flour on your face.”
He shrugged and leaned in to kiss her. “Don’t mind that. Ain’t no one here to see me looking a mess.”
Georgia laughed and nuzzled into his chest. “I see you.”
Joe wrapped his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her cheek as his gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the snow-covered hills rolled gently into the distance, dotted here and there with the dark shapes of pine trees.
This would be their first Christmas in the home he’d built with his own hands.
“I can’t believe this is ours,” Georgia breathed, as if reading his thoughts. She pulled back and rested her hand on his cheek. “You built us a fine home, Joe. I’ve never been happier.”
He grinned. “It’s just a start. There’s more to come—I promise you that!”
They held each other in silence, taking it all in. An iron stove crackled merrily in the corner, and the mantel above the fireplace was adorned with sprigs of holly and a simple pine wreath. The tree, though modest, stood proudly by the window, decorated with handmade ornaments.
Georgia stepped back, her eyes bright. “We should get back to it.”
Joe nodded, reluctantly releasing her. “I’ll fetch more firewood.” He grabbed his coat and hat, whisking them from the hook by the door.
Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped outside, the frosty air biting at his cheeks. He paused, looking back at the cabin; smoke plumed from the chimney, and the light spilling from the windows glittered off the snow.
Turning, Joe admired the wintry landscape, watching as snowflakes kissed the frozen ground.
This was the life he’d dreamed of, and it was just the beginning; there would be more. Maybe a couple of cows in the spring, a little garden out back … and one day, children running through the fields.
It was all coming.
***
Joe stood by the door, his hands dusty from the firewood, as the sound of approaching hooves reached his ears. He exchanged a glance with Georgia, who was hands deep in a dough for her potato pie.
Furrowing her brow, Georgia wiped her hands on her apron. “Who do you reckon that could be?”
Joe stepped out onto the porch as a young couple came into view on a small sleigh pulled by a single, sturdy horse. The man waved, smiling broadly, while the woman beside him held a small bundle close to her chest.
“Morning!” the man called as he reined in the horse. “Hope we’re not intruding. We’re your new neighbors—just thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves proper.”
A smile tugged at Joe’s lips as he walked down to meet them, frost groaning softly as he crushed it beneath his boots. “Neighbors, you say? That’s good news! I’m Joe—Joe Granger—and my wife, Georgia, is inside.”
The man removed a glove and reached out, shaking Joe’s hand with a chilly but firm grip. “Stewart Merriman. This is my wife, Delilah.” He nodded toward the woman, who smiled warmly, her cheeks and nose rosy from the cold.
Stewart gestured to the small bundle wrapped tightly in Delilah’s arms. “And this little’un is Thomas.” His chest puffed out with understandable pride.
“It’s a pleasure to meet y’all.” Joe looked back to see Georgia stepping out onto the porch, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Come on inside and warm up a bit. It’s too cold to be standing out here,” she called.
“We wouldn’t want to impose, it bein’ Christmas and all,” Delilah said. “We just wanted to say hello—let you know we’re the folks who bought the land next door.”
Joe waved off her concern, gesturing toward the house. “No imposition at all. You must be freezing, and that baby, too.”
“Please, come in! We’ve got coffee and plenty of food,” Georgia urged.
Stewart hesitated, then relented. “Alright, just for a spell,”
Inside, Delilah sat by the fire, cradling Abigail as Georgia fussed over her, offering a quilt and cooing at the baby.
Stewart examined the room, raising his eyebrows. “Nice place you’ve got here, Joe. Built it yourself?”
Joe nodded, pouring coffee into tin cups. “Just finished last week, right before the snow hit.” He handed a cup to Stewart, another to Delilah. “What about you folks? Where you stayin’?”
Stewart took a sip of coffee, and his face lit up. “There’s a little shack on our land. It’s not much, but it’ll do for now. Got it fixed up enough to keep the weather out. Plan to build something bigger come spring.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Building this place took me longer than I’d’ve thought. Sure you’ll be alright through the winter?”
Stewart glanced at Delilah, his expression softening as he watched her rock their baby. “It’s small, but we’ll manage. Has a little kitchen with a cast iron stove, and we got plenty of blankets. Long as the roof holds up to the snow, we’ll be fine.”
Joe nodded, respect for the young man blooming in his chest. “Well, I’ll lend you a hand when the time comes. I know how hard it is to get started, and besides, two pairs of hands are better than one.”
Stewart’s eyes widened slightly, gratitude plain on his face. “I appreciate that, Joe. More than you know.”
After a while, Delilah stood, adjusting a shawl around Abigail. “We’d best be heading back—still got a lot to settle in—but thank you for the hospitality.”
Georgia walked them to the door, pressing a small loaf of bread into Delilah’s hands with a smile. “For later.”
As Joe walked the Merrimans back to the border of his land, the wind picked up. Lowering his voice, he turned to Stewart. “You sure that shack’s gonna be enough for the winter?”
Stewart glanced at the small structure in the distance, barely visible through the trees. “It’s not much,” he admitted, “but it’s solid enough. Small enough we can keep it warm, at least. We’ve got firewood stocked up, and I’ll cut more as the winter goes on.”
Joe clapped a hand on Stewart’s shoulder. “You’ve got the right spirit. If you need anything, you know where to find us.”
Stewart smiled and shook Joe’s hand. “Thank you, Joe.”
Joe watched them ride off, unease tugging at him, despite Stewart’s assurances. Winter in the Wyoming territory could be unforgiving.
He shook it off and turned back toward his own home. When he entered, Georgia was busy at the stove, her eyes shining in the soft glow of the lantern.
“They seem like good folks.”
“They do,” Joe agreed, hanging his coat by the door. He reached for a small wooden box on the mantel and pulled out a carefully-wrapped item. “It’s good to know we’re not alone out here.”
“What’s that?” Georgia asked, watching as he unwrapped the object.
Joe smiled, holding up a small wooden star with intricate patterns etched into the surface.
“I’ve been working on this. Thought I’d save it until last,” he explained, walking over to the corner where their Christmas tree stood.
Georgia’s face softened as she watched him hang the hand-carved star on a high branch. “You’ve got a real talent, Joe Granger.”
Chuckling, he brushed a kiss against her forehead. “Just wanted something special for our first Christmas here.” He glanced around the cabin, the fire crackling in the hearth, the table set for two.
They stood there for a few seconds, enjoying the peace and warmth of the cabin. Outside, the wind howled faintly. Joe inhaled, taking in the scents of Christmas dinner.
“Smells great.”
“Just about ready.” Georgia walked toward the stove, then glanced over her shoulder. “Would you mind grabbing the bread?”
Joe nodded, starting toward the pantry. He was halfway across the room when a faint noise caught his ear—the agitated whicker of horses. He paused, looking toward the door, then back at Georgia, who had her back to him.
“You hear that?”
Lifting her chin, Georgia frowned. “Hear what?”
Joe moved to the door and peered out into the dark. The snow was falling heavily now, gusts of wind swirling it in a confusion of thick flurries. Stepping outside, he scanned the horizon and strained his ears, but heard only the wind whistling through the trees.
“Must’ve been nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Just as he turned, a loud bang erupted from behind the cabin, followed by a sound that cut through his heart like a knife: Georgia’s scream.
Joe’s blood froze in his veins. “Georgia!”
Then, he heard the sharp crack of splintering wood.
“Joe!”
Heart pounding, he bolted around the side of the cabin, scrabbling for purchase on the frost. A roaring sound filled his ears as he reached the back of the house to find the back door hanging off its hinges, leaving a gaping hole leading into the kitchen.
Then, everything went black.
Outside Denver, 1880
The sound of a fist striking flesh erupted in the narrow kitchen. Alice flinched with each blow, her breath catching in her throat. She’d never seen her husband like this—on his knees, helpless to stop the rough hands that yanked him up, only to send him crashing down again. Blood ran down his chin from a split lip, and one eye had swelled shut.
She stared, unable to look away as her husband, Peter Reinhardt, a man of wealth and standing, was dragged across the floor of their own home, beaten and humiliated. Her mind raced, searching for some explanation. Nothing had prepared her for this.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The gang of five moved with a cruel efficiency. The leader, a bulky, scar-faced man with cold black eyes, merely watched. A stocky man with fiery red hair had a boot pressed firmly against her husband’s back, while the other three—two men, one dark-haired with yellowish skin, the other likely of Mexican descent, and a weaselly-looking girl—were tearing through the servants’ quarters like animals.
Alice watched in horror as Peter gasped for breath and tried to rise, only to receive a harsh kick to his ribs.
“Stay down! Your blood’s getting all over the floor,” growled the red-headed man, pocketing Alice’s saltwater pearl necklace.
The others laughed as they sauntered back into the room.
The coarse rope binding Alice’s hands bit into her wrists, burning her tender skin like live coals. Hamish, her sweet five-year-old son, sat huddled against her side. His small body trembled, and a soft, pitiful sob escaped his lips.
“It’s alright, darling,” Alice whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. She pressed her cheek against his tousled hair. “It’s going to be alright. Mama’s here.”
Even as she said them, the words felt like a lie. For years, her world had consisted of delicate china, silk dresses, and elegant social gatherings. She knew how to entertain guests, manage the household, and smile through her disappointment.
But this … this was something else entirely. Something savage.
The rat-faced girl turned her cool green eyes toward the whimpering Hamish, her gaze narrowing.
Alice stiffened, pulling her son closer, though there was little she could do to shield him. Her heart pounded as the girl approached.
“Leave them be!” Peter gasped. He tried to get up again, but the leader bent down and grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his head back.
“You ain’t in charge here, spoony,” he sneered, spitting on the floor before flinging Peter’s head against the hard stone.
Hamish moaned, pressing his face against Alice’s skirt, and she forced herself to look at the woman approaching them. I can’t let them see my fear. Surely, if they sensed her weakness, it would only make things worse.
“Please—he’s just a child!”
The girl stopped, her lip curling with something like amusement. “Well, ain’t you braver than a dog who hasn’t met a porcupine!” Snickering at her own joke, she jabbed a finger in Alice’s face. “We ain’t here for the kid, but you—you’re gonna sit right there and watch, missy. We’re just gettin’ started with yer husband.”
Alice swallowed against the dryness in her throat and nodded slowly, not daring to challenge them. Shifting, she tucked Hamish more securely against her side. She was desperate to find a way out of this nightmare, even as the ropes around her wrists cut deeper into her flesh. The bandits had full control over the house.
Peter, kind though he was, had never been a man of action. He’d never needed to be. They’d lived a life of comfort; she couldn’t even say where he kept the guns—or if he even had any. Alice could feel her skin prickling with cold sweat as she tried to retain some shred of composure.
The leader waved his arm with what Alice absently thought was a rather melodramatic flourish, and his men dragged her husband unceremoniously across the floor, his legs scraping against the stone as they pulled him toward the door. Going limp, he groaned, unable to resist.
“Where are you taking him?”
The redhead turned, his eyes glinting as he smirked. “To finish what we started.”
Alice’s stomach dropped. She thrashed, trying to break free of her bindings, but it was no use; she could only watch as they hauled her husband through the doorway, his beaten body disappearing into the darkness beyond. The oak door slammed shut behind them, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake, which was only broken by her son’s terrified whimpers.
Hamish buried his face in her lap, his little shoulders shaking as he wept. Alice bent as much as the ropes would allow, pressing her lips to the top of his head.
“Shh, sweetheart. It’s going to be alright.”
She wasn’t sure she believed it.
Alice’s heart pounded as she struggled, her fingers numb from the cold, the rope’s coarse fibers biting into her delicate skin. She chewed her lip, a habit she’d never been able to break, as she searched for any slack in her restraints. Her eyes darted around the servant’s kitchen, both familiar and alien in the shadowy half-light. She knew every corner of this room, every shelf and cabinet.
I must do something!
Hamish’s quiet sobs tore at her heart. She watched him, her heart aching, and managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Mama’s going to get us out of here.”
She inched forward until the ropes caught on a large splinter sticking out of the table leg. She rubbed up and down, and slowly, agonizingly, they began to fray. After what seemed like an eternity, the hemp fibers snapped. She nearly cried out in relief, but swallowed the sound before it could escape, her eyes darting to the door.
They mustn’t know I’ve escaped. Her hands shook as she untied her ankles, then reached for Hamish to free him as well.
“Stay close to me, Hamish. We must be very quiet.”
He nodded, his wide eyes shining with tears, and she pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, trying to ignore the aching of her heart. She stood unsteadily, her legs quivering, and took his hand. We have to run—now!
She eased toward the back door, her body tensed for any sound from outside. Peter’s desperate pleading reached her ears, now little but a barely-audible murmur. Then, with a clarity that made her blood run cold, she heard his final, defiant refusal.
And then the gunshot.
The sound tore through her, sharp and searing, and Alice’s knees threatened to give way.
No. I can’t fall apart now. Not with Hamish watching, clutching her hand so tightly.
She blinked as Peter’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Though much older than she, he’d always been kind to her; while she’d never been able to bring herself to love him, still, her heart snapped in two.
“Shh, shh,” she whispered, more to herself than to Hamish. “We must flee!”
With a shaking hand, she lifted the latch and pushed the door open. The cold slapped her in the face, the wind tearing at her pale hair as the swirling snow blinded her. She squeezed Hamish’s hand as they stepped out into the storm, the snow immediately soaking through her thin shoes.
She had no plan, no objective other than to run.
The mountains loomed in the distance, and she had the fleeting instinct to sprint the other direction, but there was nowhere else to go. She turned back, just for a moment, her chest squeezing at the sight of her home—the only home Hamish had ever known—bursting into flames, casting a sullen, red glow against the shroud of fine white powder blanketing the ground.
Alice bit her lip and tasted blood. She had nothing left, no one but her son. I’ll die before I let anything happen to him. Turning away, she tightened her grip on Hamish’s hand and ran, snow grasping at her skirts, wind stinging her face.
They stumbled through the drifts, slipping on the icy ground. Hamish yelped as he tripped, and she snatched him up. He was heavy, too heavy for her dainty arms, but she had no choice; they couldn’t stop. Not now. Not with the fire and the outlaws and everything she’d ever known crumbling into ashes behind her.
“Mama, I’m scared,” Hamish whimpered.
“I know, sweetheart, I know—but we have to keep going, okay? We must get to the mountains.”
Alice had never been to the mountains. She was used to the busy streets of Cheyenne, tasteful dinner parties, the quiet routines of the ranch. The Rockies had always seemed distant, wild and unforgiving, but now the ominous slopes were her only hope. The storm might cover their tracks, hide them from the men who’d taken everything from her …
But only if they could make it.
The snow was deep, almost up to her knees. She stumbled, her arms trembling with the effort of holding Hamish.
She couldn’t stop, though. Not when every step brought them closer to safety. The storm howled around them, stinging her eyes with shards of ice, but she pressed on, her gaze fixed on the dark shapes hovering like a promise against the night.
“Please,” she whispered, her words immediately stolen by the gale. “Please, let us make it. Don’t let us die out here.”
With that, she took another step, then another and another, praying all the while that somewhere, somehow, they would find safety—that they would survive.
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wow! suspence!! Sounds so good!!