Prologue

Montana Territory, 1859

The stagecoach rattled away into the night with a clatter of metal and great billows of powdery snow. After it had gone, the street fell quiet, and the whole place seemed suddenly silent and terribly lonesome. Snow fell so thick that it made a sound almost like a low whispering. And there was not a soul to be seen. The few other passengers who had alighted here must have hurried in out of the brewing storm just as soon as they could; Mabel was quite alone and felt it. It was three weeks till Christmas, a time that had always meant family to Mabel, togetherness. And here she was, far from home.

The darkening sky was a flurry of white. The storm seemed like it meant to swallow the town up. Mabel Blake drew Franklin, her dear departed cousin’s child, closer to her chest, tucking the thin quilt tighter around him with a gentle murmur. He snuggled against her, letting out a thin cry. He was hungry, Mabel could tell. Her heart ached for the little mite. It had been a long journey, that was for sure, and they were both worn out.

“Hush, my love, shh,” she whispered, though her lips trembled with cold and something else, something deeper, something close to fear. She shifted her weight, and her back ached in protest; it had been a long journey over rough roads, and she had felt every jolt.

It had gnawed at her heart ever since she’d left Wyoming. Every mile closer to Snowberry Ridge brought her closer to an uncertain future. Would this be the chance to start a new life as it promised to be? She hardly dared hope. From hard experience, she knew that hoping could be dangerous, that hope was how the hurt got in.

They were strangers here, looking for a home. Mabel raised her eyes to the sky in a silent plea—please let us find a home here, she thought fervently as snowflakes settled on her cheeks and in her eyelashes.

She rocked Franklin gently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The boards creaked beneath her boots. Snowberry Ridge was quieter than she had expected—only a scatter of lamps lit the single street, and most windows were already shuttered against the storm.

It was like the town itself had closed its eyes on her, turned its back. Part of her had hoped for a warm welcome; she’d imagined it as she traveled the long miles, gazing out at the changing landscape through the small stagecoach window. It looked like she would be disappointed. Well, she ought to be used to disappointment by now.

She had dreamed of her arrival here as a new beginning, imagined stepping down from the coach into strong arms and kind eyes. Instead, she felt more like a stray cat left out in the cold, forgotten and unwanted.

In her imagination, her intended, the man she had traveled here to marry, had met her at the station, perhaps holding a small bouquet of evergreen in place of the wildflowers that waited beneath the snow for spring.

But the platform stretched empty before her, mocking her foolish dreams. She shook her head and tsk-tsked softly to herself.

“Get a hold of yourself, Mabel,” she said quietly but firmly. “There ain’t no happy ever after for a girl like you.”

Mabel shifted Franklin again, the ache in her arms becoming almost unbearable. He had been crying, on and off, for nearly an hour now. Fussing for his bottle, but it was empty, and she had no milk left to give him. The second bottle she’d prepared had frozen solid somewhere between Cheyenne and here.

She looked about her for a man matching the description she’d been given, but there was no one there at all. The station was deserted, the agent having disappeared inside the moment the coach had unloaded.

She was alone. Alone and with nowhere to go, with a hungry baby in a snowstorm that looked set to get a whole lot worse before it got better. What in the world was she to do?

Fear pressed against her throat like cold fingers. What if Franklin sickened before she could even find shelter? What if she had dragged him all this way, following her cousin Lilly’s desperate plan, only to fail at the first hurdle?

You’re all he has now, Lilly’s sweet voice returned to her in memory. The day she had said those words, she was already weak from the fever that would claim her three days later, her pallid skin slick with perspiration, her eyes growing glassy, her voice weak. Mabel had had to lean in close to hear her. Promise me, Mabel. Promise you’ll give him the life I cannot.

A crunch of boots on snow startled her from her reverie.

She turned, clutching Franklin tighter, her heart hammering against her ribs. A tall figure emerged from the drifting flakes, shoulders broad beneath a heavy coat. This was a man accustomed to harsh winters. A brass badge glinted dully on his chest, catching the wan light from the station lamp. His beard was frosted white at the edges, and his eyes, sharp even in the dim glow, fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He did not smile.

“Miss Blake?”

She nodded, unable to find her voice. Her throat felt raw from the cold air and suppressed tears. She was frozen, inside and out—by the cold, by the shock.

The man removed his hat, revealing steel-gray hair. Snow clung to the brim as he shook it. “Sheriff Owen Hart. Welcome to Snowberry Ridge.”

Sheriff. Not Colt McAllister. Not the man whose letters had spoken of lonely evenings and the need for companionship. The man to whom Lilly had written, who she believed would be a safe harbor for her baby, Franklin, and her cousin, Mabel.

Mabel’s heart sank like a stone dropped in deep water. But she hadn’t come this far just to give in. She lifted her chin, mustering the composure that had been drilled into her since girlhood in her aunt’s drawing room. A lady should never show distress, no matter how dire the circumstances. Give the world a big, broad smile, her aunt had said, and it’ll smile right back.

Her father, who had raised her alone, had always been more concerned with practical matters; it was he, an accomplished tailor himself, who had taught her to sew.

“Thank you, Sheriff Hart. I expected Mr. McAllister himself to be here. I…”

Her words broke off as Franklin wailed again, a thin, desperate sound. Mabel fell to comforting him right away, shushing and cooing and rocking him against her for warmth. The sheriff’s gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms, and she watched his expression shift from polite welcome to genuine shock. His weathered features hardened, then softened, as if he were working through some internal turmoil.

“Well now,” he muttered, almost to himself, his breath forming white clouds in the frigid air. “Ain’t this something. Quite the surprise!”

Heat rushed to Mabel’s cheeks despite the bitter cold. She straightened her back as best she could, drawing on reserves of strength and defiance which she hadn’t known she still possessed until that moment.

“This is my cousin’s son, Sheriff. His name is Franklin. He’s mine now. My cousin, she passed, you see, and I’m all he’s got.”

Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. It carried more strength than she felt, and she was proud to notice that there wasn’t the slightest trace of apology in her tone. She would never apologize or be made to feel ashamed for taking care of her dear cousin’s only child.

Sheriff Hart’s mouth opened as if to speak, then snapped shut again. He scratched his beard, eyes narrowing as he studied first her, then the child. “Reckon we’ll…figure out how to handle this later on.”

The phrasing stung like a slap. Handle this. As if she and Franklin were a problem to be solved rather than people looking for shelter.

She had assumed Lilly’s letters had mentioned the child. Had described the baby who would be coming along with his guardian. But it was becoming quite clear that they had not.

Her stomach knotted with the realization of how badly she had miscalculated. What if, after all, they had come all this way for nothing? Had desperation clouded her judgment so thoroughly that she’d walked into a trap of her own making?

There was a knot in her chest that she couldn’t untie and a lump in her throat that told her that, if she wasn’t careful, she might just start bawling her eyes out like no lady ever should.

Before panic could truly take hold, the sheriff gestured toward a waiting wagon with one gloved hand. “Storm’s worsening. We’d best get you to the McAllister ranch before the road’s blocked. This weather ain’t fit for man nor beast—especially not for little ones.”

His brow furrowed at the mention of Franklin, like he was puzzled by the little thing.

Mabel followed on unsteady legs, the wind slicing at her traveling dress until the wool felt thin as paper. The hem of her skirts grew heavy with snow as she dragged it through the deepening drifts. If the sheriff had offered her a steadying hand, she would have taken it. But he didn’t. In fact, he hardly so much as glanced back at her, struggling with the baby in one hand and a small carpetbag in the other.

The wagon was rough-hewn and practical, its bench dusted with fresh fallen snow that sparkled in the lantern light. She was too weary to care about comfort now. She would have ridden bareback through the storm if it meant getting Franklin somewhere warm.

She settled herself with Franklin in her lap, curling herself around him like a shield, while the sheriff flicked the reins with practiced ease and no particular sense of urgency by the looks of things. He still had that puzzled frown on his face and seemed to be puzzling something out. He didn’t speak to Mabel at all at first. But he talked to his horse.

“Easy, Belle,” he murmured to the mare, and the wagon jolted into motion, wheels crunching over the frozen road with each labored turn.

Pine trees loomed on either side like sentinels, their boughs weighed down with snow so heavy it seemed they might break under the burden. The narrow road wound upward into the mountains, away from what little civilization Snowberry Ridge offered.

The silence was broken only by the hiss of sleet against canvas and the baby’s intermittent fussing. Each cry felt like a nail driven straight into Mabel’s heart.

She stroked his head and murmured a lullaby close to his ear. Miraculously, perhaps lulled by the swaying movement of the wagon, Franklin dropped into a deep sleep. Mabel sighed with relief and looked about her at the strange landscape, the snow almost glowing in the moonlight, and the trees looming like giants with bowed heads along the road.

Mabel glanced up at the sheriff.

His profile was as hard as carved granite. It was like he was part of this mountain place, his face weathered by years of winters and whatever hardships came with keeping the peace in a remote place like this.

His hands held the reins with easy competence and a calm that belied hidden depths. She’d known men like him before in her life. The strong, silent type who proved the proverb that still waters run deep. And he was lost deep in thought, that was for sure. She could guess what about, too; it was she and Franklin who were causing those deep furrows between his flinty eyes.

It made her bristle. She hadn’t come to Montana to be someone’s burden, someone’s problem to solve.

“Mr. McAllister,” she ventured at last, her voice barely audible above the wind. “Does he… know I’m coming tonight?”

Owen shifted uncomfortably, the leather of his coat creaking. He cleared his throat. “He knows he was meant to expect a bride.”

“Meant to?” Her chest tightened like a vise. “What exactly does that mean?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his words carried the weight of a man choosing them carefully. “Colt’s been…resistant to the idea of remarrying. Lost his wife three years back, and he ain’t been the same since.”

The words hung between them, sharp and cold as the icicles that were forming on the edge of the canvas cover.

Dread pooled in her belly, heavy as lead. She had known, of course, that he was a widower. That had been mentioned in the letters.

But resistant? She swallowed her panic as it threatened to overwhelm her again. Might he turn her away at the door?

“Then why…?” she broke off, then tried again. “Then why am I here?”

“Because a man can’t live alone forever,” Sheriff Hart replied, his tone gentle but firm. “Colt needs a helpmate. Even if he doesn’t know it, he needs a family life, someone to keep house. Doesn’t do for a man to be alone too long. And because this town needs families, needs children. Needs hope.” He glanced at Franklin, bundled tight against the storm. “Maybe that little one is exactly what Colt needs, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he isn’t gonna like it one bit.”

The road twisted upward, deeper into the mountains. Up there, the wind howled like a living thing.

Mabel’s thoughts were a muddle of apprehension and hope, exhaustion and nervous energy. She lost track of time as they traveled the dark mountain road. Hours seemed to pass, though it could have been minutes.

The cold seeped through her traveling coat until her bones ached. There was a jolt in the road, and Franklin woke up. His cries grew weaker, more pitiful.

Just as she began to fear they would never arrive, that they would freeze to death on this godforsaken mountain road, a dog’s bark pierced the storm, and through the dark trees, Mabel glimpsed lamplight, yellow against the bluish glare of the snow.

The wagon rounded a final bend, revealing a dark shape hunched against the white hills: a ranch house, low and sturdy, built to withstand whatever nature could throw at it. Light glowed and flickered faintly through its windows with a golden promise of warmth within. A black-and-white collie bounded into the snow, fur thick with ice crystals, tail wagging as it circled the wagon in joyful greeting.

“Scout,” Owen called cheerfully, like he was greeting an old friend, and the dog yipped in answer.

Relief welled up in Mabel’s chest, so sudden and fierce it nearly brought tears. Shelter. A fire crackling in a hearth. Perhaps, at last, rest and something to eat for Franklin.

The thought of it made her realize just how hungry she was, too. It had been many hours and many long, hard miles since she’d had a bite to eat, and even then, it had only been dry crackers.

But her relief was shattered the very instant the door flew open.

A man filled the threshold. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair curling beneath his hat and eyes black as mountain lakes in winter. Even from the wagon, she could see the lean strength in his frame, the way he held himself like a man ready for trouble.

This was Colt McAllister. It had to be. The letters had described him in matter-of-fact terms—his age: 29, his profession: rancher, his eyes: brown, his hair: dark and curly. But no description could capture the shine in his eyes, the determination in the set of his jaw, the wariness that spoke of old wounds.

As she watched with trepidation, his gaze swept the scene, taking it all in—the wagon, the sheriff, Mabel herself, the bundled child in her arms.

There wasn’t so much as a flicker of a smile on his lips, just a flinty stare and a furrow in his brow that made him look suspicious and displeased.

“Confound it, Owen!” His voice cracked across the yard as loud and sudden as gunfire. “What in heaven’s name have you gone and done now?”

Mabel flinched at his tone and pulled Franklin closer. The baby was still fussing off and on, but he was growing more lethargic with hunger and exhaustion. Mabel hoped it was nothing else, nothing more serious. She would have done anything, said anything, to get him in out of the cold.

Owen merely climbed down from the wagon with that infuriatingly calm way of his, which Mabel was already beginning to dislike.

He moved like he faced down angry men every day of his life. Which, Mabel supposed, might not actually be far from the truth.

“A good evening to you, too, Colt.” He touched his hat and bowed his head. His tone was mild as milk, which only seemed to inflame the other man’s temper.

Colt strode toward them. The blizzard swirled around him, and his boots crunched through the settled snow, leaving a line of firm footsteps behind him.

Mabel found herself shrinking down into her winter cloak. As she quailed, an absurd thought flitted through her mind that he looked like some dark angel of vengeance emerging from the storm like that, so handsome and inscrutable.

“You had no right. No right to meddle in my affairs, and sure as hell no right to drag some innocent woman to my doorstep in the middle of winter!”

Innocent woman. The phrase should have been a compliment, but from his lips it sounded like an accusation. Like she was only some burdensome girl who couldn’t make decisions for herself, pulled from pillar to post by men.

Well, she’d have him know that she was perfectly capable of getting herself into a jam, thank you very much. She didn’t need a man for that, no, sir.

But of course, she didn’t speak up. She didn’t think she could have, even if she’d wanted to. Her throat had closed up, and she could hardly think straight.

Mabel’s pulse thundered in her ears, so loud she was surprised they couldn’t all hear it.

But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite explain. He was magnificent in his fury. But he was also terrifying.

This was the man she had hoped to marry? He couldn’t be more different from what she’d imagined. But something deep inside was drawn to his fire, his strength. Even when it was directed against her.

Owen folded his arms across his broad chest, unmoved by Colt’s rage. “You’d still be holed up here, rotting away with nothing but ghosts and guilt for company, if I hadn’t done something about it. I know you miss her, but Stella wouldn’t…”

The fury in Colt’s eyes flared white-hot. “Don’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than when he shouted. “Don’t speak her name. Don’t pretend you understand what I lost.”

The air between them crackled with tension. Whatever history was here, it was thick with grief and recrimination. Mabel didn’t understand it. It made her feel like an intruder. But before either man could say more, desperation drove her to speak up.

“This isn’t what you expected, Mr. McAllister. I know that.” Her voice shook as she spoke, with the cold that was biting, and with the fear that he might never let her get further than the shelter of his porch. But she remembered what her aunt had taught her. Show no weakness. A lady faced adversity with grace, even when grace felt impossible. Especially then.

“But I’ve come a very long way, through storms that would have deterred lesser souls, and I don’t intend to turn back now.”

Colt’s glare fixed on her with the intensity of a branding iron. In the lamplight spilling from the doorway, she could see the sharp planes of his face, the stubble darkening his jaw, the determined set of his mouth. But beneath the bravado, there was something sorrowful, too, in his eyes, which were such a dark brown they were like dark pools, and in the premature lines etched across his furrowed brow.

“You think I wanted this?” His voice was rough as sandpaper. “You think I asked for you to show up here, with…” His gaze dropped to Franklin, who whimpered weakly against the cold, and his expression was unreadable. “…with baggage I never agreed to take on?”

Baggage. The word hit her like a physical blow. Shame and fury surged together in her chest, a volatile mixture that threatened to spill over. She had traveled hundreds of miles by stagecoach—weeks of brutal roads and bitter cold—spent her last dollars on passage, left behind everything familiar, all to be called baggage by a man who couldn’t even see that he was keeping an exhausted woman and child standing out on his porch in the snow.

But she would not beg. She would not let him see how close to breaking she felt, how the weight of responsibility for Franklin’s future pressed down on her shoulders like an anvil.

“No,” she said, her voice crisp as winter air. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me.” Each word cost her a little more of her failing strength, but she held his gaze steadily. “But here we are, nonetheless. And since the weather leaves us little choice in the matter, I propose a practical arrangement.”

She gestured toward the house, where even through the half-open door that Colt had left standing ajar, she could see that everything was in disarray. Dishes were stacked unwashed, clothes were scattered across furniture, and there was grime on every surface, like dust had long been allowed to settle. These were all the telltale signs of a man living without care, without hope.

“You clearly need a housekeeper, Mr. McAllister. Someone to bring order to your household, to cook proper meals, and mend what’s broken.” Her chin lifted another notch. “I need a roof over this child’s head and the means to care for him. In exchange for room and board—for both of us—I will set your domestic affairs in order. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Her eyes met his, and she gulped. His dark eyes were unreadable.

The silence that followed was as sharp as the wind cutting across the yard.

Mabel’s gaze flickered across to the sheriff, and she saw that his lips twitched, as though he were suppressing a grin at some private joke. Snow continued to fall around them; thick, lazy flakes caught the lamplight like swirling stars.

Colt’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and for a moment she thought he might explode into anger again, that he might order them both back into the storm to freeze rather than allow them shelter.

At last, he spat out through gritted teeth, “Fine. For now. But only for now, mind you. I’m making no promises.”

Relief broke over Mabel. Her knees went weak, and it was all she could do not to fall down in the snow.

But even as gratitude flooded through her, she saw that this triumph might be her undoing yet. She might have a roof over her head, but at what cost?

Colt’s eyes still burned with resentment. His stance and whole demeanor made him seem just as cold and distant as the mountain peaks surrounding them. He did not want her here; that much was clear. And he did not want Franklin.

The truth of it settled in her chest like ice: she had bought herself a little time, nothing more. Temporary shelter in exchange for domestic service, with a man who looked at her as if she were a curse visited upon his house.

And yet, as the storm howled louder around them, sealing them together in this isolated place where civilization felt as distant as the stars, Mabel clutched her cousin’s child closer and whispered a silent vow against his downy head.

She would make this work. For Franklin’s sake, for the promise she had made to her beloved cousin as she lay dying. She had to. Even if it meant sharing a house with a man whose heart was as frozen as the ground beneath their feet.

She would just have to find a way to melt it.