Beside it sat an old newspaper.

The headline caught her attention.

MERCER TIMBER CLAIM CHALLENGED—COUNTY HEARING EXPECTED.

Her smile vanished.

Henry noticed.

“Something wrong?”

Clara picked up the paper.

“Your land is being disputed?”

“Some eastern company wants the timber rights. Been trying for years.”

“Which company?”

“Blackthorn Development.”

Clara’s fingers tightened on the page.

“Who owns it?”

“Man named Silas Blackthorn. Never met him.”

She went very still.

Henry watched her.

“You know that name?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

At the counter, the shopkeeper cleared his throat.

“Blackthorn’s agents were in town yesterday. Word is they’re offering good money to anyone who can prove Mercer’s father never legally owned that ridge.”

Henry’s jaw hardened.

“My father paid for that land.”

“Doesn’t matter if the deed’s no good,” the shopkeeper replied. “They’re saying there’s an older claim.”

Clara lowered the newspaper.

“An older claim?”

“From 1868. A company called Western Crown.”

She looked as though someone had struck her.

Henry stepped closer.

“Clara?”

“I’m tired,” she whispered. “Could we go home?”

The journey back was silent.

That night, after Henry had gone to the barn, Clara opened her carpetbag.

Beneath a false lining lay a tiny brass key, a folded letter, and a photograph.

The photograph showed a magnificent white house surrounded by oak trees.

Written across the back were four words.

Remember what they stole.

Clara held the picture against her chest.

Then unfolded the letter.

The handwriting was delicate, almost faded beyond recognition.

My dearest girl,

There will come a day when the truth finds you. When that day arrives, you must remember that blood does not always make a family, and the people who appear to be your enemies may be the only ones who ever loved you.

Above all, never trust Silas.

Clara closed her eyes.

Twenty years.

For twenty years, she had carried the letter.

And now, in a cabin high above Helena, she had finally found the name she had spent half her life trying to forget.

Mercer.

Chapter Four: The Storm

Three days later, the barometer began falling.

Henry studied it over breakfast.

“Bad weather coming.”

“How bad?”

“Could last three days.”

Clara looked outside.

The sky had turned the peculiar purple-gray that mountain people feared.

“I’ve already stacked wood inside.”

Henry looked surprised.

“You noticed?”

“I may be large, Henry, but I’m not blind.”

He almost smiled.

By evening, the wind was shaking the windows.

Snow swallowed the fence.

The horses stamped nervously in the barn.

At eight o’clock, smoke suddenly blasted backward through the stove.

Clara dropped to her knees coughing.

Henry rushed forward, shut the draft, and opened the window.

“Chimney’s blocked!”

Ice and wet snow had sealed the cap.

They could not safely keep a fire burning until it was cleared.

Henry grabbed an iron poker and dragged the ladder outside.

“Stay inside!” he shouted.

Clara watched him vanish into the snow.

Then she saw the ladder begin to sway.

She snatched a shawl from the chair.

By the time Henry was halfway up, the wind was trying to tear the ladder from the cabin.

“Climb!” Clara screamed.

She seized the wooden rails and planted her weight against the storm.

“Get inside!” Henry shouted.

“Climb the damn ladder, Mercer!”

He had never heard her speak that way.

And he had no time to argue.

Henry forced himself upward, reached the roof, and crawled toward the chimney.

The first blow of his poker accomplished nothing.

The second cracked the ice.

The third sent a slab sliding into the darkness.

Black smoke burst upward.

The chimney was clear.

But as Henry moved back toward the ladder, his boots slipped.

He slid across the roof.

For an instant, his entire body hung over the edge.

Clara screamed his name.

Then he caught the gutter, swung toward the ladder, and descended hard enough to bruise his ribs.

He landed in the snow.

The moment Clara released the ladder, her knees buckled.

Henry caught her.

Together, they struggled inside.

He slammed the door against the storm.

They collapsed onto the floorboards, soaked and filthy.

Soot streaked Clara’s cheeks.

Ice crusted Henry’s beard.

“You could have died,” he whispered.

Clara managed a weak smile.

“The great mountain man. Defeated by a chimney.”

Henry began laughing.

He could not help it.

Clara joined him.

For a beautiful moment, the cabin was filled with something that had been absent for years.

Joy.

Then Clara’s laughter stopped.

Her teeth began chattering violently.

Henry reached for her hand.

It was frighteningly cold.

“Clara?”

She tried to stand.

Her legs folded.

He caught her.

“Can you walk?”

“No.”

Henry hesitated.

“May I lift you?”

She nodded.

He gathered her carefully in his arms.

Her weight strained his shoulders, but he carried her to the bed and lowered her onto the blankets.

She clutched his coat.

“Don’t put the canvas back up,” she whispered.

Henry froze.

The divider.

The little canvas curtain he had hung between his cot and her bed.

The boundary he had never crossed.

“Clara—”

“Please.”

Her eyes searched his.

“I’m tired of pretending we’re strangers.”

Henry’s throat tightened.

He brushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead.

“Then we won’t pretend anymore.”

But before he could say anything else, she began shivering uncontrollably.

And the terrible battle to keep her alive began.

Chapter Five: The Night the Walls Fell

Henry worked with desperate precision.

He replaced Clara’s wet garments with dry flannel, shielding her beneath blankets as he helped her change.

He wrapped warm stones in towels and placed them near her feet, careful that they were not hot enough to burn.