Catherine blinked.
At first she thought it was a bear.
The shape came nearer.
A man emerged from the white wilderness wearing heavy furs, a rifle across his back.
He was enormous.
Broad shoulders.
Black beard silvered by ice.
A jagged scar running from his left temple toward his jaw.
He seemed less like a traveler than something the mountains themselves had carved out of stone.
Catherine tried to reach beneath her coat for the pistol at her waist.
Her hand failed.
The stranger crouched.
Storm-blue eyes studied her face.
“Can you hear me?”
She managed one word.
“Brother.”
The stranger frowned.
Catherine grabbed his sleeve with the last strength she possessed.
“Don’t… take… the satchel.”
Then darkness swallowed her.
Warmth hurt.
That was the first thing Catherine discovered when consciousness returned.
Her fingers burned.
Her feet throbbed.
Her cheeks felt as if someone had rubbed them with broken glass.
She opened her eyes.
A fire roared inside a stone hearth.
Wolf pelts covered her body.
She was lying in a narrow bed inside a cabin built from enormous pine logs.
Dry herbs hung from beams.
Rifles rested over the door.
A kettle steamed near the fire.
Her coat was gone.
Catherine bolted upright.
“The satchel.”
Pain exploded through her feet.
She gasped.
A deep voice came from across the room.
“Under the blanket.”
Catherine jerked her head around.
The mountain man sat at a rough wooden table sharpening a knife.
Without the snow covering him, he somehow looked even larger.
His shirt strained across his shoulders. His dark hair reached almost to his collar, and the scar along his face disappeared beneath a short beard.
Catherine shoved a hand beneath the pelts.
Leather.
She exhaled.
“You opened it?”
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“If I’d wanted what was inside, you wouldn’t still have it.”
That was not comforting.
She glanced toward the door.
“My boots?”
“Ruined.”
“My horse?”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“How far are we from South Pass?”
The man stopped sharpening the knife.
“Far enough.”
“I need a number.”
“Twenty-seven miles by summer trail.”
Catherine nearly laughed with relief.
Twenty-seven miles.
She could do twenty-seven miles.
She swung her legs from the bed.
The man stood.
“Don’t.”
“I need my clothes.”
“You need to lie down.”
“I don’t remember asking your permission.”
She took one step.
Pain ripped through both feet.
Catherine collapsed.
The stranger caught her before she struck the floor.
His hands were enormous.
For one brief second she felt herself pressed against his chest.
Then he set her carefully back onto the bed.
Catherine glared at him.
“When can I leave?”
His expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“The pass is buried.”
“For how long?”
“Ten feet in places.”
“How long?”
“Could clear in two weeks.”
Her heart stopped.
“No.”
“Could be three.”
“No.”
“If the next storm comes—”
“No!”
Catherine tried to stand again.
The stranger planted one hand against the bedpost.
“You go outside now, you’ll be dead before sundown.”
“My brother will be dead in four days!”
The words cracked through the cabin.
Silence followed.
For the first time, the man’s hard expression shifted.
Catherine’s breath trembled.
“They’re hanging him.”
The stranger slowly lowered his hand.
“What for?”
“Murder.”
“Did he do it?”
“No.”
No hesitation.
The man’s eyes lingered on hers.
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“So were plenty of sisters.”
