Every object became another few weeks of food.

Now there was almost nothing left except the cabin.

And soon, Maylin feared, even that would disappear.

On the table lay a folded notice from Cyrus Bell, the wealthiest banker in Redemption Creek.

The message contained only a few sentences.

But the final line had kept Maylin awake for three nights.

Payment must be received before January 2 or the Harrow property will be seized.

Eight days.

That was all she had.

Eight days to save the cabin.

Eight days to protect her daughters.

Eight days to somehow find money that did not exist.

Maylin tightened her arms around Shaw and Faun.

“I love you.”

Shaw whispered, “We know, Mama.”

Then something struck the front door.

Knock.

Maylin froze.

The girls did too.

Nobody traveled through this part of Montana during weather like this.

Another sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Three slow, heavy knocks.

Faun grabbed Maylin’s dress.

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

Maylin crossed the room and took Daniel’s old revolver from the shelf.

Two bullets remained inside.

She moved toward the door.

“Stay behind me.”

The wind screamed outside.

Another knock came.

Slow.

Patient.

Almost gentle.

Maylin lifted the latch.

“Who is it?”

A deep male voice answered.

“Someone who’d rather not freeze to death before delivering Christmas.”

Maylin frowned.

She opened the door several inches.

A violent gust of snow rushed into the cabin.

Standing on the porch was a broad-shouldered cowboy.

Ice covered the brim of his dark hat.

Snow clung to his beard.

His heavy coat looked nearly frozen solid.

Behind him stood two powerful horses pulling a wagon.

But it was what filled that wagon that left Maylin unable to speak.

There were sacks of flour.

Potatoes.

Coffee.

Salt.

Beans.

Fresh bread.

Smoked ham.

Jars of preserves.

Blankets.

Firewood.

Lamp oil.

Candles.

And dozens of wrapped packages tied with bright red ribbon.

Faun peeked around her mother.

Her eyes widened.

The stranger removed his hat.

His gray eyes briefly settled on Maylin’s revolver.

Then he looked toward the dying fire behind her.

“I figure,” he said quietly, “Christmas ought to look a little different than this.”

Maylin stared.

“Who are you?”

“Gideon Vale.”

The name meant nothing to her.

The cowboy reached into the wagon and lifted a small wrapped parcel.

He held it toward Shaw.

“Merry Christmas.”

Shaw looked at Maylin before touching it.

Maylin shook her head.

“We cannot pay you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I didn’t order these things.”

“I know.”

Something about those words made Maylin nervous.

“How do you know?”

Gideon remained silent.

Maylin lifted the gun slightly.

“Who sent you?”

His expression changed.

The gentle humor vanished.