Morning revealed exactly how bad their situation had become.
The storm had buried the mountain beneath nearly eighteen inches of fresh snow.
Judson’s cabin was gone.
Only blackened logs and smoke remained below.
Worse, tracks led away from the ruins toward Silver Creek.
“They’ll think we ran for town,” Judson said.
Gar leaned against the wall, his wrists still tied.
“Because that’s what sensible people would do.”
Judson glared.
“Then we won’t.”
Winifred sat near a tiny stove salvaged from the shack’s abandoned equipment.
“What exactly are we going to do?”
Judson opened an old wooden box hidden beneath a floorboard.
Inside were mining documents, survey notes, and a folded map.
Gar’s eyes sharpened.
“There it is.”
Judson pulled his revolver.
“Look at it again and I’ll solve one of my problems.”
Gar looked away.
Winifred approached.
“This is what they want?”
Judson spread the map across a crate.
“Yes.”
Lines marked Granite Ridge.
A red circle surrounded a narrow ravine north of the cabin.
“This shows the silver vein?”
“And more.”
Judson handed her a weathered ledger.
“Two years ago I discovered Rourke had been altering claim records.”
Winifred looked at him.
“He was stealing land?”
“Through forged deeds and bribed officials.”
Gar nodded reluctantly.
“True.”
Judson continued.
“Men who refused to sell had accidents.”
“The three murders?”
“Some of them.”
Winifred’s stomach tightened.
“And you kept proof here?”
“I was waiting until I had enough to take to the territorial marshal.”
Gar laughed.
“You waited too long.”
Judson’s jaw hardened.
“Maybe.”
Winifred scanned the papers.
Years working in a bakery had taught her numbers. Her aunt had trusted her with accounts from the age of sixteen.
“These entries don’t match.”
Judson looked over.
“What?”
She pointed.
“The ore shipments.”
Gar moved closer.
Judson immediately raised the gun.
“Stay there.”
Winifred ignored them both.
“This ledger says the Crawford claim shipped forty tons in September. But this freight record says sixty-two.”
Judson stared.
“You understand these?”
“They’re accounts.”
“What does it mean?”
Winifred traced numbers.
“Rourke isn’t simply stealing claims. He’s hiding production.”
“Why?”
“Taxes, investors, partners—take your choice.”
Gar went pale.
Winifred noticed.
“You knew.”
Gar said nothing.
She approached him.
“What?”
Gar sighed.
“Rourke has been shipping high-grade ore under false names.”
“To where?”
“Denver. Sometimes east.”
Judson understood.
“He’s laundering stolen silver.”
Gar nodded.
“And if these ledgers reach authorities…”
“He hangs,” Winifred said.
Gar looked at her.
“So do several officials.”
For the first time, Judson smiled grimly.
“Then we take everything to Silver Creek.”
Gar shook his head.
“Sheriff Boone works for Rourke.”
Judson’s expression darkened.
“I suspected.”
“The deputy too.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Gar considered.
“Marshal Ethan Cole.”
“Federal?”
“Territorial. Based in Fairhaven.”
Judson frowned.
“That’s forty miles.”
“Thirty-eight.”
“In this snow?”
Gar shrugged.
“Then stay and die.”
Judson looked toward Winifred.
“No.”
She recognized the tone immediately.
“No what?”
“You’re not coming.”
She laughed once.
“That again?”
“This is different.”
“It always seems to be different whenever you want to decide something for me.”
“Winifred.”
“If I stay here, Rourke’s men find me.”
“I’ll hide you.”
“In what? A tree?”
Gar snorted.
Judson glared at him.
Winifred folded her arms.
“I’m going.”
Judson stepped closer.
“You can barely ride ten miles comfortably.”
“Then I’ll be uncomfortable for thirty-eight.”
“The passes are dangerous.”
“So is the man whose face I covered in bacon grease.”
Gar muttered, “I’m sitting right here.”
Winifred continued.
“And if those ledgers matter, someone who understands them should go.”
Judson had no answer.
By noon they had assembled supplies from the mining shack.
Three blankets.
Old snowshoes.
A half sack of oats.
Dried meat.
A battered sled.
Judson returned briefly to the cabin ruins and recovered two horses that had escaped the fire.
Winifred stood in the ashes while he searched.
Nothing remained of her trunk.
Judson found one charred object beneath a collapsed beam.
A small metal photograph frame.
The glass had cracked, but the picture inside survived.
Winifred’s aunt Martha.
Judson wiped ash away and handed it to her.
Winifred stared at the photograph.
Her face crumpled.
She pressed it to her chest.
Judson said nothing.
He simply stood beside her.
After a moment she whispered, “Thank you.”
They left Granite Ridge before sunset.
Gar rode with his hands tied to the saddle horn.
Judson watched him constantly.
The first day went slowly.
Winifred’s muscles screamed after six hours.
She refused to complain.
That night they sheltered in a shallow cave.
Judson spread his coat over the ground for her.
“You’ll need it.”
“So will you.”
“I’ve slept colder.”
“That isn’t the same as needing to.”
Judson sat beside her.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then Winifred asked, “Why did you really send for a wife?”
Judson stared into the small fire.
“Loneliness.”
She had not expected such a direct answer.
“My brother died eleven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Peter and his wife lived in the cabin with me.”
Winifred realized.
“The cabin was theirs?”
“Ours. We built it together.”
“What happened?”
“Winter fever.”
Judson swallowed.
“His wife died first. Peter three days later.”
“And after that you stayed alone.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Leaving felt like abandoning them.”
Winifred looked toward the darkness.
“I understand that.”
Judson glanced at her.
“My aunt’s bakery was like that. After she died, I stayed there even when there was no money. I slept upstairs while creditors removed things downstairs.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I barely knew you.”
“That didn’t stop me from insulting you.”
“No.”
He winced.
She looked at him.
“Do you know what hurt most?”
Judson shook his head.
“It wasn’t what you said about my size.”
His eyes lowered.
“I’d heard things like that before.”
“Winifred—”
She held up her hand.
“What hurt was realizing I’d traveled across the country believing someone had chosen me. And the moment you saw me, you wished you hadn’t.”
Judson’s face tightened.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was afraid.”
She frowned.
“Of me?”
“Of caring whether you stayed.”
Winifred went still.
Judson looked into the fire.
“Everybody I loved left that cabin one way or another.”
“Peter didn’t leave you.”
“I know.”
“Neither did his wife.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not them.”
His gaze met hers.
“No.”
Winifred’s voice softened.
“I can’t promise I’ll never leave. Nobody can.”
Judson nodded.
“But I can promise I won’t disappear simply because winter gets hard.”
Something shifted between them.
Judson reached for her hand slowly.
She let him take it.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles.
Gar’s voice floated from the opposite side of the cave.
“Can somebody shoot me?”
Winifred laughed.
Judson threw a piece of firewood at him.
The next morning they rode again.
By midday, they found tracks behind them.
Four riders.
Rourke’s men.
Judson pushed them faster.
The trail narrowed along a cliff.
Snow began falling.
Winifred’s horse slipped.
She screamed.
Judson grabbed her reins as the animal’s rear legs slid toward the edge.
Gar unexpectedly jumped from his own horse and seized the saddle strap.
Together the men hauled the animal upright.
Winifred shook violently.
Judson held her.
“You hurt?”
“No.”
He looked toward Gar.
“Why’d you help?”
Gar shrugged.
“She makes good biscuits.”
Winifred stared at him.
“You ate one?”
“You left them beside the stove.”
“That was before you broke into my house.”
“Still good.”
For the first time, even Judson laughed.
The moment ended when a rifle shot echoed behind them.
“Move!” Judson shouted.
They rode.
The chase lasted nearly two hours.
Eventually Judson spotted an abandoned railway tunnel.
They rushed inside seconds before Rourke’s men appeared.
Gunfire exploded.
Bullets struck stone.
Judson returned fire from behind a timber support.
Gar shouted, “Untie me!”
“No!”
“You need another gun!”
Judson hesitated.
Winifred looked at Gar.
“If we untie you, will you run?”
“Probably.”
“Wonderful.”
“But not toward Rourke.”
Judson tossed him a knife.
“Cut yourself free.”
Gar caught it.
Within seconds he held a revolver taken from one of the abandoned mine lockers.
Three men defending the tunnel changed everything.
Gar was a better shot than Winifred expected.
One attacker went down.
Another retreated.
Then silence.
Judson listened.
“They pulled back.”
Gar shook his head.
“No. They’re going around.”
“Around where?”
Gar looked toward the far end of the tunnel.
“To cut us off.”
Winifred’s heart dropped.
Judson grabbed the documents.
“We move.”
The tunnel opened onto an old rail bed descending toward Fairhaven.
They abandoned the horses and used the sled to carry supplies.
By nightfall, Winifred could barely walk.
Judson noticed.
He crouched before her.
“Get on.”
“What?”
“My back.”
“You can’t carry me.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Is that a challenge?”
Despite exhaustion, she smiled.
“I’m not light.”
“I know.”
The old wound flickered between them.
Judson added quietly, “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Winifred stared at him.
Then she climbed onto his back.
Judson carried her for nearly a mile.
Gar followed behind.
“You two are disgusting.”
Winifred rested her cheek against Judson’s shoulder.
“Keep walking, Dempsey.”
Near midnight, lights appeared below.
Fairhaven.
Judson exhaled.
“We made it.”
Then six armed men stepped from the trees ahead.
Sheriff Boone stood among them.
Winifred recognized him from Silver Creek.
He smiled.
“Evening, McIntyre.”
Judson slowly lowered Winifred.
Boone’s men raised rifles.
“Mr. Rourke would like his papers back.”
Gar whispered, “I told you Boone belonged to him.”
Judson’s hand moved toward his gun.
Sheriff Boone cocked his rifle.
“Try it.”
Judson stopped.
Boone held out his hand.
“The documents.”
Winifred looked at Judson.
Their only evidence.
Their only chance.
Judson began reaching inside his coat.
Then Winifred suddenly stepped forward.
“All right.”
Everyone looked at her.
She pulled a leather packet from beneath her cloak.
Boone smiled.
“Smart woman.”
Judson’s face went pale.
“Winifred—”
She handed Boone the packet.
He opened it.
Several sheets filled with handwriting.
He scanned them.
His smile faded.
“What the hell is this?”
Winifred looked innocent.
“My recipes.”
Judson stared.
Gar began laughing.
And from somewhere behind Boone came a new voice.
“Drop your weapons.”
A tall man wearing a territorial marshal’s badge stepped from the darkness with eight armed deputies.
Marshal Ethan Cole looked directly at Sheriff Boone.
“I’ve been hoping you’d make this easy.”
Winifred turned toward Judson.
He whispered, “Where are the real papers?”
She patted the front of her dress.
“Boston women have pockets.”
For the second time in a week, Judson McIntyre realized he had dramatically underestimated his wife.
And this time, he was beginning to enjoy it.
---