By the time the sun cleared the snow-heavy roofs of Red Creek, eighteen-year-old Maeve Callahan had already learned exactly what she was worth.
Two draft mules.
Not two horses.
Not a parcel of good land.
Not even enough money to begin a life somewhere far away.
Two gray-backed draft mules with scarred shoulders and dull brown eyes.
Uncle Amos inspected them in the alley behind the mercantile as though he were conducting the most important business transaction of his life.
Maeve stood ten feet away beneath the warped wooden awning, clutching the handle of a small canvas satchel.
Everything she owned was inside it.
Two patched shifts.
One wool skirt.
Stockings with holes at both heels.
A faded blue ribbon that had belonged to her mother.
And a cracked tortoiseshell comb missing three teeth.
The comb was the only thing Maeve possessed that Uncle Amos had never tried to sell.
Perhaps because he believed it worthless.
Perhaps because he had forgotten it existed.
Maeve hoped he never remembered.
“Strong pair,” Amos said, running one hand down the nearest mule's flank.
Gideon Reed stood on the other side of the animals.
He was the largest man Maeve had ever seen.
Not merely tall.
Large.
Broad shoulders filled a weather-beaten coat darkened by pine smoke and years of mountain winters. His black beard had been trimmed with no concern for symmetry. Snowmelt glistened in his dark hair. A rifle leaned against the wagon behind him.
He looked like a man made from the same timber as the mountains.
Maeve had heard stories about Gideon Reed.
Everybody in Red Creek had.
He trapped high along the northern ridge.
He rarely came to town.
He had once carried a wounded elk hunter six miles through a blizzard.
Another story claimed he had broken a man's jaw for cheating him over beaver pelts.
There were stories involving wolves.
Stories involving whiskey.
Stories involving a dead wife.
Maeve did not know which were true.
All she knew was that Gideon had agreed to give Amos two mules in exchange for her labor.
That was the polite description.
No one in the mercantile used the uglier word.
Sold.
Maeve knew it anyway.
Amos spat into the snow.
“She don't complain much.”
Gideon glanced toward Maeve.
His eyes were gray.
Not cruel.
Not warm either.
Just tired.
“What can she do?”
“Cook. Mend. Wash. Keep house. Useful girl.”
Maeve stared at the frozen road.
Useful girl.
As if she were a shovel.
“Healthy?”
“She ain't died yet.”
Amos laughed at his own joke.
Gideon did not.
Maeve swallowed.
Her mother had been dead for seven years. Her father had followed three winters later after a logging accident crushed his ribs.
Since then, Amos had reminded Maeve every day that feeding another mouth cost money.
She had milked his cow before dawn.
Scrubbed his floors.
Cooked his supper.
Mended his trousers.
Worked in his vegetable patch.
Gathered eggs.
Helped at harvest.
Still, Amos always spoke as though she were an unpaid debt that had somehow learned to breathe.
Now he had finally collected.
“One thing,” Gideon said.
Amos looked up.
“She comes willingly.”
Maeve almost laughed.
Willingly?
Amos turned toward her.
“You willing?”
There were eight men inside the mercantile pretending not to listen.
The storekeeper was arranging tins that had already been arranged.
A ranch hand studied a sack of flour with enormous concentration.
Nobody looked at Maeve.
Nobody asked where she would go if she said no.
Amos had already told her what would happen.
The house was his.
The land was his.
Winter was coming.
If she refused Gideon Reed, she could sleep in the church shed until Reverend Harper decided she was somebody else's problem.
Maeve raised her chin.
“Yes.”
The word left her mouth quietly.
Gideon studied her for a moment longer.
Then he handed Amos the reins.
That was all.
No contract.
No ceremony.
No blessing.
Two mules moved from one man's possession to another.
And so did Maeve.
Amos immediately began discussing harnesses.
He never said goodbye.
Maeve climbed onto Gideon's wagon.
The bench was covered with frost.
She sat as far from him as possible.
Gideon took up the reins.
The wagon rolled north.
Maeve did not look back until Red Creek disappeared behind the trees.
Only then did she allow herself to cry.
She did it silently.
She turned her face toward the mountains and let the cold wind dry the tears before Gideon could notice them.
Or perhaps he noticed and chose not to speak.
For nearly an hour, they traveled without conversation.
The road narrowed.
Snow deepened beneath the wagon wheels.
Pines rose on either side, their branches heavy with white.
Maeve's fingers became numb.
She tucked them beneath her arms.
Another mile passed.
Then Gideon suddenly reached behind the wagon seat.
Maeve stiffened.
He pulled out an old wool blanket and threw it into her lap.
“Wrap up.”
She stared at him.
“Ain't hauling a frozen corpse home.”
His tone was rough enough to make kindness sound almost insulting.
Still, Maeve unfolded the blanket.
It smelled of cedar, horse, and smoke.
She wrapped it around herself.
“Thank you.”
Gideon grunted.
They continued upward.
Maeve eventually gathered enough courage to ask, “How far?”
“Cabin's past Eagle Ridge.”
“That doesn't tell me anything.”
He looked sideways at her.
For the first time, she saw the hint of something beneath his heavy expression.
Maybe amusement.
“Another two hours.”
Maeve regretted asking.
As the elevation increased, the wind sharpened.
She watched Gideon's hands.
They were badly scarred.
One thumb bent slightly sideways.
He handled the horses gently.
That surprised her.
Cruel men, in Maeve's experience, were often cruel to animals first.
Gideon never snapped the reins.
He spoke quietly whenever the horses struggled over ice.
“Easy, Pearl.”
“That's it, Buck.”
Names.
He had named them.
Maeve filed the information away.
When they finally turned off the mountain trail, dusk had begun washing the world blue.
The cabin appeared between towering pines.
It was larger than Maeve expected but badly neglected.
A lean-to sagged against one wall.
Split logs lay scattered beneath snow.
A chopping block stood near the doorway.
Smoke barely crawled from the chimney.
Something moved behind one of the windows.
Maeve thought she had imagined it.
Gideon stopped the wagon.
“We're here.”
She climbed down.
Her boots sank ankle-deep into snow.
Gideon carried her satchel without asking.
That unsettled her almost as much as everything else.
She followed him inside.
And stopped.
The smell struck first.
Smoke.
Grease.
Damp wool.
Spoiled food.
Unwashed bodies.
A long wooden table dominated the room. Bowls crusted with old porridge sat beside rusted utensils. Bedding had been piled in one corner as if thrown there months earlier.
The hearth held only weak red coals.
A mouse darted beneath a cupboard.
Maeve looked slowly around.
This was not a home.
It was a place where people had stopped caring whether tomorrow looked different from today.
Then she heard it.
A scrape beneath the table.
Maeve turned.
Two eyes reflected the firelight.
Then another pair.
A little boy crawled from the darkness.
He could not have been older than five.
His brown hair hung over his eyes in filthy tangles. His shirt was torn at one shoulder. His feet were bare despite the cold.
Behind him appeared a girl nearly identical in age.
Twins.
She hugged a ragged cloth rabbit against her chest.
Maeve's breath caught.
The children's faces were thin.
Too thin.
Their eyes were enormous.
Neither spoke.
Gideon set Maeve's satchel near the wall.
“Toby. Tess.”
The boy moved slightly in front of the girl.
Protecting her.
Gideon gestured toward Maeve.
“Maeve's staying.”
No response.
“She cooks. Cleans. You listen to her.”
Still nothing.
Maeve looked at Gideon.
“These are your children?”
His jaw tightened.
“My sister's.”
The answer contained something that warned her not to ask more.
Gideon reached for his rifle.
“Need to put the horses away.”
He went outside.
The door closed.
Maeve stared after him.
Then at the children.
Toby stared back.
“Hello,” Maeve said gently.
The boy's expression hardened.
Tess disappeared beneath the table.
Maeve crouched.
“My name is Maeve.”
Toby did not answer.
She slowly removed her cloak.
“I suppose you're hungry.”
The word hungry caused something to flicker across his face.
Maeve walked toward the hearth.
Behind her came the sudden slap of bare feet.
She turned.
Toby lunged.
His small hands grabbed her forearm.
Then his teeth sank into her wrist.
Maeve screamed.
Pain exploded through her arm.
Her free hand flew upward.
For one horrible instant, instinct took control.
She almost struck him.
Then she saw his face.
Toby was not angry.
He was terrified.
His entire body shook.
His eyes squeezed shut as if he expected the blow.
Maeve froze.
Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her raised hand.
“I won't hit you.”
Toby continued biting.
Her wrist burned.
“I won't hurt you.”
His grip weakened.
Maeve remained perfectly still.
Finally, the boy released her.
Two deep crescent marks darkened her skin.
A bead of blood appeared.
Toby stumbled backward.
Then rushed beneath the table beside Tess.
Maeve stood breathing hard.
She looked toward the door.
She could call Gideon.
She could tell him what the boy had done.
But she remembered the way Toby had closed his eyes.
Not like a child expecting discipline.
Like a child expecting pain.
Maeve wrapped a cloth around her bleeding wrist.
Then she walked outside.
She made it around the side of the cabin before vomiting into the snow.
Not from the bite.
From what she understood.
Someone had taught that little boy to be afraid of raised hands.
Maeve remained bent over until the sickness passed.
When she returned, Gideon was still in the stable.
She gathered an armful of wood.
Inside, she rebuilt the fire.
She found cornmeal.
A jar of molasses.
Half a slab of bacon with mold creeping across one edge.
She cut away the spoiled portion.
She boiled water.
The children watched from underneath the table.
Maeve worked without approaching them.
She swept one section of floor.
Then another.
She scrubbed two bowls.
By nightfall, flames warmed the cabin.
Cornmeal mush steamed on the table.
Maeve poured a small ribbon of molasses across each serving.
Toby's eyes followed every movement.
Maeve placed the bowls on the table.
“Food's ready.”
Neither child moved.
She did not repeat herself.
Instead, Maeve carried a third bowl toward the hearth.
She sat down with her back partially turned.
One minute passed.
Then another.
A floorboard creaked.
Tiny footsteps.
Maeve kept eating.
Toby climbed onto a chair.
Tess followed.
They stared at the bowls.
Then hunger won.
They ate with their fingers.
Fast.
Too fast.
Tess nearly choked.
Maeve resisted the urge to interfere.
When both bowls were empty, Tess stared into the pot.
Her voice was barely more than breath.
“More?”
The single word almost broke Maeve's heart.
“Tomorrow,” she answered softly. “Too much tonight will make your belly hurt.”
Tess watched her.
Then nodded.
The door opened.
Gideon stepped inside.
He stopped.
His gaze moved from the blazing hearth to the swept floor.
Then to the twins sitting at the table.
Then to Maeve.
His eyes settled on the cloth wrapped around her wrist.
“What happened?”
Maeve pulled her sleeve down.
“Caught it on a nail.”
Toby stopped breathing.
Gideon looked at the boy.
Then back at Maeve.
He clearly did not believe her.
But he said nothing.
That night, Maeve slept on a narrow cot near the hearth.
For hours she listened to the wind scraping branches against the roof.
Sometime after midnight, she opened her eyes.
Two small shapes stood beside her.
Toby.
Tess.
Neither spoke.
Maeve stayed still.
After a moment, Tess placed something near Maeve's blanket.
The ragged cloth rabbit.
Then the twins returned to their corner.
Maeve stared at the toy.
It was filthy.
One ear was missing.
A black thread formed its crooked smile.
Maeve touched the rabbit carefully.
She understood.
It was not trust.
Not yet.
But it was the first thing anyone in that cabin had given her without asking for something in return.
And for the first time since Amos had traded her away, Maeve wondered whether coming to Gideon Reed's mountain had been the end of her life—
or the strange beginning of another one.