By the winter of 1879, hunger had taught Josephine “Josie” Hale how to measure a day in smaller things.
A spoonful of broth.
A handful of firewood.
The number of hours before her stomach stopped hurting and simply became numb.
She was nineteen years old, though most mornings she felt much older. The previous summer had taken everything that had once made the world familiar. Cholera had arrived in their little Wyoming settlement with a wagon train from the east and had swept through the valley faster than anyone could dig graves.
Josie’s mother died first.
Her two younger brothers followed within four days.
Her father, Amos Hale, survived.
Sometimes Josie wondered if surviving had been the crueler fate.
Before the sickness, Amos had laughed loudly, worked hard, and played the fiddle badly enough to make his wife throw dish towels at him. Afterward, he became a man Josie barely recognized.
He stopped trapping.
Stopped repairing their leaking roof.
Stopped speaking her mother’s name.
Then he discovered whiskey.
By December, they had sold nearly everything inside their cabin except two chairs, a cracked stove, and Josie’s mother’s Bible.
Three days before Christmas, they ran out of flour.
The next morning, Amos announced they were going to O’Malley’s trading post.
Josie already knew why.
Credit.
They had survived on credit for weeks.
O’Malley had extended it because he remembered the man Amos used to be, but sympathy had limits in a frontier town where nearly everyone owed somebody something.
The snow was knee-deep when they reached the trading post.
Inside, the air smelled of tobacco, hides, lamp oil, and dried apples.
Josie sat on an overturned pickle barrel near the stove while Amos approached the counter.
Her dress had belonged to her mother.
It hung strangely from Josie’s thinner frame now, patched at both elbows and frayed along the hem. Her shoes had split near the toes, and she had tied them together with twine.
She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap.
If she loosened them, they trembled.
O’Malley opened his ledger.
“No.”
Amos leaned across the counter.
“Patrick, listen—”
“I’ve listened for two months.”
“We need flour.”
“You owe forty dollars.”
“I’ll trap when the weather breaks.”
“You said that in November.”
“I mean it this time.”
O’Malley closed the ledger.
“Cash or pelts.”
Amos had neither.
Josie watched her father’s shoulders sag.
For one brief moment, she felt sorry for him.
Then he turned his head.
And looked at her.
The pity vanished.
Josie knew that look.
She had seen it when Amos sold their milk cow.
When he traded her mother’s silver brooch for whiskey.
When he burned the legs of their kitchen table for firewood rather than walking into the forest.
It was the look of a man calculating what remained.
Josie suddenly understood.
She was what remained.
Before Amos could speak, the front door flew open.
Wind blasted through the room.
Snow skittered over the floorboards.
A man stepped inside.
Conversation stopped.
Judson Cole had to lower his head to clear the doorway.
Josie had seen him from a distance twice before, but neither glimpse had prepared her for how large he seemed indoors.
He was well over six feet tall, broad through the shoulders, with a dark beard covering most of his weathered face. A bearskin coat hung nearly to his knees. Snow had gathered across his shoulders and in his hair.
His eyes were gray.
Not pale gray.
Stone gray.
The sort of eyes people remembered.
Judson rarely came into town.
He lived somewhere high along Black Ridge, where the pines became sparse and the mountains turned to granite. Nobody seemed to know exactly where his cabin stood.
Stories filled the gaps.
A miner claimed Judson had killed a man in Cheyenne.
Another said he had once fought three cattle thieves with nothing but a skinning knife.
The saloon keeper insisted Judson had been married once and that his wife had disappeared.
Nobody knew whether any of it was true.
Truth had never been necessary for a frightening story.
Judson walked to the counter carrying a bundle of fox pelts.
O’Malley nodded cautiously.
“Cole.”
Judson placed the pelts down.
“Coffee.”
His voice was deep but surprisingly quiet.
“Salt.”
O’Malley began calculating.
Then Amos spoke.
“Mighty lonely up on that ridge.”
Josie went still.
Judson looked toward him.
Amos attempted a grin.
“Man with a cabin needs somebody to cook.”
Judson said nothing.
Amos gestured toward Josie.
“My girl’s strong.”
Josie felt every eye in the room move toward her.
“Quiet too,” Amos continued. “Doesn’t eat much.”
Her face burned.
“Pa.”
He ignored her.
“She can wash. Sew. Cook some.”
“Pa.”
Amos finally looked at her.
His expression told her not to speak.
Then he turned back to Judson.
“Take her for the winter.”
The room became so silent Josie heard the stove pop.
Amos swallowed.
“Or keep her.”
Josie stopped breathing.
O’Malley stared at him.
“Amos.”
But Amos was committed now.
“Just buy my supplies.”
Josie wished the floor would open beneath her.
She wished her mother were alive.
She wished she were five years old again, sitting at the table while her brothers argued over biscuits.
Instead she sat before strangers while her father offered her like livestock.
Judson turned.
His gaze found hers.
Josie braced herself.
She had heard enough whispered stories about men to understand what such an arrangement could mean.
Judson’s eyes traveled over her patched sleeves.
Her hollow cheeks.
Her broken shoes.
Her trembling hands.
Josie waited for hunger to appear on his face.
Not hunger for food.
Something worse.
It never came.
His jaw tightened.
For the first time, something moved behind those stone-gray eyes.
Anger, perhaps.
But not at her.
Judson turned toward O’Malley.
“Fifty pounds of flour.”
Amos blinked.
Judson continued.
“Ten pounds salt pork.”
O’Malley stared.
“Coffee.”
Judson glanced toward the shelves.
“Three heavy wool blankets.”
Amos’s mouth opened.
Judson removed a gold coin from a leather pouch and set it on the counter.
“The supplies go to him.”
Amos smiled.
Actually smiled.
Relief flooded his face.
Josie felt something inside her break.
Her own father had not even hesitated.
O’Malley’s expression hardened.
“Josie doesn’t belong to anybody.”
“No,” Judson said.
His eyes returned to her.
“She doesn’t.”
Amos apparently failed to hear the distinction.
He was already gathering provisions.
Judson turned toward Josie.
“Can you ride?”
She swallowed.
“A little.”
“Come on.”
She stood.
Her knees nearly buckled.
No one stopped her.
Not O’Malley.
Not the men by the stove.
Certainly not her father.
At the door, Josie looked over her shoulder.
Amos was examining the sack of flour.
He never said goodbye.
That hurt more than everything else.
Outside, snow stung Josie’s cheeks.
Judson’s horse stood tied beside the building, a massive dark bay with a thick winter coat.
Judson secured his supplies behind the saddle.
Then he looked at Josie’s shoes.
“Those all you got?”
She nodded.
Something in his face hardened again.
He lifted her onto the horse.
Josie flinched instinctively.
Judson immediately stepped back.
He noticed.
She knew he noticed.
But he said nothing.
He mounted in front of her.
“Hold the saddle if you want.”
Josie did exactly that.
She refused to touch him.
They rode north.
Within minutes, the settlement vanished behind falling snow.
For two hours they climbed.
Wind screamed through the trees.
Josie’s fingers became numb.
Her teeth chattered.
She tried not to show weakness.
Judson suddenly pulled the horse to a stop.
Josie’s heart slammed against her ribs.
They were alone.
No road.
No houses.
No witnesses.
Judson dismounted.
Her mind filled with every terrible story she had heard.
Then he reached into the pack.
Josie nearly jumped from the horse.
Judson pulled out a thick buffalo robe.
He held it toward her.
“Wrap that around you.”
Josie stared.
“Wind gets worse past the ridge.”
That was all.
He remounted.
They continued upward.
Josie wrapped herself in the robe.
It smelled faintly of cedar smoke.
For the first time since leaving the trading post, she wondered whether she understood Judson Cole at all.
Darkness was falling when they reached the cabin.
It stood beneath a granite cliff surrounded by towering pines.
Josie had imagined something primitive.
Instead, the structure was sturdy, large, and carefully built, with stacked firewood beneath an overhang and glass in both front windows.
Judson opened the door.
Warmth rolled over her.
Josie nearly cried.
The interior was simple but clean.
A stone fireplace dominated one wall.
A heavy table sat near the window.
Shelves held jars, dried herbs, flour, beans, and preserved fruit.
There was more food in that single room than Josie had seen in months.
And against the far wall stood an enormous bed beneath layers of fur.
Josie looked away quickly.
Judson removed his coat.
“Sit.”
She obeyed.
He warmed stew over the fire.
Soon he placed a bowl in front of her.
Chunks of venison.
Potatoes.
Carrots.
Onions.
Josie stared.
“Eat.”
She lifted the spoon.
Her first instinct was to devour everything.
Instead, she forced herself to take a small bite.
Then another.
Judson sat across the table but did not eat.
He watched the fire.
Josie noticed he seemed deliberately careful not to watch her.
That frightened her in a different way.
Kindness had become dangerous to her.
Kindness created obligation.
When she finished, Judson stood.
Josie’s stomach tightened.
He crossed the cabin toward the bed.
There it was.
The moment.
Her hands began trembling again.
Judson pulled back the heavy furs.
Clean white sheets appeared beneath them.
He turned.
Josie lowered her eyes.
“That’s yours.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“The bed.”
She stared at him.
Judson removed one wool blanket from a chest.
Then he walked to the opposite side of the fireplace.
He lowered himself onto the wooden floor.
Josie remained motionless.
“You should sleep,” he said.
She looked from him to the bed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Nothing to understand.”
“My father…”
Judson’s expression changed.
“He traded supplies.”
Josie’s throat tightened.
“He traded me.”
Judson stared at the fire.
“No man can trade another person.”
“Then why did you take me?”
A long silence followed.
Finally, Judson answered.
“Because you looked hungry.”
Josie felt tears sting her eyes.
She turned away before he could see them.
She climbed into the bed fully dressed.
The mattress was soft.
The blankets were warm.
Across the cabin, the most feared man in the territory lay on the floor.
Josie waited for him to change his mind.
He never moved toward her.
Hours passed.
The fire crackled.
Snow pressed against the windows.
And sometime after midnight, Josie fell asleep without fear for the first time since her mother died.