Getting Arabella back to the cabin nearly killed them both.
The rope Callaway had tied to the porch was the only reason he could keep his direction in the whiteout. With Arabella unconscious in his arms and Bear moving beside him, each step became a battle against knee-deep snow.
Callaway could feel how cold she was even through his gloves.
Too cold.
Her head rested against his shoulder without resistance.
“Stay with me,” he muttered.
He did not know whether she could hear.
He said it anyway.
When the cabin finally appeared through the storm, Callaway shoved the door open with his shoulder.
Bear rushed inside.
Callaway carried Arabella toward the bed.
He had learned enough about cold injuries during his years trapping and guiding to know better than to place her directly beside the hottest part of the fire.
He removed what frozen outer clothing was necessary, covered her with dry wool blankets, and began warming her gradually.
That was when he saw the marks.
A fading bruise along one shoulder.
Older discoloration near her ribs.
Thin pale lines across her back and arms.
Not injuries caused by falling through the mountain.
Not injuries from tonight.
Callaway stopped.
His jaw tightened.
He had seen similar marks before.
Years earlier, before retreating into the high country, Callaway had helped escort prisoners for a territorial marshal. He knew what deliberate violence looked like.
Someone had been hurting this woman for a long time.
Bear settled beside the bed.
Callaway looked down at her face.
Snow had melted from her dark hair.
She looked younger indoors.
Too young to carry that many old wounds.
“Who did this to you?”
Arabella did not answer.
She was unconscious until dawn.
Then came the fever.
For two days she drifted between waking and sleep.
Sometimes she spoke clearly enough for Callaway to make out words.
“No, Pa.”
“Please.”
“I did what you said.”
Then, more than once:
“Aryan.”
Every time she whispered that name, fear changed her expression.
Callaway remembered it.
He did not ask questions while she was delirious.
He focused on keeping her alive.
He spooned warm broth between her lips when she could swallow.
Changed cloths on her forehead.
Kept water within reach.
Fed the fire.
Bear refused to leave her side except to eat.
During the second night, Arabella began thrashing beneath the blankets.
“No!”
Callaway moved toward the bed.
She flinched before he touched her.
He stopped immediately.
“You’re all right.”
Her eyes remained closed.
“Don’t let him—”
“No one’s coming through that door.”
She quieted slowly.
Callaway stood there longer than necessary.
He had been alone for three years.
Before that, there had been Abigail.
Abigail had filled the cabin with conversation, fresh bread, and ridiculous little bunches of mountain flowers during summer.
She had laughed at his terrible singing.
She had called Bear an ugly pup when Callaway brought him home.
A fever had taken her within four days.
Afterward, Callaway stopped going into town except when supplies forced him down the ridge.
People assumed grief had made him mean.
It had not.
It had merely made solitude easier.
Now there was a stranger occupying Abigail’s old side of the room, and Callaway felt something he had worked very hard not to feel.
Concern.
On the third morning, Arabella woke fully.
At first, she did not move.
Warmth was the first thing she noticed.
Real warmth.
Not fever.
Not the suffocating heat of drunken evenings beside Jedediah’s stove.
Firelight flickered across rough log walls.
A heavy quilt covered her body.
A large animal lay on the floor beside the bed.
Arabella’s eyes widened.
The wolf dog lifted his head.
She sucked in a breath.
“Easy.”
The voice came from across the room.
Arabella turned.
A man sat beside the fireplace.
Massive.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair touched his collar, and a thick beard covered much of his face. He wore a brown work shirt, heavy trousers, and worn boots.
He looked exactly like the sort of man Jedediah had warned her about all her life.
The kind who lived beyond the law.
The kind who disappeared into mountains because civilized people had rejected them.
Arabella pushed herself backward.
Pain exploded through her knee.
She gasped.
The man stood.
Arabella grabbed the edge of the blanket.
“No!”
He stopped immediately.
Then raised both hands.
Empty.
“You’re safe.”
Those words meant nothing to Arabella.
Her father had said them after her mother died.
You’re safe here.
He had beaten her less than a week later.
Aryan had said something similar the night he first cornered her beside the barn.
Nobody’s going to hurt you.
She had escaped him only because Jedediah appeared.
Arabella stared at the stranger.
“Where am I?”
“My cabin.”
“Where?”
“High ridge west of the North Fork.”
She tried placing the location.
“How long?”
“Three days since Bear found you.”
Her eyes moved to the animal.
“Bear?”
The wolf dog thumped his tail once.
Callaway lowered his hands but stayed where he was.
“He dug you out of a drift.”
Arabella looked toward the window.
Snow covered almost the entire lower pane.
Memories returned violently.
Cards.
Three hundred dollars.
Her father’s hand meeting Aryan’s.
Running.
The storm.
She threw the blanket aside.
“I have to go.”
“You can’t.”
Her head snapped toward him.
Every muscle tightened.
Callaway recognized the reaction.
He immediately corrected himself.
“You’re free to leave. I’m saying you physically can’t walk far yet. Your knee’s swollen and the pass is buried.”
Arabella stared at him.
“You’re not keeping me here?”
“No.”
“Then why did you—”
“Because leaving you under six inches of snow seemed rude.”
For a second she thought he was mocking her.
Then she noticed the faintest dry humor in his eyes.
She looked away.
“My clothes?”
“Drying by the stove. I found an old nightshift that belonged to my wife.”
Arabella stiffened.
“Your wife?”
“Dead three years.”
The blunt answer silenced her.
Callaway moved toward a pot hanging over the fire.
Arabella flinched again.
He noticed.
He took care to keep distance between them.
“You hungry?”
She was.
Painfully.
But accepting food had always come with conditions in Jedediah’s cabin.
“What do you want?”
Callaway glanced at her.
“For soup?”
“For helping me.”
“Nothing.”
Arabella almost laughed.
She had never heard a more unbelievable answer.
“Men don’t do things for nothing.”
“Some do.”
“My father didn’t.”
“I’m not your father.”
Something in Callaway’s tone made her meet his eyes.
He was not angry.
He was not demanding trust.
He simply stated the fact.
Bear rose, stretched, and wandered toward her.
Arabella pressed herself into the pillows.
Callaway clicked his tongue.
The dog stopped.
“He won’t hurt you.”
Arabella studied the animal.
Bear’s gray ears tipped forward.
Slowly, she extended one hand.
The wolf dog sniffed her fingertips.
Then placed his head gently against the side of the mattress.
Arabella’s throat tightened.
She scratched behind his ear.
“He found me?”
“Wouldn’t let me ignore him.”
“Then I suppose I owe him.”
“Plenty of jerky will settle the debt.”
For the first time in several days, Arabella almost smiled.
Callaway poured broth into a bowl.
He set it on a stool halfway between the fireplace and the bed.
Then stepped back.
“You can take it when you want.”
Arabella understood what he was doing.
He was giving her control.
That frightened her almost as much as being threatened.
Control was unfamiliar territory.
She waited until Callaway returned to his chair.
Then she reached for the bowl.
The broth was simple—rabbit, potato, onion, herbs.
It was the best thing she could remember tasting.
She finished every drop.
Callaway pretended not to notice how quickly she ate.
Later, when he went outside to split wood, Arabella tested her injured knee.
She made it three steps before collapsing against the table.
The door opened immediately.
Callaway entered carrying an armful of wood.
He dropped it.
Arabella recoiled.
“Don’t touch me.”
He stopped.
“All right.”
She clutched the table.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at me like I’m helpless.”
Callaway’s expression hardened slightly.
“I don’t think you’re helpless.”
“I fell in the snow.”
“You ran into a mountain blizzard wearing town boots and a shawl, and you still got far enough that whoever followed you didn’t catch you. That doesn’t sound helpless.”
Arabella stared at him.
No one had ever described her escape as brave.
Only foolish, perhaps.
Desperate.
Callaway gestured toward the chair.
“Can you make it?”
She nodded.
Painfully, she moved.
He stayed close enough to catch her if she fell, but he never touched her.
Once seated, Arabella looked at him.
“You heard me talking.”
“Some.”
“In the fever.”
“Yes.”
“What did I say?”
Callaway considered lying.
He did not.
“You mentioned your father.”
Arabella’s eyes dropped.
“And Aryan.”
She froze.
Callaway waited.
Finally she whispered, “He bought me.”
Callaway said nothing.
“My father owed him three hundred dollars.”
Her voice shook, but she continued.
“He lost money playing cards. Then his rifle. Then land. Then Aryan said he’d clear the debt for me.”
A muscle moved in Callaway’s jaw.
“And your father agreed?”
Arabella nodded.
“They shook on it.”
The silence that followed felt different from silence in Jedediah’s cabin.
This silence did not accuse her.
Callaway looked toward the fire.
When he spoke, his voice was controlled.
“You don’t belong to either one of them.”
Arabella gave a bitter little laugh.
“That isn’t how my father sees it.”
“Your father can see it however he wants.”
“Aryan won’t stop.”
“Maybe not.”
“You don’t understand.”
Callaway looked back at her.
“I understand men who believe fear gives them ownership.”
She studied him.
“Are you one of them?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Arabella wanted desperately to believe it.
That made her suspicious.
A few hours later, Bear began growling at the window.
Callaway stood.
Arabella’s heart stopped.
“What?”
He moved toward the door and listened.
Outside, the storm was weakening.
Bear growled again.
Then came a distant sound.
Not wind.
A horse.
Callaway looked through a narrow gap in the shutters.
One rider emerged faintly between the trees below the ridge.
Then another.
Arabella saw his face change.
Her bowl slipped from her hands.
“They found me.”
Callaway turned.
“How many men would come?”
“My father.”
“Aryan?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
Callaway crossed the room and lifted his rifle from above the fireplace.
Arabella backed away.
“You said I could leave.”
“You can.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“In that snow?”
“If they find me here, they’ll hurt you.”
Callaway checked the rifle.
“That remains to be seen.”
“You don’t know Aryan.”
“No.”
He looked through the shutter again.
“But he doesn’t know me either.”
Outside, a man shouted through the trees.
“Callaway Long!”
Callaway went still.
Arabella whispered, “They know you.”
A second shout came.
“We’re looking for something that belongs to us!”
Callaway’s eyes hardened.
Behind him, Arabella went pale.
He opened the rifle chamber.
Loaded a round.
Then said quietly:
“Seems we’re about to discuss that.”
---