By the end of Mara Bell Stone’s first week on Wolfjaw Mountain, three things had become obvious.
First, she was terrible at being quiet.
Second, she had absolutely no intention of becoming the fragile mountain wife Mercy Hollow predicted.
Third, Abel Stone had underestimated her in nearly every possible way.
The morning after they found the threat, Mara woke before sunrise.
Abel was already outside splitting wood.
She dressed, braided her hair, pulled on boots, and walked into the cold.
Abel’s ax struck a log.
Crack.
He placed another.
Crack.
Mara leaned against the fence.
“You always attack breakfast this violently?”
He glanced over.
“There’s coffee inside.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I need wood.”
“You need sleep.”
“I slept.”
“Three hours.”
“How do you know?”
“You pace.”
Abel lowered the ax.
Mara continued.
“And you grind your teeth.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He stared.
“Anything else?”
“You steal blankets.”
His expression changed.
Mara grinned.
Their marriage had begun with separate rooms.
That arrangement lasted exactly two nights.
Not because either planned otherwise.
A storm had dropped the temperature below zero, and the upstairs room became brutally cold.
Abel found Mara carrying blankets downstairs.
“You can take my room,” he offered.
“I am not throwing my husband out of his own bed.”
“Mara—”
“That bed could fit a horse.”
Eventually they slept on opposite edges.
Then woke with Mara’s head against Abel’s shoulder and his arm around her waist.
Neither discussed it.
The second night, it happened again.
Now Mara enjoyed making him uncomfortable.
“You also snore.”
“That is a lie.”
“Like a wounded buffalo.”
Abel picked up the ax.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Marriage?”
“Tormenting me.”
“So far, they appear to be the same occupation.”
Crack.
Mara laughed.
Something beautiful had begun happening inside the house.
Small things.
Her shawl appeared beside his coat.
Her baking tins occupied a shelf.
Wildflowers in a jar sat on the table despite winter.
A blue curtain replaced the rough cloth covering the kitchen window.
Abel complained exactly once.
“That curtain is bright.”
“That is because the rest of your house looks like sadness built furniture.”
He never complained again.
Mara learned the mountain.
She learned where ice formed first.
Where the elk crossed.
Which trail led to the upper meadow.
Which creek remained open beneath heavy snow.
She discovered Abel owned four horses, twelve cattle, chickens, and an elderly mule named Moses who disliked everyone except Mara.
“You bribed him,” Abel accused.
“With apples.”
“That is bribery.”
“It is diplomacy.”
She learned Abel too.
He drank coffee black.
He hated onions.
He read every newspaper he could obtain.
He owned a Bible, two Shakespeare volumes, an agricultural manual, and a book of poetry he pretended belonged to his mother.
One night Mara caught him reading it.
“You like poetry.”
“No.”
“You’re holding poetry.”
“It was on the table.”
“You carried it from the shelf.”
Abel closed the book.
“I married a detective.”
“You married a woman capable of seeing.”
His ears went red.
Mara loved discovering that the most intimidating man in Colorado could be embarrassed by almost anything romantic.
But danger had not vanished.
Someone cut a fence.
A horse disappeared for twelve hours.
Tracks appeared beyond the creek.
Abel started checking windows twice before bed.
Mara saw the worry growing.
So she did what came naturally.
She made herself useful.
“Teach me to shoot.”
Abel looked up from cleaning his rifle.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you hit a moving rider with a shovel handle. I’m afraid of what comes next.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Abel.”
He studied her.
“If someone comes while you’re in the upper meadow, I need to protect myself.”
His humor disappeared.
Twenty minutes later, they stood behind the barn.
Abel handed her a revolver.
“Grip firmly.”
“I know.”
“You asked me to teach you.”
“Yes, not propose to the pistol.”
His eyes narrowed.
Mara smiled.
“Continue.”
He moved behind her and adjusted her elbows.
The warmth of his chest touched her back.
Mara forgot the target entirely.
“Sight along the barrel,” he said.
“Mmm.”
“You listening?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Mara.”
“Your beard is touching my ear.”
He stepped away quickly.
She laughed.
“You did that deliberately.”
“Of course.”
Her first shot missed the target.
The second struck the edge.
The third hit center.
Abel stared.
Mara blew imaginary smoke from the barrel.
“Shovel experience.”
That afternoon they discovered smoke rising from the upper meadow.
Not fire.
A camp.
Abel stopped his horse.
Mara rode beside him.
“You said nobody camps on your land.”
“They don’t.”
Two men were near the trees.
They fled when Abel approached.
Mara noticed freshly disturbed ground.
“They were digging.”
Abel dismounted.
A survey stake stood among the rocks.
Stamped into the wood were the initials SRM.
Silas Rourke Mining.
“They’re marking your land,” Mara said.
“They have no right.”
“Then we need proof.”
Abel looked at her.
“What?”
“You own a deed.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the cabin.”
“Original?”
“County copy.”
“Where’s the original?”
Abel hesitated.
“My father kept it.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I don’t know.”
Mara stared at him.
“Silas Rourke has lawyers and money. You have a cabin, one county copy, and an eleven-year grudge.”
“I have ownership.”
“Ownership only matters if you can prove it to men who care more about paperwork than truth.”
He disliked that.
She could tell.
But he knew she was right.
The search began that evening.
They pulled trunks from the loft.
Opened boxes.
Sorted old receipts.
Mara found Abel’s childhood drawings.
A photograph of two boys.
Abel and Eli.
Eli had been smaller.
Smiling.
Abel looked away.
Mara did not ask questions.
Near midnight, she found a ledger hidden inside a cracked tool chest.
“Abel.”
He came over.
The pages belonged to his father.
Land purchases.
Livestock.
Mining samples.
Then an entry dated twelve years earlier.
Survey completed. Full Wolfjaw tract legally recorded to Stone family, including mineral rights. Original deed placed where Eli and Abel used to hide from storms.
Mara read it aloud.
Abel frowned.
“Hide from storms.”
“You know where?”
He stared toward the window.
“The old line shack.”
They rode before dawn.
Snow began halfway there.
The line shack stood two miles above the cabin.
Abel pushed open the rotting door.
Inside were a bunk, rusted stove, broken stool.
They searched everything.
Nothing.
Then Mara noticed carved initials beneath the bunk.
A.S.
E.S.
She crouched.
“Help me move this.”
Beneath the bunk floor was one loose board.
Abel pried it open.
Inside lay a metal box.
His hands shook when he lifted it.
The original deed was inside.
So was a letter.
Addressed to Abel.
Written by Eli.
Abel sat slowly.
Mara stayed beside him.
He opened it.
Abel,
If you find this, Rourke is probably still trying. Pa says paper protects land better than rifles, though I don’t entirely believe him. Keep this safe. And if something happens to me, don’t turn Wolfjaw into a grave. Live on it. Laugh on it. Make a family here. Otherwise Rourke takes something from us even if he never owns one inch.
Abel stopped reading.
His eyes closed.
Eleven years of grief cracked silently.
Mara placed her hand over his.
He did not pull away.
“I thought staying was honoring him.”
“Maybe it was.”
“I stopped living.”
“Then start again.”
He looked at her.
Snow tapped the roof.
“You make that sound easy.”
“It isn’t.”
Mara squeezed his hand.
“Most worthwhile things aren’t.”
His thumb moved across her knuckles.
A simple gesture.
It felt more intimate than their wedding kiss.
Then they heard horses outside.
Abel immediately stood.
The door slammed open.
Silas Rourke entered with two armed men.
“Well,” he said. “That saves me considerable searching.”
Abel moved in front of Mara.
Rourke pointed a pistol.
“Put the box down.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Mara spoke from behind Abel.
“He’s naturally stubborn.”
Rourke smiled coldly.
“And his wife is naturally irritating.”
“I’ve been called worse by better.”
“Mara,” Abel warned.
Rourke motioned with the gun.
“The deed.”
Abel placed the box on the table.
One of Rourke’s men stepped forward.
Mara watched carefully.
The man reached.
Mara kicked the table.
The metal box slid off the opposite side.
At the same moment Abel lunged.
Everything exploded into motion.
A gun fired into the ceiling.
Mara grabbed the iron stove poker.
One man turned toward her.
Bad decision.
She swung.
He doubled over.
Abel struck the second.
Rourke scrambled for the metal box.
Mara reached first.
He caught her wrist.
“You stupid woman.”
Mara smiled.
“You men do love saying that right before something unfortunate happens.”
She stomped his foot.
Hard.
Rourke shouted.
Mara drove her forehead against his nose.
Blood burst across his face.
Abel froze.
Even during a fight, he looked impressed.
Rourke staggered outside.
His men followed.
Before mounting, he turned.
“You’ll regret that.”
Mara wiped blood from her forehead.
“That seems to be a popular prediction.”
Rourke pointed at Abel.
“The county judge will declare that deed fraudulent.”
“Then we’ll see him.”
Rourke smiled.
“You think Judge Caldwell is going to choose two mountain fools over me?”
Abel’s face darkened.
Rourke rode away.
Mara looked at her husband.
“He owns the judge?”
“Maybe.”
“Then we need more than a deed.”
Abel sighed.
“What do you suggest?”
Mara picked up Eli’s letter.
“We need people.”
“People?”
“Witnesses. Records. Anyone who remembers the original survey.”
“There was a surveyor.”
“Alive?”
“Last I heard.”
“Where?”
“Silverton.”
“How far?”
“Two days.”
Mara nodded.
“Then we ride tomorrow.”
“No.”
She slowly turned.
Abel knew immediately he had chosen the wrong word.
“No?”
“There’s snow coming.”
“So?”
“So I’m going.”
“Mara—”
“Did your advertisement request steady or obedient?”
He exhaled.
“Steady.”
“Excellent.”
The storm struck that night.
By morning the trail was buried.
They should have waited.
Mara knew that.
Abel knew it.
But Rourke would not.
So they rode.
And before sunset, the mountain showed Mara Bell exactly how dangerous Wolfjaw could become.
A wall of snow broke loose above them.
“AVALANCHE!” Abel shouted.
Mara turned her horse.
The mountain roared.
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