Her body shifted.

He pulled again.

“Come on.”

Another inch.

“Come on!”

At last the hide crossed the threshold.

Warm smoke-stained air struck his face.

The stove was drawing properly again.

He dragged her toward it.

Not far.

Five feet felt like fifty.

When he finally stopped, the rancher collapsed beside her.

Orange firelight moved across her pale face.

Snow melted in her hair.

He removed his gloves.

His hands shook so badly he could barely loosen the wet wool around her throat.

“Clara.”

Nothing.

He leaned closer.

Her breathing was shallow.

He rubbed her hands.

Then her arms.

He wrapped blankets over her.

“Stay with me.”

Her eyelids moved.

“That’s it.”

She opened them.

The rancher almost laughed.

Instead, something in his chest broke.

“You fool.”

Her lips barely moved.

“What?”

“You.”

He bent closer.

“What did you say?”

“Fool.”

He laughed then.

A single breathless sound.

“You walked into a blizzard without a coat.”

“You climbed… onto an icy roof.”

“I had to.”

“So did I.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Her eyes found his.

“Yes.”

For three seconds neither spoke.

The storm battered the cabin.

The stove crackled.

The rancher became aware that he was holding her hand against his chest.

He started to release it.

Her fingers closed around his.

Weakly.

But deliberately.

“Don’t.”

He froze.

She opened her other hand.

Something black lay in her palm.

Twisted wire.

A burned strip of cloth.

The rancher stared.

“What is that?”

“Found it…”

She coughed.

“…near the stove pipe before I came outside.”

He took the object.

The cloth smelled faintly of lamp oil.

His exhaustion disappeared.

The rancher slowly turned toward the window.

Snow struck the glass.

At first he saw nothing.

Then lightning flashed somewhere beyond the ridge.

For less than a second the yard became visible.

Tracks crossed the untouched snow.

Horse tracks.

They came from the tree line.

Passed beside the cabin.

And disappeared behind the woodshed.

The rancher stood.

His wife caught his sleeve.

“Henry.”

He looked down.

Her fear had nothing to do with the cold now.

She whispered, “The chimney didn’t block itself.”

Outside, somewhere beyond the wall, a horse whinnied.

And the rancher understood something worse.

Whoever had sabotaged the chimney might not have left.

Chapter Two — Three Weeks Earlier

Three weeks before the storm, the rancher stood on the Helena railway platform wondering whether he had made the greatest mistake of his life.

He had expected a woman.

Technically, that expectation had been fulfilled.

Beyond that, very little matched the picture in his head.

The matrimonial agency had described his future wife as thirty-one, educated, healthy, capable of managing a frontier household, experienced with accounts, preservation, sewing, and basic nursing.