A heavy thud came from outside.
Thomas released her instantly.
Everything warm in his face disappeared.
Martha looked toward the window.
Another sound.
Not wind.
Something hitting wood.
Thomas moved between Martha and the door before she could say his name.
He lifted the rifle from its hooks beside the stove.
“Stay back.”
“I am not a piece of furniture.”
“Martha.”
“I'll stay behind you.”
“That is what I said.”
He raised the lantern but did not open the door immediately.
Another thud.
Then something scraped along the porch.
Martha picked up the long iron poker from beside the stove.
Thomas noticed.
“You plan to kill winter itself?”
“If winter comes through that door without permission.”
For one second his eyes almost smiled.
Then he opened it.
Cold exploded into the cabin.
Snow spun through the doorway.
A shape lay on the porch.
Human.
Thomas lowered the rifle slightly.
A boy.
Maybe fifteen.
Maybe sixteen.
He had collapsed beside the woodpile, one arm stretched toward the door. His coat was thin, soaked, and torn along one shoulder. Snow clung to dark hair plastered across his forehead.
Martha dropped the poker.
“Oh, Lord.”
Thomas caught her wrist.
“Wait.”
“He's freezing.”
“We don't know who he is.”
“He is a child.”
“He is armed.”
Martha looked.
Thomas was right.
A revolver protruded from beneath the boy’s coat.
But the boy barely seemed capable of lifting his head.
Martha looked at Thomas.
“If you make me argue while he freezes, I swear I will put you in the soup.”
Thomas muttered something impolite.
Then stepped outside.
He removed the revolver first.
Empty.
The boy’s fingers remained wrapped around a leather pouch tied beneath his coat.
Thomas touched his neck.
“Alive.”
“Bring him.”
He lifted the boy easily.
Martha pulled blankets from the chest near the fire.
Within minutes the stranger lay near the stove wrapped in wool while Martha removed wet boots and rubbed warmth into his feet.
Thomas watched the door.
“His toes?”
“Cold, but not black.”
“Hands?”
“Same.”
The boy groaned.
Martha leaned over him.
“Easy.”
His eyes opened.
Dark.
Frightened.
For one confused second he looked at Martha.
Then he saw Thomas.
The reaction was immediate.
He scrambled backward.
“Don't!”
Martha caught him before he rolled into the stove.
Thomas lowered his rifle.
“I am not touching you.”
The boy stared at his face.
Then at the wolf-fur vest.
His breathing quickened.
“You're him.”
Thomas frowned.
“Who?”
The boy tore at the leather pouch.
His frozen fingers failed.
Martha helped.
He pulled out a faded photograph.
Thomas took it.
His face changed so completely Martha felt fear enter the room again.
Two young men stood beside a military wagon in the photograph.
One was unmistakably Thomas.
Younger.
Clean-shaven.
Not yet hardened into the man beside her.
The second man resembled him enough that the relationship was obvious.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Different smile.
Thomas whispered a name Martha had never heard before.