The bullet that punched through the thick pine wall was no warning shot, but a jagged messenger of blood and intent. Glass rained down across the puncheon floor, a glittering frost of ruin that caught the dim embers of the hearth and scattered them into ash. I threw myself flat against the rough planks, dragging the heavy wool quilt over my head as the heavy thud of hooves churned the snow outside. Through the fractured casing of the front window, the freezing night air poured in with a sudden, predatory bite, smelling of wet fur, stale tobacco, and burnt powder. The wind howled through the breach, carrying with it a voice that curdled the marrow in my bones.
“Abigail! I know you’re in there, you ungrateful little bitch!”
It wasn’t Josiah’s voice. It was smoother, coated in the oily drawl of a man who spent his life tracking down things other men had lost and broken. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped sparrow. Beside me, Simon was already a ghost in the dim light. He didn’t panic, didn’t curse; his movements were the terrifying, efficient choreography of a predator who had hunted these woods long before the silver rushes brought greed and lawlessness to the Bitterroot valleys. He slipped the long-barreled Sharps rifle from its pegs above the hearth, his thumb cocking the hammer with a dull, metallic click that sounded louder than the storm.
“Stay down,” Simon whispered, his voice steady as granite. He pressed his broad back against the wall beside the shattered frame, his gaze flicking downward to meet mine for a fraction of a second. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no fear of the men circling the cabin like wolves around a bleeding calf. There was only an ancient, quiet resolve.
“They’re bounty hunters,” I choked out, my teeth chattering not from the cold now, but from the realization that my flight hadn’t left a trail to escape, but a trail to execution. “Josiah must have put a price on the wedding dress alone. He doesn’t lose what he pays for.”
“He won’t get what he wants tonight, either,” Simon replied, rising half an inch above the sill.
Another shot tore through the roof shingle, scattering cedar splinters across my shoulders. Outside, the man in the pale coat—the leader—laughed. It was a dry, scraping sound that cut through the whistle of the blizzard.
“You’re harboring stolen property, Boone!” the hunter shouted, his voice echoing off the frozen timberline. “The Prescott girl belongs to Mr. Sterling, dead or alive. The bounty is heavy, and you’re just one man in a snowdrift. Bring her out, or we stack the brush against your walls and light the candle!”
The threat hung in the freezing air, heavy and absolute. I looked up at Simon, tracing the harsh line of his jaw in the flickering amber light of the dying fire. Only moments ago, he had knelt before me, his massive hands trembling with a tenderness that defied every cruel lesson life had beaten into me. He had offered me an anchor in a world of sinking sand. Now, the past was hammering at the door, demanding I pay the blood-tithe for daring to dream of tomorrow.
“Go,” I whispered, clutching the hem of his flannel shirt. “Leave me to them, Simon. You don’t owe me your life for a stray he found in the snow.”
Simon looked down at my hand gripping his sleeve. His fingers, scarred and calloused from decades of survival, closed over mine. His grip was warm, solid, and utterly immovable.
“I didn’t pull you out of Miller’s Creek to hand you back to a butcher,” he growled softly. “Keep your head down.”
Before I could answer, Simon shouldered the Sharps and fired. The concussive blast rattled the iron stove and shook the rafters. Outside, a sharp, choked cry cut through the wind, followed by the frantic scrambling of a horse rearing on ice. A heavy thud shook the snow-laden earth—one rider down.
“Fire!” the hunter shrieked from the darkness, losing all pretense of negotiation.
The cabin erupted into a war zone. Lead slugs chewed through the dry logs, sending splinters and white dust raining down upon us. A heavy brass kettle on the hearth spun away with a metallic shriek as a bullet tore clean through it, hissing against the hot iron. I curled into a tight ball against the bedframe, pressing my face into the furs as the world dissolved into the deafening roar of gunfire and breaking timber.
Through the chaos, Simon moved like a shadow across the floor, firing, reloading with practiced mechanical speed, and shifting positions before the answering volleys could find his silhouette. He was wounded—I saw the dark smear of red soaking through the grey flannel at his shoulder—but he didn’t falter. Every time he pulled the trigger, the chorus of outside guns thinned.
Then came the smell of smoke.
It cut through the scent of burnt powder and freezing pine. Acrid, grey, and thick. They had carried out their threat. They were stacking dry brush against the lean-to wood shed abutting the cabin wall.
“Abigail,” Simon’s voice cut through the rising panic in my ears. He was kneeling beside me now, hauling me to my feet with an urgency that brooked no argument. His face was pale beneath his beard, the blood from his shoulder staining his chest, but his eyes were blazing. “Listen to me. The root cellar. Under the bear skin.”
“What about you?” I cried, coughing as the smoke began to curl under the floorboards and leak through the cracks.
“I’m going to draw them out the front,” he said, pressing a heavy iron hunting knife into my palm. “When the roof goes, you drop the hatch and stay down until the snow covers the tracks. Don’t look back.”
“No!” I seized his coat, the terror of abandonment rising like bile in my throat. “I won’t leave you here to die for me! I’ve run my whole life, Simon—I am done running!”
He cupped my face with his uninjured hand, his thumb brushing away a smear of soot and tear tracks from my cheek. For a heartbeat, the war outside vanished, leaving only the fierce, desperate heat between us.
“You aren’t running,” he whispered, his voice rougher than gravel. “You’re surviving. Now live.”
Before I could scream, Simon threw open the heavy oak door and charged out into the blinding white storm, the Sharps roaring twice before the night swallowed him in a cacophony of shouts, curses, and gunfire.