The barn fire left Bear Ridge vulnerable.
By December, winter became brutal.
The mountain received three feet of snow in six days.
Their surviving hay ran low.
The rebuilt lean-to kept the livestock alive, but the horses grew thin.
Wyatt began rationing feed.
Cora rationed food inside the cabin too, though she tried to hide it.
One evening Wyatt watched her divide a biscuit in half.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I had soup.”
“Cora.”
She sighed.
“We need flour to last until the trail clears.”
Wyatt pushed his untouched biscuit toward her.
She pushed it back.
“You work outside all day.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not arguing about biscuits.”
“You started the biscuit argument.”
“I did not.”
“You cut one in half like you’re negotiating with it.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
Wyatt smiled.
Then wind struck the cabin hard enough to rattle the window.
His expression changed.
“We need supplies.”
“The trail’s buried.”
“I can make town on snowshoes.”
Cora immediately said, “No.”
“It’s twelve miles.”
“In summer.”
“I’ve done it in winter.”
“Before the fire?”
“Yes.”
“Before losing weight hauling timber every day?”
Wyatt looked annoyed.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re thinner.”
“So are you.”
“That supports my argument.”
He looked toward the window.
“If another storm comes, we could be trapped six weeks.”
Cora knew he was right.
That frightened her more.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
She slept badly.
At dawn, Wyatt packed dried meat, matches, rope, and blankets.
Cora stood beside the door.
“You turn back if weather changes.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t try to prove anything.”
“Yes.”
“You rest before the north ridge.”
“Yes.”
“Wyatt.”
He looked at her.
“I mean it.”
His expression softened.
“I know.”
He kissed her.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
Cora watched him disappear between snow-covered pines.
Twenty-four hours later, he was not back.
Thirty-six hours later, a blizzard arrived.
Cora stood at the window until darkness fell.
Wind erased the trail.
Snow slammed against the cabin walls.
She told herself Wyatt had stayed in Pine Creek.
That was logical.
Safe.
He would not attempt the mountain during a storm.
But fear did not listen to logic.
At midnight she lit another lamp.
At dawn she fed the animals.
At noon she heard something outside.
Cora opened the door.
Nothing.
Only wind.
Then she saw tracks.
Not human.
Horse.
A rider appeared through snow.
Cora’s heart leapt.
“Wyatt!”
She ran from the porch.
But the rider was not Wyatt.
It was Pine Creek’s blacksmith, Samuel Reed.
His face told her everything before he spoke.
“Cora.”
“Where is he?”
Samuel dismounted.
“He left town yesterday morning.”
Her blood turned cold.
“Before the storm?”
“It came faster than anyone expected.”
“Why are you here?”
“We found his pack near Miller’s Creek.”
Cora stared.
“No.”
“Horse tracks headed east. Then disappeared.”
“Where?”
“Cora—”
“Where?”
Samuel pointed.
“Below North Ridge.”
She went inside.
Samuel followed.
“What are you doing?”
Cora pulled on wool stockings.
“Going after him.”
“No.”
She put on boots.
“The search party’s already out.”
“Good. I’ll join them.”
“This weather—”
“My husband is on that mountain.”
Samuel blocked the door.
“You could die.”
Cora looked him directly in the eye.
“Then move.”
Something in her voice convinced him.
He stepped aside.
They searched for hours.
Snow reached Cora’s knees.
Wind cut visibility to yards.
Three men from Pine Creek spread across the lower ridge.
Cora knew something they did not.
Wyatt hated open slopes in storms.
He always followed tree lines.
She turned east.
Samuel shouted behind her.
“Cora!”
She kept moving.
Near dusk she found a broken branch.
Fresh.
Then another.
Below it, snow had been disturbed.
Cora dropped to her knees.
“Wyatt!”
Nothing.
She dug.
Her mitten struck fabric.
“Here!”
Men rushed toward her.
They uncovered Wyatt beneath a fallen pine limb.
He was alive.
Barely.
His right leg was pinned.
His skin was dangerously cold.
Cora touched his face.
“Wyatt.”
His eyes opened slightly.
“Cora?”
“I’m here.”
He tried to smile.
“You’re going to yell at me.”
She sobbed.
“Yes.”
“Figured.”
It took four men to lift the branch.
They placed Wyatt on a makeshift sled.
Cora walked beside him all the way home.
For three days, Wyatt burned with fever.
His leg was badly bruised but not broken.
The greater danger was exposure.
Cora barely slept.
She warmed blankets.
Fed him broth.
Changed wet cloths against his forehead.
On the second night, he became delirious.
He called for his mother.
Then his father.
Then Cora.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
His hand searched until it found hers.
“Don’t go.”
“I won’t.”
“Everyone goes.”
Cora froze.
Wyatt rarely spoke about his family.
In fever, defenses vanished.
His mother had died during a winter illness.
His father had ridden for medicine and never returned.
Later they found him frozen miles from home.
Wyatt had been twenty-three.
The mountain man who seemed afraid of nothing had built his entire life around one fear.
Being left alone.
Cora sat beside him until dawn.
“I’m not leaving,” she whispered, even when he could no longer hear.
Wyatt recovered slowly.
By January, he could walk with a cane.
The cabin became quieter.
He hated being dependent.
Cora recognized the frustration.
One morning she caught him attempting to haul firewood.
“What are you doing?”
“Work.”
“You’re limping.”
“I have a leg.”
“You have two, technically. One is currently useless.”
“It is not useless.”
He tried lifting the wood.
Pain crossed his face.
Cora removed it from his hands.
“Inside.”
“Cora.”
“Inside.”
“You enjoy ordering me around.”
“Increasingly.”
He glared.
She stared back.
Finally Wyatt surrendered.
At dinner he was silent.
Cora waited.
Eventually he said, “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I should be doing things.”
“You are.”
“What?”
“Recovering.”
“That isn’t work.”
Cora placed her spoon down.
“Do you remember telling me only weak men complain about the weight of a thing?”
He nodded suspiciously.
“You were wrong.”
Wyatt frowned.
Cora continued.
“Strong people complain sometimes too.”
He stared.
“You allowed to change my sayings?”
“I’m your wife.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, it does.”
He almost smiled.
Cora reached across the table.
“You don’t have to be useful every second to deserve being here.”
The words hit him.
She saw it.
Perhaps because they were words she had needed her entire life.
Wyatt looked down at their joined hands.
“Neither do you.”
Cora’s throat tightened.
That winter, they healed one another in ways neither could have named.
By March, the snow began melting.
Wyatt’s strength returned.
So did Cora’s appetite.
One morning she smelled frying salt pork and became violently nauseated.
She rushed outside.
Wyatt followed.
“Cora?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re throwing up.”
“Thank you for describing it.”
He crouched beside her.
“Food poisoning?”
“You ate the same thing.”
“I have a stronger stomach.”
She glared.
Then stopped.
A thought came.
She counted backward.
Once.
Twice.
Wyatt saw her expression.
“What?”
Cora stood slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
She pressed one hand against her stomach.
Wyatt’s eyes followed.
His face changed.
“Cora?”
She whispered, “I might be pregnant.”
For several seconds Wyatt did not move.
Then he sat directly in the snow.
Cora stared.
“Are you all right?”
He looked up.
“You’re serious?”
“I said might.”
Wyatt’s eyes filled so quickly it startled her.
Cora knelt.
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
He laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
She had never seen him lose control like that.
He wrapped both arms around her.
Cora laughed against his shoulder.
“We don’t know yet.”
“I know.”
“You’re celebrating a possibility.”
“I’m practicing.”
Two weeks later, Mrs. Dunn confirmed what Cora already knew.
She was expecting a child.
Cora should have been purely happy.
Instead fear came with it.
Her father’s voice returned.
You’re too big.
Women in St. Louis had often told her childbirth would be harder because of her size.
One claimed she might not survive.
Another warned her she would have a “monstrous” baby.
At night Cora lay awake.
Wyatt noticed.
“You scared?”
She nodded.
He took her hand.
“So am I.”
She looked at him.
“You are?”
“Terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
She laughed softly.
He moved closer.
“But we’ll build whatever needs building.”
Cora smiled.
“Better wagon?”
“Best wagon.”
She rested his hand against her belly.
Outside, snow melted from the roof.
Water dripped steadily into the earth.
Winter had tried to take almost everything.
Instead spring was bringing them something new.
And Cora began to understand that a life did not have to be perfect to be safe.
It only had to contain people willing to rebuild beside you.