The girl was already dying when he found her. Not from a wound, not from a bullet, from the cold. The Wyoming wind tore across the mountain like something alive, dragging snow sideways, screaming through the pines. It was the kind of storm that buried cattle where they stood and erased trails in minutes. No one rode out in weather like this unless they had nothing left to lose.
Luke Mercer rode anyway. His horse slowed near the frozen creek, ears twitching, breath rising in sharp white bursts. The animal refused to step forward. Luke followed its gaze. Something lay half buried in the drift.
At first, it looked like torn cloth. Then he saw the shape: small, still, a woman. He slid from the saddle, boots sinking deep into the snow, each step heavy and reluctant. He had seen this before. The mountain took people like this, left them frozen and empty for wolves to finish.
He should turn back. But something in him didn't move. He knelt beside her and brushed snow from her face. Young, too young for this place. Her skin carried that faint blue tint, lips pale, lashes stiff with ice.
Her hair had frozen against the ground like brittle threads. Dead. That's what he told himself. Then he pressed two fingers against her neck. Nothing.
He waited, then a faint flicker, so weak it could have been his imagination. He swore under his breath. "Damn it. " Now he had a choice. Leave her or carry her. He lifted her.
She weighed almost nothing. like lifting a bundle of sticks wrapped in silk. He pulled her close against his chest, wrapped his coat around her, and climbed back into the saddle. The wind cut harder on the ride back, biting through layers, clawing at exposed skin. She didn't move once, didn't breathe loud enough to hear, only that tiny pulse, still fighting. His cabin door slammed open under his boot.
Heat from dying embers barely touched the room. He dropped to his knees and laid her on the rug by the fire, already reaching for wood, feeding the flames until they roared. Then he turned back to her. Her dress was frozen solid. Buttons locked tight with ice.
He didn't waste time. The knife flashed once. Fabric split open clean from collar to waist. He worked fast, not careful, just focused. The corset beneath it was worse rigid, unyielding.
He cut that, too. Something small slipped loose and hit the floor. A tiny pearl-handled pistol. He stared at it for a moment, then set it aside. Not important now.
He stripped away every frozen layer. His movements quick, deliberate, never lingering. Her skin burned cold under his hands. Too cold. He knew this.
If the cold stayed in her core, she wouldn't make it. He stood, stripped off his own outer layers, grabbed blankets, then dropped down beside her, pulled her against him, skin-to-skin. The shock of it hit like ice water. She was stiff, unmoving, he wrapped them tight, sealing in what little heat he had left, his arms working, constantly rubbing her back. her arms, forcing life into limbs that had nearly stopped. "Come on," he muttered.
"Come on, minutes passed, or maybe hours. Time lost meaning. " The fire crackled. The wind screamed. Then, a tremor. Small, violent.
Her body jerked once against his. Luke froze, then tightened his grip. "That's it," he said low. "Stay with me. " The shaking grew stronger. Her breath came in ragged pulls.
Life pushing back in. Slow, painful, real. She woke with a scream. Sharp, raw, immediate. Her body jerked away from him, tangling in blankets, falling hard against the floor.