A Starving Nurse Healed A Wealthy Cowboy In Snow, Until He Made Her His World

Chapter 5

Three days of preparation came down to a single sunset.

Nora had done everything she could think of. She’d hidden his boots behind the trunk. Burned the bloodied bandages. Folded away the spare blanket. Scattered her meager supplies to look old and unused. And Caleb, stubborn as iron, had managed to sit up, then stand, then take a few careful steps across the cabin floor — nowhere near fighting strength, and they both knew it.

They’d spent the days arguing about what to do when the men came. He’d wanted to face them. She’d won the argument with a single question: What good are you to your sister dead?

The riders appeared at the edge of the treeline as the sun bled red across the snow. Four of them. Nora counted again to be sure. Four men on horseback, moving with the unhurried confidence of wolves that had already found the scent.

Caleb was on his feet, teeth gritted against the pain. “The root cellar. Under the back corner, beneath the snow. You have to hide me.”

“I’m not hiding while they—”

“You’re not facing four armed men with a hole in your chest!” He caught her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about survival. If they find me, we’re both dead. If they only find you, there’s a chance.” His voice roughened. “Promise me you’ll stay hidden. No heroics. You’re no good to anyone dead.”

She wanted to argue. The words wouldn’t come. She helped him down into the cramped cellar, pressed the revolver and a canteen into his hands, and dropped the door over him. Then she kicked snow across it until no trace remained.

The knock came as she was straightening her dress. Four hard raps, full of authority and impatience.

Nora schooled her face into weary suspicion and opened the door a crack.

Four men stood outside, trail-worn and hard-faced. The leader was thin, with pale eyes and a drooping mustache; he touched his hat brim with mocking courtesy. “Evening, ma’am. Name’s Crowder. These are my associates, Gage and Slade.” He nodded at the other two — a stocky brute with scarred knuckles and a younger man with the restless energy of a hunting dog. “We’re looking for someone. Fellow got himself shot a few days back. Big man, dark hair, riding a bay stallion with white stockings. Might’ve sought shelter in these parts.”

“I haven’t seen anyone like that.” Nora let a quiver of fear into her voice. It was not difficult. “I don’t get many visitors up here.”

Crowder leaned into the doorframe, trying to see past her. “Mind if we come in? Warm ourselves by your fire. Cold work, searching.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. A woman alone has to be careful.”

“Smart thinking.” His pale eyes narrowed, cataloguing her worn dress and gaunt frame. “How long you been squatting in old Jeb’s place?”

“Since autumn. And I’m not squatting. Jeb Miller was my uncle. Left me the cabin when he passed.”

It was a lie she’d prepared, knowing the prospector who’d built this place had no family anyone knew of. Crowder seemed to accept it, though his gaze never softened.

Behind him, the young one — Slade — had wandered toward the lean-to. When he came back, he was shaking his head. “Just an old nag, like she said.” But then he held something up, something dark and stiff, and Nora’s heart stopped.

A bloodied strip of cloth. She’d missed one of the bandages in the woodpile.

Crowder’s whole demeanor shifted. His hand dropped to his gun. “Now that’s interesting. You want to tell me why there’s bloody rags in your woodpile?”

“I cut myself. Chopping wood. It happens when you’re alone.”

“Show me where you hurt yourself so bad it bled through that much cloth.”

Nora held out her hands — small cuts, calluses, nothing serious. Crowder’s smile turned predatory. “Ma’am, I think you’d better invite us in after all. We need to have a more thorough conversation about your recent visitors.”

Before she could respond, he pushed past her into the cabin. The others followed, and the door closed behind them with an ominous finality.

The small space suddenly felt much smaller with four armed men filling it. Crowder picked up the fire poker, hefting its weight thoughtfully. “You know what I think? I think Caleb Hart crawled up here bleeding like a stuck pig, and you took pity on him. Woman’s tender heart and all. Patched him up. Maybe sent him on his way. That sound about right?”

“I don’t know any Hart.”

Crowder moved faster than she expected. The poker whistled past her face and crashed into the wall, splintering the boards. Nora stumbled back, genuinely terrified now.

“Don’t lie to me.” The veneer of civility cracked, showing the violence beneath. “We tracked him this far. His horse’s tracks led up this mountain before the snow covered them. This is the only shelter for miles.”

“Then he must have passed by without stopping. Or died in the storm.” Nora fought to keep her voice level. “I’ve seen no one.”

Crowder nodded to Gage, who began a methodical search — overturning her few possessions, checking for loose floorboards. Nora watched her life scattered across the floor and felt fury begin to edge out fear.

“Even if this Hart person had come here,” she said coldly, “what makes you think I’d tell you? You break into my home, threaten me, destroy my things.”

Crowder backhanded her.

The blow sent her sprawling, stars exploding across her vision as she hit the floor. She tasted blood. Her lip was split. She pushed herself up slowly, meeting his pale eyes with all the defiance she could muster.

“I’m a healer,” she said. “If someone came to me hurt, I’d help them. It’s what I do. But no one came.”

“A healer? Out here?” Crowder laughed. “What are you really? Some whore too old for the trade. Or maybe you killed old Jeb yourself for his claim.”

“Found something, boss.” Slade held up a man’s shirt — too large by half, clearly not hers. “Was drying behind the stove.”

Crowder’s eyes glittered with triumph. “Well, well. Whose shirt might that be?”

“My uncle’s.”

“Except Jeb Miller was a small man, and that shirt would fit someone about — oh, Caleb Hart’s size.” Crowder drew his gun, pointing it at her almost lazily. “Now you’re going to tell us where Hart went, or things are going to get unpleasant. Gage here has a real talent for making people talk.”

Gage grinned, cracking his scarred knuckles. “Haven’t had a woman in a while. Might be fun to take my time.”

Real terror flooded through Nora then. She had faced professional disgrace, starvation, freezing. This was different. This was the raw, ugly violence that lurked at the edge of civilization.

“Last chance,” Crowder said. “Where’s Hart?”

Nora lifted her chin. “Go to hell.”

Crowder sighed theatrically. “Gage. Show the lady what happens when—”

The gunshot was impossibly loud in the small cabin.

Gage spun, clutching his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. Crowder and Slade whirled toward the door as it crashed open, and cold air poured in around a figure that looked like death itself.

Caleb Hart stood in the doorway, swaying, gray as ash — but the Colt in his hand was steady as winter steel.

“Step away from the lady,” he said. “Or the next one goes through your heart.”