A Widow With Triplets, Left To Die In The Blizzard, Until a Cowboy Made Her His Wife

Chapter 2

“Please,” Elena managed, her voice barely a whisper. “My babies. They’re so cold. We’ve been stranded for hours.”

The man didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside, closing the door against the wind, and removed his hat. The face that emerged was not what Elena had expected — younger, perhaps mid-thirties, with piercing blue eyes that swept the interior of the wagon with practiced efficiency. His jaw was strong, clean-shaven, his features weathered by sun and wind but not unkind.

“Mason Blackwell,” he said, already shrugging out of his heavy sheepskin coat. “My ranch is about four miles east.”

He draped the coat over Elena and the triplets without a moment’s hesitation. The warmth of it — his warmth — seeped through Elena’s frozen clothes, and she nearly cried from the sensation alone.

“Elena Reed,” she managed. “Our driver, Mr. Collins, went for help. He never came back.”

Mason’s jaw tightened. He was already examining the triplets, his large hands moving with surprising gentleness as he checked each tiny face, each fragile body.

“They need warmth immediately,” he said, his tone businesslike but not harsh. “And so do you, Mrs. Reed.”

“Three of them,” he added, a note of wonder creeping into his voice. “All yours?”