A Widow With Triplets, Left To Die In The Blizzard, Until a Cowboy Made Her His Wife
Chapter 3
“Triplets. Three months old.” Elena’s voice trembled. “Benjamin, Charlotte, and Abigail.”
Something flickered in Mason’s eyes — surprise, yes, but something deeper. Pain, perhaps. Recognition. It was gone before she could identify it, replaced by the same practical determination that had driven him through the storm.
“My horse can carry us all, but it’ll be a cold ride. I’ve got blankets in my saddlebags. We’ll wrap the little ones between us for warmth.”
Elena hesitated, glancing around the wagon. Everything she owned in the world was packed into its confines — Daniel’s clothes, the unfinished cradle, the few pieces of furniture that had survived the journey.
“My belongings —”
“I’ll send men back for them tomorrow.” Mason was already gathering the babies’ supplies, his movements efficient and sure. “Right now, saving these babies is all that matters.”
The words cut through Elena’s hesitation. Possessions could be replaced. Her children could not.
The next few minutes were a blur of movement. Mason helped her secure the triplets in makeshift slings against her body, then wrapped them all in blankets from his saddlebags. The preparations took only minutes, but to Elena, each second felt like an eternity.
“Ready?” Mason asked.
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she had the strength to make the journey. Her legs felt like lead, and a dangerous drowsiness was pulling at her mind.
Mason saw it. Without a word, he lifted her — her and the triplets — into his arms as if they weighed nothing at all. He carried her through the snow to where a magnificent black stallion stood waiting, stoic against the wind.
“This is Thunder,” Mason said, settling Elena sideways in the saddle. “Best horse in the territory. He’ll get us home.”
Elena felt herself enveloped in Mason’s solid warmth as he mounted behind her, his arms coming around her to take the reins. The triplets were nestled between them, protected from the worst of the wind.
“Hold on,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “And stay awake, Mrs. Reed. Talk to me about your little ones.”
“Benjamin was born first,” she began, her voice barely audible. “Already strong-willed, just like his father. Charlotte came next — quiet, but alert. And little Abigail was last. So tiny the doctor wasn’t sure she’d survive the night.”
“But she did,” Mason observed.
“She’s a fighter,” Elena agreed, feeling a surge of maternal pride. “They all are.”
“Like their mother,” Mason said.
The simple acknowledgment brought unexpected tears to Elena’s eyes. She had been so consumed by fear and exhaustion that she had forgotten she was still fighting. Still surviving. Still here.
The journey stretched into an endless white blur. Mason kept her talking, asking about her destination, her journey from Pennsylvania, anything to keep her mind active. When her responses grew slurred, he started talking about his ranch.
“Nearly two thousand acres of the best grazing land in the territory,” he said, his voice a steady rumble against her back. “Started with nothing but a claim and twenty head of cattle eight years ago. Built every structure with my own hands.”
“You live there alone?” Elena managed.
A pause. “Just me and my ranch hands these days. My wife, Rebecca, passed away four years ago. Fever took her quick.”
The words hung in the frozen air, heavy with shared grief.
“I’m sorry,” Elena murmured.
Mason didn’t respond. He only tightened his arm slightly around her and the babies, and they rode on.