PART 2 — THE BLIZZARD’S HIDDEN SECRET

The fire had burned low when Mary finally understood what Weston meant by those two words.

Stay wild.

He wasn’t asking her to become fearless. He wasn’t asking her to forget what had happened or pretend the past had never hurt her.

He was telling her that she didn’t have to become smaller to be loved.

For a long moment, Mary said nothing.

Then she reached for his hand.

“Weston, I don’t know how to be the woman you deserve.”

His expression softened.

“Good. I wasn’t looking for that woman.”

“Then who were you looking for?”

He looked at her as though the answer had been waiting inside him for weeks.

“You.”

Outside, the blizzard roared against the cabin.

Inside, two people who had spent years believing happiness was something meant for other people finally allowed themselves to imagine a different future.

But the storm wasn’t the only thing approaching.

The following morning, Weston discovered that the snow had buried the trail completely. The horses were trapped in the barn, the woodpile was nearly inaccessible, and the nearest settlement might as well have been another world.

Mary didn’t complain.

She helped him ration flour, checked the pantry, and prepared a pot of soup from the last dried vegetables.

“You’ve become quite a mountain woman,” Weston remarked.

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He laughed.

It was a sound she had come to treasure.

Later, while searching the storage room for blankets, Mary discovered a small wooden box tucked beneath a stack of old quilts.

It belonged to Margaret.

Inside were a child’s wooden horse, a faded ribbon, and several folded letters.

Mary hesitated before touching them.

She had no wish to invade another woman’s memories.

But one envelope bore Weston’s name.

The handwriting was unmistakably Margaret’s.

My dearest Weston,

If Thomas ever asks why I loved this mountain, tell him it was because you made even the coldest place feel like home.

Mary’s eyes filled.

She placed the letter back carefully.

Then she noticed a second envelope.

This one was addressed to someone named Samuel Grady.

Weston had never mentioned a brother.

When she brought the box into the kitchen, he went completely still.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the storage room. I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking for anything private.”

He took the envelope and stared at the name.

“Samuel was my younger brother.”

“Was?”

Weston sat down.

“He left Wyoming when we were boys. We hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen years.”

“Why?”

Weston rubbed his forehead.

“After my father died, Samuel wanted to sell the family land. I refused. We argued, and he left.”

“Did you ever hear from him?”

“Once. A letter saying he was coming back.”

“When?”

Weston looked at the faded postmark.

“Three years ago.”

The same year Margaret and Thomas died.

Mary watched his face change.

“Weston?”

He turned the letter over.

The envelope had never been opened.

Someone had written across the front:

Return to sender. Recipient deceased.

But Weston was not ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

And neither, apparently, was Samuel’s message.

By the third day, the wind had weakened enough for Weston to inspect the barn.

Mary went with him, wrapping her scarf тιԍнтly around her neck.

They found the animals safe, though the roof had taken damage.

While Weston checked the stalls, Mary noticed something unusual near the back wall.

A wooden plank had been pulled loose.

Behind it was a small leather pouch.

“Weston?”

He came over.

Inside the pouch lay a silver pocket watch, a pH๏τograph of two young men standing beside a river, and another letter.

This one was addressed to Margaret.

Weston recognized the handwriting immediately.

“Samuel.”

Mary opened the letter carefully.

Margaret,

I know Weston will never believe me if I tell him what I discovered. But I have proof that Harrison Blackwood has been paying men to locate women who escaped his household.

He has friends in several towns, and he uses money to make the law look the other way.

I heard Katherine Whitmore escaped him. If she reaches Weston, tell him not to trust anyone claiming to represent her family.

Mary felt the blood drain from her face.

Harrison.

Her former fiancé.

The man she had escaped.

She read the letter again.

“Weston, this was written before the bounty hunters arrived.”

He nodded slowly.

“Samuel knew about Harrison.”

“And he knew I might come here.”

Weston looked toward the cabin.

“Someone knew you were coming before I did.”

Mary suddenly remembered the first day she had arrived in Border Ridge.

The saloon.

The three men.

The stranger who had tried to grab her wrist.

Had that encounter really been accidental?

Or had someone been watching her from the beginning?

Before she could ask, a distant sound reached them.

A bell.

One of the horses was moving restlessly in the barn.

Weston stepped outside.

Then he saw it.

A rider was approaching through the thinning snow.

He carried no visible weapon, but his horse was exhausted, and his coat was torn.

Weston reached for his rifle.

“Stay behind me.”

The rider stopped at the fence.

“I’m looking for Weston Grady.”

“You found him.”

The stranger removed his hat.

“My name is Samuel Grady.”

Weston froze.

For several seconds, neither brother spoke.

Then Samuel looked past him.

His eyes settled on Mary.

“Katherine Whitmore?”

Mary stepped forward.

“Who wants to know?”

Samuel looked at Weston.

“I’m afraid I know why Harrison has been searching for her.”

He reached inside his coat and produced a folded document.

“Because she isn’t the only person he wants to silence.”

And when Weston unfolded the paper, he discovered that the name written at the bottom was his own.