The words hung in the frigid cabin air, freezing the marrow in Wesley’s bones.

Wesley stared at the heavy timber door as the icy wind rattled the iron latch. His hand trembled against the cold steel of his Winchester rifle. For three agonizing days, he had blamed God, blamed the mountain blizzard, and blamed his own helplessness for Abigail bleeding out on their bed while bringing little Noah into the world.

He slowly turned his gaze down to Rebecca, whose dark eyes were wide with pure terror. In her arms, Noah was finally nursing, latching on with desperate, fragile strength beside her own sleeping daughter.

“What did he say?” Wesley’s voice was dangerously low, a tremor of fury cracking through the grief. “Rebecca. Who is that out there?”

“His name is Silas Vance,” Rebecca whispered, H๏τ tears spilling down her pale cheeks. She winced as her bullet-torn shoulder seeped fresh blood onto the wool blanket. “He’s not just my husband, Wesley. He’s a disgraced physician from Helena. And three days ago… he wasn’t just pᴀssing through this valley.”

“Open the damn door, Hartman!” the voice outside roared again, followed by the heavy thud of an iron stirrup kicking the wood. “I didn’t come to freeze on your porch! Ask the woman about the midwife who never arrived! Ask her why your Abigail never had a fighting chance!”

The room seemed to tilt.

“Abigail was in labor for twenty hours,” Wesley said, his knuckles going stark white around his rifle stock. “I sent a neighbor boy north to fetch Mrs. Gable, the town midwife. The boy never returned. Abigail died in my arms before dawn.”

“The boy didn’t make it because Silas intercepted him on the trail,” Rebecca sobbed, holding the two infants closer against her chest. “Silas has been running an illicit trade for wealthy barren families in the eastern territories. Arranged adoptions for mᴀssive payouts. But three weeks ago, his most lucrative buyer—a railroad baron in Chicago—offered ten thousand dollars in gold for a healthy newborn boy. Ten thousand, Wesley.”

A sickening cold clawed its way into Wesley’s stomach.

“Silas didn’t have a boy,” Rebecca continued, her voice shaking violently. “I gave birth to our daughter ten days ago. When Silas saw she was a girl, he went into a rage. Then he learned your wife was about to deliver out here in complete isolation. He turned the boy around on the road, paid him off, and planned to let Abigail perish in labor so he could ride in as the savior… take your newborn son, claim the boy died with his mother, and leave you with two graves.”

“No…” Wesley choked, the room spinning.

“He came to your cabin while you were digging Abigail’s grave in the blizzard,” Rebecca said. “He was going to steal Noah from his crib. But I followed him through the snow. I slipped inside while you were outside weeping over the earth, and I grabbed your boy before Silas could touch him. When Silas caught me in the woods trying to run, he realized what I’d done. He drew his pistol and sH๏τ me. I dropped into the ravine with the children, hid in the drifts until nightfall, and dragged myself back to the only light I could see—your lantern.”

Wesley looked down at the tiny bundle in Rebecca’s arms.

Noah’s frantic sucking had slowed to a gentle, steady rhythm. Color was finally returning to the boy’s sunken cheeks.

Then Wesley looked at the other swaddled infant lying on the blanket.

“Wait,” Wesley murmured, the puzzle pieces violently colliding in his mind. “You said you ran with my boy… Then who is this baby girl?”

Rebecca’s breath hitched. She looked toward the door, then back up at Wesley with a hollow, devastated gaze.

“That’s what Silas doesn’t know,” she whispered. “When I ran into your cabin three days ago while you were out at the grave… Abigail wasn’t ᴅᴇᴀᴅ yet. She had just given birth to twins.”

Wesley froze. The breath ripped clean out of his lungs.

“Abigail had a girl first,” Rebecca wept, gently pulling back the quilt to reveal the baby girl’s face. In the firelight, the child bore the exact high cheekbones and soft cleft chin of his late wife. “She begged me to save them before she took her last breath. She gave me her daughter to hide. Wesley… Silas thinks this little girl is mine. He thinks he’s hunting me to take back his own bloodline.”

A deafening gunsH๏τ splintered the heavy oak door.

A bullet gouged a jagged path through the wood, missing Wesley’s shoulder by inches. Outside, Silas’s cruel laughter cut through the howling blizzard.

“Time’s up, Hartman!” Silas bellowed, the sound of a lever-action carbine racking another heavy shell echoing through the splintered hole. “I smell the smoke, and I hear the babies! Throw the bolt, or I burn this cabin down to the ash—and you can bury both of your brats right next to your wife!”

Wesley raised his Winchester, leveling the barrel directly at the front door.

But behind him, the sound of splintering timber shattered the kitchen window.

Cold air and snow roared into the cabin as a second set of heavy boots crashed through the glᴀss behind them.