PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO THE BLIZZARD

The cabin door slammed behind Abigail Prescott.

For one brief moment, twenty starving cowboys watched the rectangle of yellow light disappear into the storm.

Then Caleb Thornton tried to rise.

“Wyatt,” he rasped. “Get your coat.”

The young cowboy struggled to his feet, swaying so badly he had to grab the wall.

“Boss, I can barely stand.”

Caleb looked toward the door.

“Then sit down before you fall. God help me, I should never have let her go alone.”

But Abigail was already disappearing into the white wilderness.

The rope dragged behind her, its end secured around her waist. In one hand, she carried a lantern. In the other, a hunting knife.

The wind struck her so fiercely that she could barely keep her eyes open.

She had never seen a storm like this.

Chicago winters were cruel, but the Dakota Territory was something else entirely. The cold seemed alive, searching for every weakness, every opening in her coat.

Yet Abigail kept walking.

She followed Wyatt’s directions toward the ravine, counting the pine trees as she went.

One.

Two.

Three.

The fourth tree had a broken branch pointing toward the western slope.

There.

She stopped.

Beneath the snow, something dark stained the ground.

Blood.

Abigail knelt and brushed away the powder with her gloved hand.

The trail continued downhill.

She тιԍнтened the rope around her waist and began descending.

The slope was steeper than she expected. Twice, her boots slipped. Once, the rope caught against a jagged tree root, nearly pulling her sideways.

But she refused to turn back.

Not when twenty men were waiting for her.

Not when Caleb Thornton had looked at her with the eyes of a man who had already buried his hope.

And certainly not when she had finally found a place where her work might mean something.

Then she heard it.

A faint sound beneath the wind.

A low, desperate whimper.

Abigail turned toward the rocks.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She moved closer.

The whimper came again.

Beneath an overhanging shelf of stone lay a wounded deer, half-buried in snow. Its body was still, but its eyes were open.

The animal had been ᴅᴇᴀᴅ for several days.

Wolves had already found it.

Abigail swallowed hard.

She could not save the deer.

But she could save the men waiting at the ranch.

She tied the rope around the carcᴀss and began dragging it toward the slope.

The weight was enormous.

Her boots sank into the snow.

Her shoulders burned.

The rope cut into her gloves.

For a moment, she stopped and leaned against a tree, breathing hard.

The storm was growing worse.

She could barely see the lantern.

Then she remembered the voices in the ranch house.

There’s just graves waiting to be dug.

“No,” she whispered.

“Not today.”

She wrapped the rope around a sturdy tree trunk and used the slope to help move the carcᴀss a little at a time.

It took nearly two hours.

By the time she reached the top, her coat was soaked with snow, her hands were trembling, and the lantern had nearly gone out.

But the deer was there.

And Abigail Prescott was still standing.

She dragged it toward the ranch.

When she finally reached the door, she struck it with her boot.

“Open up!”

The door flew wide.

Caleb stood there, pale and shaking.

Behind him, the cowboys stared.

Abigail dropped the rope.

The deer landed heavily on the floorboards.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Wyatt began to cry.

Not loudly.

Just a few helpless tears slipping down his hollow cheeks.

Abigail looked at Caleb.

“Mr. Thornton, I believe your kitchen is about to become the busiest place in Dakota.”

Caleb stared at her.

Then, slowly, he laughed.

It was a terrible, broken sound.

But it was the first real laugh anyone had heard at Whispering Pines in weeks.

Abigail did not allow the men to rush the food.

She knew that after prolonged starvation, a sudden heavy meal could be dangerous. She ordered small portions, warm broth, and careful supervision.

The weakest men received the first bowls.

The stronger cowboys helped with the work.

Caleb watched from a chair near the stove as Abigail transformed the kitchen into a place of determined activity.

The deer was prepared.

The potatoes were cleaned.

The remaining pork fat was rendered.

The fire burned steadily.

Soon, a rich smell filled the house.

It was not a grand feast.

It was a beginning.

Abigail placed a bowl before Caleb.

He stared at it as though it were gold.

“Miss Prescott…”

“Eat slowly.”

He took a spoonful.

His eyes closed.

For a moment, he looked like a man remembering a world that had once been kind.

Then he opened his eyes.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Abigail paused.

“My mother.”

Caleb waited.

“She ran a boardinghouse in Chicago. When my father died, I helped her feed thirty people a day. Then she pᴀssed, and I took over the kitchen.”

“Thirty people?”

“Sometimes forty.”

He looked at the skillet.

“And you came here because of the advertisement?”

Abigail nodded.

Caleb’s expression changed.

“I didn’t write that advertisement.”

She stopped moving.

“What?”

“I never advertised for a kitchen manager.”

The room seemed to grow colder.

Abigail slowly turned toward him.

“But the notice was signed by Caleb Thornton.”

Caleb shook his head.

“I didn’t sign it.”

He reached for the folded paper Abigail had kept in her valise.

She handed it to him.

He examined the writing.

Then his face went white.

“Josiah Caldwell.”

“Who?”

“The land baron who burned our supplies.”

Caleb looked at the twenty men gathered around the kitchen.

“He sent you here.”

Abigail felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm.

“Why?”

Caleb’s voice dropped.

“Because he knew we were dying.”

He looked at the advertisement again.

“And he knew that if someone came here and saw what he’d done, the truth might finally reach the authorities.”

Abigail’s fingers тιԍнтened around the edge of the table.

“Then why would he send me?”

Caleb stared at her.

“Because he thought you wouldn’t survive the journey.”

The words hung in the room.

Abigail looked toward the window.

The storm was still raging.

Outside, the ranch was surrounded by snow.

And somewhere beyond the mountain pᴀss, Josiah Caldwell was waiting for Whispering Pines to disappear.

But he had made one mistake.

He had sent Abigail Prescott.

And Abigail Prescott did not give up easily.