She carried three orphans through the mountain cold, hoping someone, anyone, would help. When the stranger opened his
door, he saw more than burden. He saw purpose, and they all saw a chance at
family. The scream of the wind swallowed her sobs. Snow clung to her skirts, turned
her hair to ice, and numbed her fingers to stone. But still she walked, not for herself. She would have lain down long
ago if it was just her. But for the three children who clung to her with trembling hands, sunken cheeks, and eyes
too tired to cry. Their names were me, Jonah, and Ruthie. She whispered them
over and over like a prayer as they moved up the crooked trail, boots soaked, legs raw, breath shallow. Me,
Jonah, Ruthie, stay with me. The trail ahead blurred. White upon white, all
noise muffled by storm. Her name was Clara. Clara Morgan, widow of four
winters, daughter of no one, a mother now by tragedy rather than birth. Her husband’s kin had turned their backs the
moment they saw she wasn’t carrying his blood. No one wants a widow with another woman’s children, they’d said. And now,
now she was dragging three small bodies through a blizzard, hoping a light might appear somewhere in this god-forsaken
wilderness before their legs gave out for good. Clara fell once, knees buckling beneath
her, but she didn’t cry out. Didn’t have the strength. She just clutched Ruthie tighter against her chest and hissed
through her cracked lips. Keep going. Me, barely 10, nodded once and gripped
Jonah’s hand harder. The boy’s eyes had gone glassy two hours back, but he followed his sister still. A miracle,
she thought, or maybe just the sheer stubbornness of children who’d already lost too much. Then, without warning, a
shape loomed. A cabin, wood, dark and half buried, smoke curling faint from a
crooked chimney. Clara blinked through the snow. For a second, she thought she’d imagined it. But no, the flicker
of light through the window was real. She stumbled to the porch, hands slapping against the door. One knock.
Nothing. Another, still nothing. Then she pounded raw, frantic, one arm
wrapped tight around Ruthie while me and Jonah leaned against her legs like reeds in the wind. Finally, the door creaked.
A man stood behind it, broad, quiet, his coat heavy with snow, his beard tangled
with frost. His eyes were dark and unreadable. He didn’t speak, just stared. Clara had no words, just breath
coming out ragged. She turned slightly, showing the bundled children, hoping
that would speak louder than anything else. “They’re not mine,” she whispered. “But I’m all they have.” The man’s brow
furrowed. He looked past her to the storm, then to the children, then back to her. And then he stepped aside. Clara
didn’t wait for a second invitation. She ushered them inside, the warmth of the hearth hitting like a slap to the face.
Her knees gave once more, but this time the floor caught her. Jonah collapsed beside her. Mi dropped to her knees with
a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief. And Ruthie whimpered faintly in her arms. The door shut behind them.
Boots thutdded on wood. The man moved past without a word, tossing blankets
onto the floor near the fire. He poured something into a pot and set it to heat.
“Strip off what’s wet,” he said gruffly. You’ll freeze worse if you sit in it.
Clara did as told, teeth chattering as she peeled coats from little bodies and laid them out like logs beside the
flames. The man handed her a thick blanket, then another, and still said
nothing. She finally found her voice after he placed a steaming mug into her
shaking hands. “Thank you,” she rasped. “I didn’t know where else to go.” He
looked at her, then really looked. His face wasn’t unkind, just quiet, like
someone who hadn’t had cause to speak in a long time. “Name’s thorn,” he said
finally. “This your kin.” Clara shook her head. “They were left to me. Their
ma died last spring. Their paw winter. No one else stepped forward. I couldn’t leave them.” Thorn’s jaw twitched
slightly. You come from town. She nodded. Northbend days out. Folks said I
should give them up. No one wants a mother carrying three orphans, they said. Her voice cracked, but I couldn’t
let him go. Thorne didn’t answer. He just stirred the fire, then poured a
second cup and handed it to Jonah, who looked at it like it was gold. That
night passed in strange, heavy silence. The storm clawed at the windows, howled
down the chimney, but inside the air held steady warmth. Ruthie fell asleep
in Clara’s lap. Me nestled between two quilts, one hand resting on her brother
S. Jonah, too proud to admit weariness, fought sleep until his head finally
dropped against the edge of the hearth. Thorne stayed up. He sat at the table,
carving something with a knife and block of wood. Not whittling for fun, but methodical like a man too used to being
alone, finding shape in silence. Clara watched him between glances at the
children. You live up here alone? She asked softly. He didn’t look up. Three
years now. Family gone. The word landed hard flat. She
didn’t ask more. Morning brought no sun, just a softer gray. The worst of the
snow had passed. Clara rose early, gently placing Ruthie beside me. She
walked to the stove where Thorne stood sipping coffee. “I’ll go,” she said.
Didn’t mean to stay. “He didn’t move, just handed her a second cup. Storm
ain’t done. Grounds not ready. I don’t want to impose.
Didn’t say you were.” His tone remained level. “Children need to eat. You too.
Ain’t no one in these hills going to turn you back into that blizzard. Not while I got fire and flour.”
Clara blinked, not out of shock, but something deeper. Gratitude so sharp it hurt. She looked toward the children
again. Their faces looked different in the fire light. Less pale, less afraid.
You sure? Thorne nodded once for now. And somehow, for the first time in
weeks, Clara believed someone. But outside, tracks moved under the snow.
Tracks of a man on horseback watching, waiting. The storm hadn’t swallowed all
dangers. Some had just learned how to move quietly. The wind had softened, but it hadn’t
gone silent. Outside, the world still bristled with frost and hidden threats.
Thorne knew the storm had only given pause, not mercy. The mountains didn’t hand out safety like bread. They gave
nothing. You took it or you lost. Inside the cabin, however, something had
shifted. The children still slept. curled into warm quilts with a trust
they hadn’t dared show the night before. Jonah’s cheeks had color now, and Mi’s lashes fluttered as she dreamed. Ruthie
let out a little snore, soft and breathy, her head tucked beneath her arm like a rabbit in a burrow. And Clara
Clara stood at the window, mug in hand, watching the line of trees where snow clung thick to branches. Her shoulders
remained tense. Her eyes scanned the woods, not like a woman admiring beauty,
but like a mother weighing danger. Thorne set his cup down and stepped past
her to the stove. He added water to the pot, stirred the leftover oats from the night before, and said nothing. He
hadn’t spoken more than 20 words since sunrise, and Clara didn’t expect him to now. That was what she liked about him
already. He didn’t fill the silence with useless noise. He listened with his presence, watched with care, moved with
purpose. Still, there was something in the way he stood, shoulders square, jaw tight, that
told her he’d seen things. Maybe not the same kind of hurt she carried, but hurt all the same. It hung around him like
the worn coat on his back, stitched into every gesture, woven into the quiet hush
of his words. When the children stirred, Clara knelt beside them. She helped
Ruthie out of her blanket, ran fingers through Mi’s tangled hair, and let Jonah
pull on his coat himself, though he fumbled with the buttons and pretended not to need help. Thorne slid three
bowls across the table. “Hot enough,” he muttered. Jonah looked to Clara for
approval before picking up the spoon. Mi waited for Ruthie to taste first. The youngest girl tried, then grinned at the
sweetness of it. “Honey, a rare thing.” Clara blinked back tears she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t much, but it was
more than kindness. It was consideration. Someone had thought about making it easier to eat, to wake up.
When breakfast was done, Jonah offered to help with chores. Thorne raised a brow. You ever chop wood? No, the boy
admitted. But I can learn. Thorne nodded once, then let’s go. Mi looked to Clara
as Jonah pulled on his boots. “Can I help, too?” “You stay inside,” Clara
said gently. “Tend to Ruthie. I’ll help with the rest.” Thorne led Jonah
outside, showing him where the wood pile had collapsed under the weight of last night’s snow. He handed the boy a
smaller hatchet and demonstrated how to hold it, how not to waste motion, how not to swing wildly. Clara watched
through the window a while before wrapping her shawl tight and stepping outside.
I can check the traps, she offered. Thorne didn’t protest. He pointed north
toward a trail she hadn’t seen before, almost invisible under the snow. Three
snares up past the ridge. Watch the ground. Ice shifts. She nodded, already
moving. Jonah glanced up as she passed. Be careful, Ma. She touched his shoulder
lightly, always. The trail was harder than she’d expected. Snow gave way beneath her
boots in spots, threatening to pull her down slopes she couldn’t afford to fall. But Clara was light-footed, cautious,
determined. When she found the first snare, a rabbit twitched inside, still alive, she whispered a prayer before
ending its struggle quickly, then reset the line and moved on. The second trap held nothing. The third was destroyed,
torn clean through. She crouched low, examining the tracks around it. Not a
fox, not a bird, something bigger. She couldn’t be sure, but her stomach twisted as she stood and scanned the
trees. The feeling of being watched wrapped around her like a second coat. She stepped back onto the trail, breath
held. A whistle cut the wind, low, steady. Clara froze. That wasn’t wind.
It wasn’t a bird call. It was a man. She didn’t wait to find out more. She moved fast as she could
without slipping, the rabbit tied to her belt flapping against her hip. When she broke through the final brush back
toward the cabin, her legs nearly gave. Thorne looked up from the wood pile
immediately. He saw the look in her eyes before she said anything. “What
happened?” “Someone’s out there,” she said, breathing hard. “I heard him.
Thorne didn’t ask for proof. He didn’t second guess. He simply grabbed the rifle from beside the door and looked
toward the ridge. “Take the kids inside,” he said. “But
now Clara obeyed. She rushed into the cabin, shut the door behind her, and
pulled the children close.” Jonah looked worried. “Ma!”
She knelt, “Someone’s near. Stay quiet.” Thorn circled the cabin once. The snow
showed no clear prints, but he’d lived in these hills long enough to know when something was wrong. The trees were too
still, the air too thick. That night, he didn’t sleep. Not really. He sat by the
fire with the rifle across his lap while Clara rested beside the children. The
cabin was quiet except for the crackle of wood and the occasional creek of old timbers. Around midnight, he heard it
again. A shift in the wind, a whisper of movement too careful to be natural. He
stood moved to the window. Nothing. But something was coming. He could feel it.
The next morning, the storm had cleared completely. Sunlight touched the valley below like a promise, but not one thorn
trusted. “I’ll go down to town,” he said, buckling his coat. “Pick up more
supplies. Can’t have four mouths on the shelf I got. I can come, Clara offered.
No, she tensed. I can carry. I know, but I need you here. Watch the kids. You’re
safer together. She understood, even if she didn’t like it. He saddled his horse
and rode out by midm morning. Clara watched from the window until he disappeared between the trees.
Hours passed. The children played quietly. Ruthie stacked wooden blocks near the fire. Mi helped sweep. Jonah
read from a worn Bible thorn had kept on the shelf. Clara tried to calm herself,
but her nerves were fraying. Her hands shook when she stirred the stew. At
dusk, she stepped outside for firewood. That’s when she saw it. A figure lean
wrapped in black standing just past the treeine watching. She dropped the logs.
“Get inside,” she called to me, who was halfway through the doorway. Mi didn’t
question it. She pulled Ruthie in and slammed the door. Clara backed up, heart
hammering. The figure didn’t move, just stood silent. She grabbed Thorne’s spare
rifle from beside the hearth and pointed it through the open window. Her hands trembled, but her eyes stayed locked on
the trees. Then the figure vanished. just gone like smoke. Clara stayed up
that night same as Thorne had. Rifle in her lap, children tucked beside her like
lambs. Morning felt a lifetime away. When Thorne returned the next day, his
face was dark before he even dismounted. “They know,” he said as he stepped
inside. Clara stared. “Who?” He set the bags down with force. “Crows boys from South
Ridge. I saw one in the supply shop. He smiled like he knew something. What do
they want? Thorne’s jaw clenched. Doesn’t matter. They’re watching and they won’t stop. Clara swallowed hard.
We’ll leave. No, Thorne said flatly. You just got warm. They want to scare you off, drive
you out. Not because of who you are, but because you’re alone. That’s how they work. Always picking off the weak. We’re
not weak. Thorne looked at her. Then really looked. No, you’re not. That
night the wind returned. So did the figure. But this time he didn’t stay in
the trees. He came to the porch. And he knocked. The knock was slow. Not a
threat, not a plea, just deliberate. The kind that said the man on the other side
wasn’t afraid of what waited beyond the door. Clara froze where she stood, hand
on the rifle, heart pounding hard against her ribs like it wanted out. She didn’t look to the children. Not yet.
Fear like that could spread quick. And right now they needed her steady. Jonah
had already crept to her side, fists clenched. Mi stood behind the table, shielding Ruthie, who peaked out with
eyes too wide for a child her age. The second knock came just as calm. No
rattle, no shout. It was worse that way. The quietness made it feel colder than
anything the storm had thrown at them. Thorne stepped forward before Clara could. He hadn’t drawn his rifle. Not
yet, just moved with that solid mountainworn confidence that she’d come to trust in the short time they’d known
him. He opened the door halfway, not all the way, not an invitation, and stood
square in the gap. Outside, a man leaned casually against the porch post, hat
dripping with melting snow, coat stitched finer than a mountain man had any right to own. His gloves were black
leather, worn but expensive. His smile was polite, dead polite. Even in the man
draw, heard a family was setting up here. Thorne didn’t answer, just stared.
The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t realize you dtaken in guests. Thorne’s grip
tightened on the edge of the door. You always knock this late, Colt. Colt
tipped his hat slightly. Would have come earlier, but I didn’t want to be rude. Snow being what it was. What do you
want? Colt’s smile thinned. Just checking in. You know how the hills are.
Rumors spread faster than fire through pine. Some folks said you daken in a
woman and her brood. He shifted slightly, eyes darting past Thorne’s shoulder. Three of them, wasn’t it?
Clara felt me tense behind her. Ruthie whimpered. Thorne stepped forward a half
inch, blocking the man’s line of sight. Ain’t your business who’s under this roof. Colt held up both hands. Fair.
Fair. I mean, no harm, just friendly curiosity. Lot of mouths to feed these
days. Winter’s hard. Some men, he let the paws hang, might feel inclined to
offer help or payment. Thorne didn’t blink. They ain’t for sale. Colt’s eyes
flicked up. Smile returning. Didn’t say they were, but a mother dragging three
orphans through the snow. Well, not everyone call that wisdom. Some might say she’s in over her head. That’s so.
That’s so. Thorne’s voice dropped low and flat. You done talking?
Colt’s grin lingered, then slowly slipped. He stepped back from the door, adjusting his hat. Just wanted to be
neighborly, Thorne. Mountain folk should look out for each other. You’ve always known that. He turned to go, then
paused. Tell the woman Clara was it that not all folks are as generous as you.
Some of us think debts ought to be paid, even debts she didn’t know she owed.
With that, he walked off the porch, boots crunching in deliberate rhythm. Thorne didn’t close the door until the
sound faded completely into the trees. Inside, silence tightened like a noose.
Clara spoke first, voice raw. Who is he? Thorne shut the door gently. Trouble. He
knew my name. He knew more than that. Jonah’s eyes burned. Why did he come
here? What does he want with us? Thorne turned slowly, meeting each of their gazes. Because people like Colt Crowley
don’t like seeing others survive without his say so. He trades in fear, in
weakness. He saw a mother and three small children walk into my cabin and thought it meant we were vulnerable.
That’s his mistake. Clara stepped forward, her hand still shaking. He said something about debts.
I I don’t owe anyone like that. I don’t know that man. You don’t have to. Thorne
said, “Crowley doesn’t care about reasons. He cares about excuses. And if
he sees a way to pull power out of your suffering, he will.” That night, no one
slept much. Thorne sat with his rifle again. Clara watched the children from
across the fire, her heart clenching tighter with every spark. Mi had started sucking her thumb again. Jonah kept
pacing, restless. Ruthie barely blinked. By dawn, Thorne had made a decision.
You need to be gone,” he said, his voice gravel. “This cabin ain’t safe anymore.”
Clara shook her head immediately. “No, I won’t run again. Not for him. Not for any man.” “I’m not saying run. I’m
saying we get ahead of him.” She frowned. “How?” “We move you south.
There’s a canyon stretched through Miller’s run. Narrow, steep, but hard to follow unless you know every inch of it.
I do. You can cross there. make it to Clear Valley. There’s a woman there named Bethany Hobbs. She runs a church
shelter. She’ll take you all in. Clara stared at him. And you? I’ll follow
behind. Lead them the wrong way. Buy you time. No, she said you don’t need to.
Yes, I do. His jaw tightened. They’ve come too close. That’s on me. I’ve been
here too long alone. Got lazy about the watch. They’ve seen your faces now. They
won’t stop, but they’ll follow me if I give them reason. Mi had crept closer.
Will we see you again? Thorne knelt eyes level with hers. You got my word. I’ll
find you when it’s safe. The journey began at first light. No horses. They
would leave tracks. No wagons too loud. Just heavy boots, thick packs, and hope
that Colt’s men hadn’t yet closed off every exit from the valley. Thorne led
them as far as the edge of Split Ridge. From there, Clara would take the narrow
trail alone with the children. He handed her a map, his flask, and a pistol.
“Three bullets,” he said. She looked at him. “I pray you never need them,” he
added. “But if you do, I’ll aim true.” They didn’t hug, didn’t cry, just held
each other’s gaze for a long breath. Clara turned, urging the children forward. The snow had thinned, but the
wind still bit. They moved like shadows between the trees, following thorns map
across rock, root, and cliff edge. Jonah walked ahead, ever vigilant. Me clung to
Ruthiey’s hand. Clara took the rear, heartthuting with every branch snap, and
owl cry. By dusk they reached the narrow gorge that would take them across into
Clear Valley. It was treacherous terrain, too steep in parts, the drop dizzying, but safer than the open
trails. They camped beneath a stone overhang, the fire small and buried
under rocks to keep smoke from rising. Meanwhile, back at the cabin, Thorne
wasn’t resting. He made sure Colt’s men saw him riding east away from Clara’s
trail. He let them chase him, played the fool, and led them through ravines where the wind screamed louder than the
hooves. But eventually they caught his scent. One evening, just as sun dipped
low, Colt himself rode up behind him. “Thought you might try something noble,”
he said. Thorne didn’t answer. Colt grinned. “You always did like lost
causes.” Thorne dismounted, rifle loose in his grip. And you always did like pretending
you were the law. Colt laughed. I don’t need to pretend out here. Law is what a
man can hold. Then let’s see what you can hold. Gunfire rang out across the
ridge. Meanwhile, Clara pushed the children faster through the canyon, but
she knew something was wrong. The map had shown the way clearly, but suddenly the ledge was missing. A collapse. Rocks
had given way. The only option now was to backtrack or cross the icy creek
below. Jonah volunteered to go first. Clara refused. I’ll carry Ruthie. Me stay with
Jonah. We move fast. She descended slowly, boots slipping on the frozen
stones. The water bit like teeth, but she pressed on. Ruthie whimpered, clinging tight. Then a sound cut through
the canyon. A whistle. Low, steady, familiar.
Clara froze. They weren’t alone. The whistle came again, slower this time.
Deliberate. Clara’s blood went cold. It was the same sound she’d heard near thorn snares, too
steady, too human to be any wind. She didn’t look back right away. Fear twisted in her stomach, thick and
nauseating. Her boots stayed planted in the creek, water rushing around her calves, but she adjusted Ruthie in her
arms slowly as if sudden movement might draw fire. Jonah’s voice came from
above, just a whisper. Ma. She looked up, found his face pale behind the
brush. Mi was crouched beside him, both hands clenched around a stick far too
small to defend against anything real. Clara didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Her eyes locked with Jonah s and he understood. Clara turned slowly, so
slowly she could hear her own heart ticking in her ears. The canyon behind her was narrow, overgrown. Snow hung
from limbs like dripping teeth. She saw nothing. No movement, no figure. But she
didn’t trust that silence. Clara pressed forward through the creek, boots dragging heavy. Ruthie clung
tighter, her tiny hands gripping Claraara’s shawl. Every step forward was agony. Each sound behind her felt like
it could be the last she’d ever hear before a gun cocked or worse. When she
reached the far bank, Jonah was already pulling me along the trail. His fingers
moved fast, brushing aside brush, pointing to a narrow ledge she hadn’t seen. Here, he whispered. It’s not on
the map, but it leads up. might get us over the ridge. Clara didn’t hesitate. She climbed, one
hand gripping Root after Root, the other locked tight around Ruthiey’s legs. Her arms burned, her back screamed, but she
kept climbing. There was no other choice. There never had been. They reached a plateau just before full dark.
A shelf of rock pressed into a curved wall of granite. Above them, trees choked the ridgeeline. Below the creek
ran fast through the gorge. Clara pressed Ruthie into Mi’s arms, then turned back, peering over the edge. She
saw it. Movement in the trees. A man. Then another. Dark coats, wide-brimmed
hats. They weren’t rushing. They didn’t need to. They knew the terrain. They
knew she’d be cornered eventually. Clara pulled her shawl tighter. “We move,” she whispered. Jonah led the way,
one hand on the stone wall to guide them. The wind shrieked between the trees above, turning the branches into
claws. But Clara didn’t stop. Even when her lungs burned, even when her vision
blurred, she thought of Thorn then of the rifle in his hands. Of the way he’d
said, “You’re not weak.” She held on to that. They camped in a hollowedout
crevice that night, too cold to make fire. too close to danger to risk it.
Clara wrapped all three children in the last quilt, then sat against the stone wall with her knees drawn up, the pistol
clutched tight in her lap. Sleep didn’t come, only thoughts of how many times
she’d been told to give up, that she was too soft, too slow, too burdened with
mouths not hers. Of how they’d laughed when she said she’d raise Ruthie, me, and Jonah after their mother passed. of
how even Thorne, silent and sure as he was, had warned her how cruel this land
could be. And yet here they were, alive,
unbroken. The morning broke red across the sky, clouds smeared like blood above the
treetops. Clara nudged the children awake, forced them to eat from the last bit of bread she’d saved. Then they
moved again, slowly, carefully. The trail rose fast, too fast for tired
legs. But Clara didn’t slow. Jonah slipped once. Mi cried out. Ruthie
begged to be carried again. Clara lifted her without a word. The girl weighed heavier than she remembered. Or maybe
her arms had just given too much already. By late afternoon, they reached
the crest of the ridge. And below a valley, real green, even clear valley.
They were so close Clara felt tears spring to her eyes before she realized she was crying. A wooden fence stretched
along the riverbend. Smoke rose from several cabins. A church steeple pierced
the horizon. Safety. But just as she took a step forward, she heard it. Gunfire.
Far off, but not far enough. One shot, then two. Echoes.
Clara spun. No smoke rose from behind, but something was wrong. Jonah’s mouth
moved. Is it Thorn? She didn’t know. Her gut twisted.
More shots, then silence again. Clara knelt fast. Pressed the children down.
Stay here, she whispered. No matter what, she crawled forward to the edge of
the bluff, scanning behind them. Nothing moved. But then, just for a second, she
saw it. A man stumbling through the trees. Rifle in hand. Coat torn. Thorn.
Clara stood before she could stop herself. Thorn. His head jerked up. He
waved once before collapsing. She ran. Didn’t think. didn’t speak,
just ran. The children chased behind her. She reached him within minutes. His
leg was bleeding bad, but not fatal. What happened? She gasped, pressing
cloth to the wound. They they followed me off trail. Thought they had me surrounded, picked them off one by one.
He coughed. Last one got lucky. Clara’s hands worked fast, tying the wound.
You’re not dying. Not here. Thorne grunted, not planning to. The children
helped pull him up. He leaned heavy on Jonah’s shoulder, limping down the slope
until Clear Valley rose before them. A woman met them at the edge of the
settlement, tall, gay-haired with a rifle of her own. Her eyes went from
Clara to the children, then to Thorne. “You look like trouble,” she said.
Thorne gave her half a smile. “That’s fair.” Bethany Hobbs? Clara asked
breathless. That’s me. We were told. Bethany waved
her hand. Get him inside. We’ll talk after. They carried Thorne into the old
church house. Set him near the stove. Bethany barked orders like a general
sent for bandages, hot broth, boots, and blankets. The community moved fast,
silent, efficient, prepared. Later that night, as snow began falling
again, Clara stood outside the chapel. The children slept on borrowed CS.
Bethany approached quietly, her rifle slung over her shoulder. You brought a
storm with you, she said. I didn’t mean to, Clara whispered. No one ever does.
They stood in silence a moment. You did good, Bethany added. Real good. Clara
didn’t respond right away. Then they’re not mind, you know, not by blood.
Bethany glanced at her. Blood ain’t the measure. The fire you walked through, that’s the measure. Clara looked out
over the valley. Snow drifted soft across the roofs. Light flickered in every window. “They’ll come again, won’t
they?” she asked. Bethany nodded. “Maybe, but we’re not like towns folk.
We’ve buried worse than Crowley out here.” Inside the chapel, Thorne stirred. His voice, weak but steady,
called Clara’s name. She turned, walked back toward the door. He looked up as
she entered. “I told you I’d find you,” he whispered. Clara knelt beside him.
“You did.” He blinked slow. “You brought them through all of them. I had help.”
He chuckled, stubborn as sin. Clara smiled softly. No one wants a mother
carrying three orphans, she said, echoing the old judgment like a dare.
Thorne reached out, handfinding hers. They’re fools. Then Clara didn’t reply.
She just held his hand and listened to the snowfall. But far across the ridge, beyond the
light, beyond the safety, a pair of eyes watched from the trees. Colt Crowley
wasn’t dead yet, and he wasn’t done. The fire burned steady through the
night, but Clara didn’t sleep. She sat in the corner of the chapel beside Thornne’s cot, her shawl wrapped tight
around her shoulders. Ruthie curled at her feet, me breathing slow and deep on the bench behind her. Jonah had refused
to sleep until his eyes shut against his will, arms still crossed over his chest like a sentry on duty. The storm outside
came and went in waves, soft now, quieter than before. But Clara knew it wasn’t the snow she needed to fear
anymore. It was the man behind it. Colt Crowley hadn’t died on that ridge. He’d
vanished. And men like that didn’t vanish for long. Thorn stirred before
dawn. He winced, hand drifting toward his thigh, where Bethy’s careful stitching held the torn flesh together.
His breath hitched, but he didn’t cry out. Clara was already by his side, a
cloth soaked in warm water pressed to his brow. You should still be resting,
she murmured. His eyes opened slowly. Did I die? Not yet. He managed a faint
smirk. Feels like I did. She didn’t smile. You lost a lot of blood. Another
inch. And another inch is just a story now. He cut her off, voice rough. What
matters is I made it. Clara nodded slowly, her fingers tightened slightly
over the cloth. You shouldn’t have come back. I told you I would. And I told you
not to do anything stupid. Thorne looked at her then long and quiet. Wasn’t
stupid. Wasn’t even a choice. She looked away, unable to meet the weight of that
gaze. By the time the sun rose, the little chapel came to life. Bethany
returned with a pale of hot water, her face lined with the kind of worry only women like her knew how to carry. Quiet,
enduring, useful. She checked Thorn’s stitches, handed Clara a pot of porridge, and said only, “He’ll mend,
but it’ll take time.” Outside the storm had lifted entirely.
Clear Valley’s namesake stretched far and bright beneath a thin layer of white. Smoke rose from every chimney.
The river ran clean. Chickens clucked in the frost. Life, simple and honest, was
moving again. But the danger hadn’t passed. Not yet. Jonah was the first to say it.
He came to Clara as she cleaned Ruthiey’s face with a damp cloth near the stove. I think we should leave.
Clara blinked. What? Clear Valley won’t be safe long. The boy said firmly. Not
if Colt’s still out there. She paused, taking him in. The way his chin had
hardened since the ridge, the way his shoulders stood a little straighter than a boy his age should know how to stand.
He was trying not to be a child anymore, trying to carry the weight so she wouldn’t have to. We don’t even know
where he went, she said gently. That’s worse, isn’t it? She didn’t answer. She
didn’t have to. Thorne agreed later that evening. He sat up, groaning through the
pain, and gestured toward the map Clara had taken from his saddle bag. “There’s
a trail west,” he said. “Off through the canyon bend. Fewer towns, more space. It
had buy us time.” Clara frowned. “You’re in no shape to travel.” He looked her
dead in the eye. “Then you leave me.” She snapped sharper than she meant to.
“Don’t you dare say that.” Thorne didn’t flinch. I’m not the one cold s after.
He’s after all of us now. Mi stood in the doorway then, arms wrapped around
herself, hair tangled from sleep. Her voice came quiet. Can we just stay here
forever? Clara knelt pulled her close. I wish we could. But they both knew
better. The next day, Clara and Bethany packed provisions. Clear Valley didn’t
have much to spare, but they gave what they could. wool blankets, cured meat,
dry oats, a new pair of boots for Jonah stitched tight with wax thread. Bethany
pulled Clara aside near the gate as the sun reached its peak. You know he won’t
stop, she said. Clara nodded. I know. You know there’s more like him. Clara’s
voice didn’t waver. Let them come. Bethany placed a hand on her arm. If you
make it to the flat lands, head south. There’s a river crossing near Stags Hollow. People there might help, but if
you go east, they won’t care who you are, just what you cost. Clara
understood. She hugged the woman tight briefly, firmly, then stepped back. The
children were ready. Ruthie strapped to her back, me and Jonah, each carrying a small pack. Thorne limped forward on his
own now, though every step looked like fire beneath his skin. The last thing
Bethany said before they crossed the tree line was this. You carry more than children, Clara. You carry proof that
the world ain’t gone all dark yet. Don’t forget that. They traveled for 3 days.
No signs of cold, no riders, no shadows, just wind and frost and the crunch of
old snow beneath their boots. They camped in abandoned cabins, built fires beneath thick pine boughs, drank melted
snow, and moved west with every sunrise. Clara watched Thorne closely. He moved
slower each day, the wound a constant fight, but he never complained. Never once said they should stop. When he
couldn’t walk, he leaned on a branch or rode the cart they’d fashioned out of old planks and rope. Mi pulled it when
she could. Jonah did the rest. On the fourth night, they camped near a frozen
stream. Thorne sat apart, whiddling. Clara approached quiet. “What are you
making?” she asked. He turned the figure in his hand. “A bird, rough, not
finished. It’s for Ruthie.” Clara watched him. “She’ll like it.” He
nodded. “Why do you keep doing that?” she asked softly. “Doing what?” giving
when you’ve got nothing left. Thorne looked up. I’ve got more now than I ever
did alone. She sat beside him, the fire crackling between them. You really think
we’ll be safe out there? He shrugged. No, but safe’s not the goal then. What
is together? He said she didn’t speak after that, just leaned her head on his
shoulder. And for the first time in a long, long while, the silence didn’t hurt. But safety was never more than a
breath away from danger. The next morning, Ruthie screamed. Clara sat up
fast, rifle in hand before she was even fully awake. She saw the child pointing
at the trees, at the ridge. A rider, alone,
then another, then four more. They weren’t wearing town coats. They weren’t from Clear
Valley. And they weren’t strangers. The mark on their saddle bags was clear as
day. Crowley’s brand. Clara’s blood ran ice. Jonah was already throwing out the
fire. Mi was packing. Thorne was trying to stand, grimacing hard as he grabbed
the rifle. Clara didn’t hesitate. We run. They didn’t argue. Backpacks on.
Ruthie bundled tight. Jonah at the front. Thorn in the middle. Clara behind.
They moved through the trees fast. Dodging branches slipping over roots. The sound of hooves crashing behind
them. The forest was loud with movement now. Birds scattering. Snow falling from
limbs. The cry of riders calling to each other through the gorge. Thorne pointed
ahead. There’s a drawbridge ahead, old lumber road if we can cross. They broke
through the last line of trees and there it was. The bridge long, narrow, weathered. Jonah ran across first, then
me. Clara reached the center with Ruthie just as the first rider burst from the
trees behind her. Thorne turned and fired. The man dropped, horse screaming
as it reared. Then another came and another. Thorne fired again twice. Then
his rifle clicked dry. Clara turned, saw him stagger back from the recoil.
Go! He shouted. Clara crossed the last few planks, turned and grabbed Thorne’s
arm as another shot rang out. The bridge beneath them groaned. “Too many feet,
too much weight.” They didn’t wait. They ran. A mile down the ridge, they
stopped. Thorne dropped to one knee. Clara tore at his coat. Blood again, but
not as deep. She pressed cloth against it. You’re not allowed to die, she
whispered. He chuckled weakly, not planning to. Jonah stood above them,
fists shaking. They’re still coming. Clara looked at Thorne. He nodded. We
finish this. They didn’t stop to bind the wound properly. There was no time.
Clara tied the cloth tight against Thorne’s shoulder with one hand while Ruthie whimpered on her back and with
the other she gripped the pistol like it was part of her. Jonah had taken up the rifle. Only two rounds left, and Mi held
Ruthie’s old blanket, dragging it behind her like she’d forgotten it wasn’t armor. The forest ahead was thinning.
The trees no longer stood close like protectors. They opened to long glades and brittle underbrush. The land
flattening, wind moving stronger across their backs as if to urge them forward.
But Clara didn’t trust open space. Open meant visible. Visible meant vulnerable.
And with Colt’s men behind them, gaining ground with every breath, they had nothing left to gamble but grit. We go
down through the ravine. Thorne rasped, voice weak, but sharp enough to cut through fear. There’s an old hunter’s
camp. Cabin might still stand. It’ll give us cover at least.
How far? Clara asked, her eyes darting through the brakes in the trees. Less
than a mile. Jonah didn’t wait for a signal. He was already moving. The rifle
slung over his back, his small hand cutting brush aside for his sisters. Clara adjusted. Ruthie kissed the girl’s
forehead and followed. Thorne limped beside her every few steps, threatening to pull him down. She didn’t say
anything, just caught him when he stumbled, moved forward when he steadied. They had passed the point of
asking if they could do this. Now it was only they would. The air changed near
the ravine. It smelled like ash. Thorne was the first to notice it. He sniffed,
head tilting. Smoke, he muttered. Clara’s heart dropped. You said there
was a cabin. There was. They broke the last line of trees and saw it. Or what
was left of it? Blackened timbers. A chimney still standing cracked at the
base. The door frame collapsed in on itself and in the middle a burned circle
where the fire must have caught fast and hard. Me gasped. Jonah froze. Clara
whispered a single word. No. Thorn Suede caught himself on a rock. They found it
before us. Then they’re close, Jonah said, already scanning the treeine
behind them. Ruthie began to cry. Claraara dropped to one knee. Shh, baby.
Shh. That’s when the first bullet snapped past her ear. They all ducked
instinctively, hitting the dirt hard. Clara rolled behind the fallen chimney,
dragging Ruthie with her. Jonah scrambled behind the twisted beam of what used to be the front wall. Thorn
stayed low, crawling for cover with gritted teeth. Blood trailing behind him
like a breadcrumb path. A voice rang out across the clearing. Didn’t think you
dun this far, Miss Morgan. Cold. His voice was calm. Too calm. We
gave you a chance back at the cabin, he continued, stepping out from the trees. His coat was clean. His boots polished.
He didn’t look like a man who’d spent days tracking prey through snow and brush. He looked like a man born to step
on people and never looked down. You made it personal. Clara didn’t answer. Thought maybe you
were just desperate, he went on, dragging three orphans into the woods, begging for handouts. But then I saw
him. Thorne. Colt’s eyes locked on the man crouched behind a half burned beam.
Thorne Harlon, the ghost of the bitter ridge. Thought you’d vanished with the rest of the cowards.
Thorne raised the pistol Clara had handed him slowly with purpose. Should have stayed gone. Cold. Colt smiled. He
raised his hand. And five men emerged behind him. Five, all armed, all spread
wide, trapping them. Clara’s heart pounded like a war drum. She couldn’t
outgun them. Couldn’t outrun them either. Not with Ruthie strapped to her and thorn bleeding. She looked at Jonah.
He met her eyes, nodded once. He understood. It had to end here. Clara stood. Let the
children go, she called out, her voice breaking like glass. They’re not yours to take. Colt tilted his head. Neither
were they yours. You said it yourself. You’re not their mother. So why are you still pretending?
Clara stepped forward. Because someone had to stop pretending and start protecting them. Colt barked a short,
humorless laugh. And you think that’s you? She didn’t blink. It already is.
Behind her, Jonah had crawled low to the chimney and positioned the rifle. He waited, patient as the mountain itself.
One of Colt’s men shifted, and that’s when Thorne made his move. He stood
barely firing the pistol toward the right flank. The shot hit a man square in the shoulder, sending him spinning to
the ground. Jonah fired a second later, striking the leg of another. Screams
broke the air. Colt ducked, cursing now, and his men returned fire. Bullets
ripped through the clearing. Clara threw herself over Ruthie, shielding the girl’s small body as splinters and ash
flew. Mi was crying. Jonah yelled for her to stay down. Thorne fell to one
knee again, firing the last bullet before his weapon clicked dry. And then,
for one terrifying moment, everything went still. Smoke drifted between them.
Four of Colt’s men were down. One had fled into the woods, shrieking with pain. Colt himself crouched behind a
log, his hand bloodied, but still clutching his revolver. “You’re outgunned,” he called out. Clara stood
slowly. “She wasn’t holding a weapon.” “Just Ruthie.” “She’s five,” Clara said,
her voice loud and sure. “She was left behind once already. So was me.” And
Jonah watched both parents die in front of him. Colt didn’t respond.
I won’t let it happen again. Still nothing. They’re not orphans anymore,
Clara said. Then soft and firm, they’re mine. A click behind Colt. Bethany
Hobbs. She stood 10 ft away, rifle raised, eyes locked on Colt’s spine. I’d
drop that if I were you, she said. Colt turned slowly, saw her, and smiled. “You
followed me?” “No,” she said. “I watched you. I watched you follow them like a
dog with a broken tooth.” She stepped forward. “You think you’re power, Colt.
You’re just the echo of fear from better men, and you’re standing on sacred ground now.” Colt slip curled, but he
dropped the gun. Bethany kicked it aside and gestured toward the tree line.
You’ve got 5 seconds to vanish before I put a bullet between your teeth. Colt
hesitated, then ran. Bethany didn’t shoot him, but
she watched him go. Only when the forest was still again did she lower the rifle
and turned to Clara. You all right? Clara nodded, shaking. I
think so. You’re bleeding. It’s not mine. They gathered the
children, tended to the wounded. Thorne could barely sit upright. Jonah clutched
his ribs. Mi wouldn’t speak for an hour. Ruthie refused to let go of Clara’s
neck. But they were alive. And for now, that was everything.
Bethany helped them back down the ridge to a second camp, one hidden in a hollow that couldn’t be seen from any trail.
She said nothing for a long time, just worked. Cleaning wounds, fixing food,
binding silence into something useful. Later that night, Clara sat beside
Thorne again. She took his hand. You could have died. So could you, but I
didn’t. He smiled faintly. Neither did I. Jonah sat nearby, sharpening a stick.
Me rocked Ruthie slowly to sleep. Do you think he’ll come back? Clara asked. Thorne didn’t answer right away.
Then no. Why? Because this time he saw what he couldn’t beat. Clara looked at
him. What’s that? You? The fire crackled, and outside the cabin, snow
fell again, but this time gently, like a blessing. The next morning rose clear,
quiet. No snow, no wind, no distant thunder of hooves on frozen ground. Only
the hush of a world beginning to heal. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Clara woke without fear, scratching at
her throat. She opened her eyes to see Ruthie sleeping soundly across her chest, me curled against the wall and
Jonah perched near the doorway, chin tucked into his arms, breathing slow.
She sat up carefully, lifting Ruthie and setting her gently beside me. The girl
stirred but didn’t wake. Outside the cabin, the light came pale and soft through a break in the pine. There were
no shadows waiting in the trees. Clara stepped outside. Bethany stood not far
off near the fire pit. She was boiling water, her sleeves rolled, her hair
twisted back in a thick gray braid that made her look half battle hardened, half saint. She didn’t look up when Clara
approached. Coffee is not good, she said, but it’s hot. Clara took the tin
cup with a quiet thank you and sipped. Bitter, burnt, but welcome.
You could stay here, Bethany said after a minute. No one would blame you. Clara
shook her head slowly. We’d bring trouble. “You already did,” Bethany said, not unkindly. “We handled it.”
Clara was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What happens when he sends more?
Bethany finally looked at her. Then we handle more. Clara turned the cup in her
hands. That’s the problem. I’m tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of
looking over my shoulder and wondering what I’ll have to sacrifice next just to survive another day. Bethany didn’t
respond. I thought once we got away, once we reached here, it’ be enough.
Clara went on, voice lower now. But there’s always more waiting, more men, more guns, more danger.
Bethany nodded slowly. That’s the truth of it. Then how do you live like this?
Bethany stepped forward, took Clara’s hand, and placed something in it. It was
a ring, simple iron handmade. I don’t run, she said. Not anymore, and
neither do you. Clara stared at the ring. Then looked up. What is this? A
promise? Bethany said that whatever comes next, you don’t face it alone.
Behind them, the door creaked. Jonah stood there, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Thorne’s voice came from inside,
rough but stronger than it had been in days. Clara. She turned quickly, coffee forgotten. He
sat propped up on the cot, blanket over his lap, shirt open at the shoulder where the bandages wrapped tight. His
face was pale, but his eyes were clear. He looked tired, but not broken. She
crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside him. You should be lying down. I’ve been lying down too long. You
almost died. I’ve done that before. Wasn’t much fun. She gave him a look,
then softened. You look better. I feel like something the wolves dragged home.
You still have both arms and one good leg. She smiled. He reached for her
hand. You’re taking them south, aren’t you? Clara nodded. If we stay here, we
endanger everyone. I should come. You’re not ready. I’ll be
ready. She hesitated. Then said, you’re still bleeding. I bled
before I met you. Still walked. Jonah spoke up from the doorway. He’s too
stubborn to stop now, Ma. Thorne grinned weakly. Smart boy. Clara sighed. We
leave tomorrow at first light. Where, too? There’s a river crossing. Bethany
said there’s land beyond it. Maybe a place we can build something. Start fresh. Thorne nodded slowly. We’ll make
it. Clara glanced at the children. They need a place they can stay forever.
Thorne’s eyes followed hers. Then that’s what we’ll find. They left Clear Valley
with no goodbyes. Bethany understood. The less people knew, the safer it would be. She handed
them a satchel of dried meat, a worn compass, and one final blessing. “Make
roots,” she said, then turned back to her chapel without another word. The
trail south was longer. The weather warmed and the snow became mud than grass. Streams ran faster. The sky
turned a little bluer each day. It felt like a world waking up. Thorne walked
more each day, the limp still there, but improving. Ruthie laughed again, real laughter, when he carried her on his
shoulders for half a mile through a valley of yellow flowers. Mi found an old book in the bottom of Thorne’s bag
and began reading aloud at night. Jonah started carving wood just like Thorne had done back in the cabin. He didn’t
say much about it, but Clara noticed that he was making people now, not birds, not animals, people. One of them
looked like her. They reached the river on the eighth day. It was wide, not
dangerous, but fast. They stood at the bank for a long time. “I’ll go first,”
Thorne said, stepping forward. Clara caught his arm. No, I will. She looked
back at the children. If the current takes me, she said, “You wait. You wait
until you’re sure.” Jonah stepped forward. “We’ll make it.” Me took
Ruthie’s hand. And together, they waited in. The water was shockingly cold, even
under the sun. It pulled at their legs, tried to steal their feet, but Clara
pushed forward, jaw clenched, arms around Ruthie, eyes locked on the far shore. And when she stepped out on the
other side, dripping and shaking, she smiled because for the first time, she
believed it. This was a new start. They crossed one by one. Mi slipped once, but
Jonah caught her. Thorne brought up the rear, hobbling, nearly losing his grip on a rock. But Clara reached out and
steadied him, her fingers firm on his wrist. On the other side, they collapsed
onto the grass, laughing. They made camp that night under a sky full of stars. No
cabins, no walls, just open land in the smell of earth. Clara sat beside Thor
near the fire, the children asleep beneath the stars, curled in blankets like caterpillars in cocoons.
“What now?” Oh, she asked. Thorne poked the fire with a stick. Now we build. We
have nothing. He glanced at her. That’s not true. She looked down at her hands.
We’re still carrying everything we lost. Maybe, he said, but we’re also carrying
what we found. She met his eyes. And for a long time, they said nothing because
they didn’t have to. But somewhere deep in the valley, far behind them, in the
ashes of Clear Valley and the old road south, a letter changed hands. Colt
Crowley was gone, but his name lived on. And the man who took his place didn’t smile. He didn’t talk sweet. He didn’t
threaten. He just took what he wanted. And he just been told where to look. The
wind came warm that spring. For the first time in what felt like forever, Clara wasn’t walking to escape
something. She was walking to build. Her boots pressed into soft earth, not snow.
Her eyes scanned green hills, not storm slick cliffs. The children ran ahead, chasing each other around trees like
they’d never been hunted. Ruthie had a flower in her hair. Mi carried a notebook full of pressed leaves. Jonah,
taller now, moved with a quiet strength, ever watching, ever aware. His rifle
slung across his back, no longer looked out of place. Thorne limped behind them,
tools across one shoulder, a satchel of nails and wire slapping gently against
his hip. The wound in his leg still pulled when the air cooled, but he no longer let it slow him. Not when there
was ground to break, not when there were walls to raise. They’d found the land two weeks back, an
old flat tucked between a ridge and a winding stream, sheltered on three sides, overlooked by no one. The remains
of an abandoned fence still stood in patches, leaning and gray, but enough to build from. Clara had spotted it first,
pointed from the bluff above, her hand trembling not from fear, but from hope.
“This is it,” she’d whispered. And Thorne had simply nodded. Now each
day was filled with motion. They cleared brush, dug post holes, built a new fire
ring from river rock. The children gathered wood, and helped cut rope. Mi learned to sew canvas for the roof line.
Jonah constructed shelves from fallen pine. Ruthie turned a stump into her own
kingdom, drawing chalk lines with stones and declaring rules no one followed.
Each night they slept under stars. Each morning they woke with purpose, and yet
even in the piece, Claraara knew better than to forget. Some things didn’t stay
buried. It was Thorne who sensed it first. They were building the frame for
the main wall when he paused, hammer held high. He turned slowly toward the ridge. Clara followed his gaze.
Nothing. But nothing was often the beginning of something. The next day,
Jonah found tracks. Two sets too deep to be local, too precise to be accidental.
Not hunters, not travelers, riders. They know, Jonah said, his voice low.
Clara knelt beside the prince. She pressed her fingers into one. It was fresh. How close? She asked. He pointed
two, three miles. They turned east again, but that was yesterday. Thorne joined them, leaning on his
shovel. If they were scouts, he said, “Moral, come.” Clara stood. Then we
decide now. Thorne looked her in the eye. Run. She shook her head. No, never
again. And so they prepared. The next three days were a blur. They pulled the
walls tight, reinforced the corners, cut slits into the timber for rifles,
thornrigged alarms with wire and tin pans strung from trees. Jonah practiced
loading and reloading until his fingers bled. Clara taught me how to strike kindling in the dark and showed Ruthie
how to hide beneath the floorboards without making a sound. Bethany sent word by letter. She’d heard rumblings,
new names rising from Colt’s ashes. One in particular, Barrett Cain. He wasn’t
like Colt. He didn’t smile. He didn’t threaten. He just moved in silence and
burned what didn’t bow. and he was headed south. It wasn’t fear that filled
Clara in those days. It was clarity, the kind that sharpened every movement,
every breath. By the end of the week, they were ready, or as ready as they
could be. The night before the storm, the air went still. Clara sat beside the
fire, watching Jonah oil the rifle again. Mi read aloud from her book,
stumbling on words, but refusing help. Ruthie had fallen asleep with her arms
around Thorne’s neck, her tiny breath warm against his beard. Clara reached
out, touched Thorne’s hand. “I don’t regret any of it,” she said softly. He
met her eyes, even the running. Especially the running, because it led
me here. He turned her hand over, pressed the iron ring Bethany had given
her into her palm again. “You still carry it,” she said. I never stopped, he
replied. They kissed quiet without rush, without fire. Just two people who had
nothing to prove. The sound came just before dawn
beats. Not many, but not few either.
Jonah was already at the window, rifle up. Clara moved to the front door, thorn
behind her. Me and Ruthie waited in the back room, the quilt pulled high.
Five riders emerged from the treeine. Dark coats, broad shoulders, faces
hidden beneath wide hats. The man in front dismounted first. Barrett Cain. He
didn’t speak, just stared. Thorne stepped onto the porch, leaning slightly, but holding his weight. Clara
followed. Cain took a slow step forward. “You Thorn Harlon?” he asked, voice like
gravel. I am this your land. Thorne’s
eyes flicked to Clara then back. It is now you harboring fugitives.
No. Cain’s eyes narrowed. The crowly debt still open. It died with him. Men
don’t get to decide that. Clara stepped forward. Then neither do you. Cain
looked at her. You must be the mother. I am. He studied her, then the cabin, then
thorne. “Let me make this simple,” Cain said. “We take what we want. You step
aside or we tear this place down.” Clara’s voice was calm. “You’ll try.”
Cain smirked. “You’re outgunned.” “Maybe.” Jonah’s rifle cracked. And when it was
over, they didn’t speak of it again because life had to move forward. They
rebuilt what was shattered, repaired what was broken, strengthened what had stood. The land accepted them. The
stream fed them. And each other they kept whole. Months passed. Then a year.
One morning, Clara stood at the edge of the field and watched Ruthie chase me through tall grass. Jonah was working
the fence with Thorne, both of them shirtless under the summer sun. the boy nearly as tall as the man now. Clara
breath deep and smiled. “No one wants a mother carrying three orphans,” she
whispered to herself, then louder toward the wind. “But they were wrong.” And in
that wind she swore she heard the land answer