“DON’T KILL ME, MOUNTAIN MAN… I’LL WARM YOUR BED!” The lost schoolteacher pleaded on her knees—but the hell beneath the snow was only just beginning.
Clara Whitmore’s first mistake was believing the storm would subside before nightfall. The second was thinking the Colorado mountains cared whether she lived or died.
When the sun hid behind the peaks and the snow devoured the world, Clara knew—with that icy certainty only those who feel death near possess—that she might not see another sunrise.
Her frozen boots barely made it across the snowdrifts, each step a stabbing pain of agony. Her dress, once neat for school, hung soaking wet, whipping against her legs like iron shackles.
She clutched her leather satchel to her chest: the only warmth she had left. Inside, the papers she carried were dynamite: proof that powerful men had lied, stolen land, and left innocent families dead. Three people had already been murdered because of this secret. She was fighting to avoid becoming the fourth.
The wind howled through the pines like a warning. Clara stopped, her breath catching in the icy air. She listened above the blizzard: hooves, men’s voices, the subtle click of a rifle. Nothing.
Only the roar of the storm and the pounding of her own heart. She had been on the run for two days. Ever since she saw Cain’s gang murder the mayor and his deputies through the cracks in the school floor, Josiah Cain’s voice haunted her dreams: “Where are the papers, old man?” The mayor hadn’t answered fast enough.
Clara bit her hand to keep from screaming as blood trickled inches from her face. She waited until they were gone and fled with the one thing the mayor had died protecting. Now, every time the wind moaned through the trees, her knees buckled, waiting for the shot in the back.
Clara’s fingers were numb, her lips chapped from the cold. She had no food, no horse, no plan. Only a stubborn spark of hope that refused to die. She stumbled against a pine tree, resting her forehead against the rough bark, trying to catch her breath.
Her vision blurred. The world tilted. Behind her, a branch cracked. She bolted to her feet, panic exploding in her limbs. “Please, not now,” she whispered. Her legs barely held her up. The slope dropped sharply into a valley. Before she could stop, she slipped.
Snow and rocks tore at her until she landed on her side. For a moment, she didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she could. She turned her head and saw the silvery thread of a frozen stream.
If she followed it west, maybe she would reach Cedar Falls. If she reached it, she would find a federal marshal. If she reached it, maybe she would survive to deliver the truth.
She struggled to her feet, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The cold robbed her fingers, her toes, her face of feeling. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes like tiny stars.
She forced herself to walk on the ice, hoping it would cover her footprints. Every movement hurt. Her feet burned and froze at the same time. Her dress was torn, her breath short and rapid, the storm tightening like a fist. “Keep going,” she told herself. “Just a little further.”
But her body no longer obeyed. She reached a clearing, looked up at the frenzied sky, and fell to her knees. Her purse slipped from her numb fingers and fell into the snow. She tried to reach for it.
Her hand wouldn’t move. Tears froze on her cheeks. “Not like this,” she whispered. “Not so close.” The cold enveloped her like a blanket. A dangerous warmth spread through her limbs, the kind that heralds the end.