December, 1878.
About forty miles east of Fort Stanton, the country held its secrets beneath rock, pine, and silence.
The wind bit at my face as I rode out, my horse’s hooves crunching over the frozen dirt trails.
I was hunting, or so I thought.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the hills, painting the world in gold and steel.
I had a half-frozen carcass of deer strapped to my saddle, thinking that would be the measure of my success.
Then I saw her.
Near a creek, facedown in the reeds, the water already beginning to ice over.
Her skin was pale under the snow, hands stiffened in the cold.
At first, I thought she was dead.
I slid from my horse, boots cracking through the thin freeze, and knelt beside her.
A sharp, icy gust carried the sound of the creek and the whisper of the pines.
Her chest did not rise with breath.
I rolled her gently onto her back, wincing as her body shifted with a soft crack, the cold stiffening her limbs.
Her dark hair was wet and frozen in tangles.
At first glance, she seemed lifeless.
I reached for her wrist, praying for some pulse, some sign.
And then, faint but there—weak, irregular—a flutter of life.
I exhaled, relief and fear clashing in my chest.
How had she survived this long in the bitter cold?
I lifted her carefully, wrapping her in my horse blanket, the coarse fabric rubbing against her frozen skin.
Her eyes opened just a sliver, silver-blue, reflecting the winter sky.
She shivered violently, and I realized that I had to move fast.
I spurred my horse, carrying her back toward the small fort at Fort Stanton.
The ride was slow, careful, balancing her fragile body on the saddle before me.
