A Blizzard Bride for the Bounty Hunter (Preview)

Chapter One

The wind was already shifting when Ashton Cullen tightened the cinch on his saddle. Low clouds loomed ahead, heavy and dark, sagging over the treetops with threatening oppression. The air carried the sharp bite of damp pine and cold earth, and the first hints of a winter storm stirred on the breeze.

He cast a glance at his second mount. Gordon Langley slumped in the saddle, hands bound at the wrists and tied to the pommel. A crust of dried blood ran down the side of his mouth from the wound Ashton had delivered two days ago. The outlaw hadn’t spoken in hours.

With a final tug on the cinch, Ashton swung into the saddle and adjusted the brim of his hat against the glare of the pale morning light. The forest track ahead was narrow and rutted, dusted in brittle ice and flanked by drifts of snow crusted hard from last week’s storm. The horses moved reluctantly, hooves crunching through frost-covered needles and patches of frozen slush.

As they wound between the trees, Ashton’s gaze kept drifting to the sky. The light was dimming too fast. The clouds overhead had started to churn, and the wind carried a sharp whine through the pines, a sound he didn’t like. A storm was brewing, which meant danger to two riders in the wilderness of Montana.

He tugged gently on the reins and brought the horses to a halt.

“You dead back there?” Ashton called.

Gord gave a groggy grunt. “Only wishin’.”

“That makes two of us,” Ashton muttered.

He dismounted and walked back between the horses, boots crunching over half-frozen mud. The pine needles were slick underfoot, and the wind pushed hard at his coat. Gord turned his head just enough to spit toward Ashton’s boots, missing by a few inches.

Ashton stopped beside him, unhooked his canteen, and held it out.

Gord squinted up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Now ain’t you sweet. Almost like you care.”

“Just trying to keep you alive long enough to get my bounty,” Ashton said.

“Tell me, bounty man,” Gord rasped. “You always play nursemaid to half-dead criminals, or am I just special?”

“Don’t make me regret this.” Ashton held the canteen steady. “Drink.”

Gord hesitated. Then, grumbling, he leaned in and took a few swallows before coughing hard and jerking away.

“Could’ve given me some whiskey to warm me up.”

“Could’ve not been a criminal.” Ashton smirked.

He recapped the canteen and stepped away, scanning the sky. The trees were trembling, swaying harder now. He could smell the coming storm in the air. It was the smell of memory. Of wood smoke and muddy boots by the fire.

A jagged sigh worked its way up Ashton’s throat. Memory snagged him of winter evenings when the farmyard lay glassy with ice and his mother insisted boots stay by the stove. He could still picture her soft scold: “Track in half the field and I’ll have you sweeping till spring, Ash.”

He’d complain about his mother’s nagging, of course, but the warmth that seeped through worn leather and damp socks had felt like pure salvation. His father would set the checkerboard on the table, steam rising from mugs of coffee, and the whole family would pass the dark hours guessing at the next day’s snowfall. Those nights weren’t grand, yet he missed them more the longer he stayed on the trail and the colder it got.

A gust cut through him, bringing him back to the present. Home was six winters gone, buried with two headstones on a hill nobody tended. Out here, warmth was something a man earned with his own blood and breath, and sometimes by keeping a devil like Gord alive long enough to hang.

The trail west had narrowed to little more than a wagon track, choked by brush and half-washed out in places. Hollow Creek was still half a day off, assuming they didn’t get bogged down, or swallowed whole, by the weather.

“You ever think about quitting?” Ashton asked suddenly, more to himself than Gord. “Just laying it all down. Let someone else deal with the world for a while.”

Gord lifted a brow. “You talkin’ to me, Cullen? Or just yourself?”

“Take your pick.”

The outlaw shifted, wincing. “I don’t suppose they let bounty hunters retire.”

Ashton grunted. “They don’t. Not really. You either get slow or get sloppy.”

“That happenin’ today?”

Ashton didn’t answer. He swung back into the saddle with a hiss through his teeth. His side still throbbed from their last scuffle—Gord had nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to escape outside of Livingston—and his back ached from riding through sleet the morning before. He was getting too old for this.

The horses picked their way forward over the uneven trail. The sounds of the forest, such as the birds, wind, and the groan of trees shifting under their own weight, rose and fell like a tide. Ashton fell into the rhythm. Hoofbeats, wind, breath. The same old march forward.

Six years ago, he’d had a plan. Inherit the ranch. Build a life. Maybe even settle down with the girl who used to leave warm bread on his porch and tuck notes in his saddlebags before he rode to town. But all of that had gone to dust the day his folks were gunned down during a botched bank robbery.

The ranch had felt empty after that, like a house stripped of its walls. And she hadn’t stayed long either. Not after he took to vanishing for weeks at a time, chasing men like Gord across state lines. Now she had a new life. And he had a trail of scars and a reputation for dragging murderers in by the hair.

Some days, it was enough.

Other days, like today, he missed the smell of wet hay, the quietness around the farm, and the sound of his sisters laughing in the kitchen.

He reached into his coat pocket and felt the envelope there. A letter from Clara. Or maybe Dorothy. He hadn’t opened it yet. He hadn’t written back in several months. He always told himself he was too busy.

He imagined Clara’s neat, looping hand:

“Dorothy’s little ones keep asking when Uncle Ash will visit again. The roof leaked over the pantry, but we patched it. I sold a mare to cover taxes.”

They never said it outright, but their ink bled worry.

“Are you eating? Sleeping? Will some vengeful fool put you in an unmarked grave before we can say good-bye?”

Ashton thumbed the sealed flap. He should write back. He should promise he’d quit once Gord was delivered. But promises were currency he’d spent too freely in the past. A man could drown in his own good intentions, and he’d rather his sisters remembered him as flesh-and-blood, not another ghost they had to make excuses for at church suppers.

“You got folks, Cullen?” Gord’s voice cut through the silence.

Ashton didn’t answer.

“I’ll bet you do,” Gord went on. “You got that look. Like someone raised you up right but you took a wrong turn anyhow.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Don’t have to. I got nothin’ but time and a sore ass.”

“You’ve got a short rope and a long drop waiting in Helena,” Ashton snapped.

They rode in silence for a long stretch after that, but Ashton could feel the words settling like grit in his mind.

The path curved sharply to the left. Trees closed in, heavy-limbed and hissing under the wind. The wind howled like it had teeth, tearing through the trees as the sky unleashed a sheet of sleet. Behind him, Gord let out a string of curses as his mount stumbled in the mud.

“Get it together,” Ashton barked.

“I could if I weren’t tied up like a sack of potatoes!”

Ashton didn’t reply. His jaw clenched. He kept his eyes on the trail ahead, though his shoulders tightened.

The outlaw snorted. “What happened, bounty man? Wife leave you? Brother fall in with the wrong crowd? Or did your conscience grow teeth?”

“If I wanted a sermon, I’d’ve gone to church.”

“And yet here we are.”

Gord’s words needled deep. Not because they were clever, but because they weren’t far off the mark.

He didn’t talk about his sisters much. Didn’t see them near as often as he should. Dorothy, with her endless list-making and fussing over supper; Clara, sharp-tongued and sure-footed, always the one to patch him up when he came home bloodied. He remembered a summer when the creek flooded and the three of them spent a whole day trying to save the chickens, slipping around in the muck and laughing so hard it hurt.

That kind of laughter felt like another lifetime.

He’d give just about anything to be sitting in Clara’s kitchen again, boots drying by the fire, the smell of her coffee thick in the air. No wanted posters. No tied-up outlaws. Just warmth and quiet.

The wind shifted again. It smelled of wet pine and old snow now, and the rain that had been teasing the edge of the sky began to fall in earnest.

The storm thickened fast. It soaked through Ashton’s coat, turning his hat into a dripping weight. Wind whipped above them, close enough that the horses twitched and danced in place. Ashton steadied them with murmured reassurances, though his own nerves were fraying with every heartbeat.

The trail became a soup of mud and broken branches. Every few paces, one of the horses would stumble and snort, flanks shivering from cold and nerves. Gord swore under his breath, more colorful with each passing mile.

Ashton pushed forward, but the stillness in the forest was wrong. It wasn’t just the hush before a storm. It was deeper. Too complete. Like something had driven the life out of the woods.

He scanned the trees. Too quiet. Too much shadow for this time of day.

“You feel that?” he asked without turning around.

Gord grunted. “Feel what? Besides the fact my toes’ve gone missin’?”

Ashton’s voice dropped low. “Eyes.”

“Now that’s unsettling.”

Another mile, maybe two, wound past. It was hard to keep track. Time bent in storms like this, and the trees swallowed landmarks. But Ashton had ridden this way enough times to know when something was off.

The hush grew eerie. Even Gord seemed to sense it, tilting his head as though trying to hear something, or someone, stalking them in the darkness. Ashton slowed the horses to a walk, gloved hand slipping to the revolver at his hip.

He scanned the timberline again. No birds, no squirrels, no racket of life at all. Just that gravid silence, heavy enough to crush a man’s ribs without firing a shot.

“You sure this road still leads to Hollow Creek?” Gord shifted in his saddle. “Feels more like the path to hell.”

“Road’s fine,” Ashton muttered, though his pulse hammered a different story. “It’s the company that’s questionable.”

The feeling tightened around his chest, the same way it had the day he saw smoke on the horizon and rode hard for home, only to find the barn gutted and his mother’s shawl caught on a fence post. That same edge of panic. That same fury in his bones.

He rounded the next bend just in time to see the flicker of movement, a shape, low and fast, cutting across the trail ahead. His breath caught. He reached for his weapon, eyes narrowing, but the moment passed. Nothing followed.

Another gust of wind blew branches across the path, and in the momentary burst of light, he saw them.

Riders.

Five, maybe six. Too many to be coincidence. Not travelers. Not in this weather.

Ashton’s mouth went dry. He wheeled his horse around, yanking the reins hard enough that his gelding reared. Gord stirred behind him, but Ashton barely heard it. He kicked his mount into a gallop, veering toward the thickets, trying to get enough ground to loop back. The forest offered some cover, and it was the only chance he had.

Behind him, Gord called out, “They yours or mine?”

Ashton didn’t answer.

A gunshot cracked through the storm. The report echoed like cannon fire. Then came a second, then a third, followed by a white-hot pain in his side. The second horse shrieked and bucked wildly, tossing Gord to the ground. Ashton’s own mount stumbled, hooves sliding in the mud.

One rider barreled into him, shoulder to shoulder, and Ashton went down hard. The frozen ground slammed into him like stone. His vision exploded in white. He hit the ground on his side, his head snapping back against the cold crust of snow and mud. His hat was gone. Snow and ice needled his eyes as he tried to draw breath.

Hooves thundered past. Muffled voices shouted. He reached for his gun, but fingers closed around his wrist and yanked it away. Someone cursed and planted a boot into his ribs.

“Find the key,” a voice barked above him.

Ashton blinked against the sleet. His vision was tunneling. Another boot landed, not a kick but a stomp. Stars burst behind his eyes and he tasted copper.

In the chaos, he saw someone cutting Gord’s binds before he straightened, then turned and met Ashton’s gaze. Gord smirked at him, then swung up onto the gelding with surprising energy and vigor.

“Appreciate the escort,” Gord said with a tip of his head.

A second later, they were gone.

The pounding of hooves faded into the distance, swallowed by wind and sleet. Ashton tried to push himself upright. His limbs refused. The world tilted.

As he lost consciousness, he heard only the storm, screaming through the trees like a warning.

Chapter Two

The wind howled against the walls of the inn, shaking the shutters and driving snow across the windows in thick, blinding sheets. Inside, the front parlor bustled with anxious energy as townspeople shed their wet coats and stomped the snow from their boots.

Floorboards creaked under their weight. Boots thudded against the hearth as children huddled beside the fire, shivering despite the blaze.

Kate Taylor moved quickly between rooms, checking latches and calling out instructions. Her dark skirt was damp from the hem up, and her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing red-chapped hands. She had to keep busy, keep her mind off the winds howling outside her door.

“Emma,” she called, her voice tight with worry, as she passed the open kitchen door. “We’ll need two more loaves at least. And triple the stew.”

The young cook, flour streaked across her apron, turned from the counter with a grimace.

“Already started the bread. The carrots are running low.”

“Use parsnips,” Kate replied without missing a step. “Whatever we have. People are cold, not picky.”

She ducked back into the hallway just as a blast of wind slammed against the building. The windows rattled in protest. Kate winced and turned toward the front of the inn, where a group of townsfolk had gathered to watch the storm.

An older man stood near the door with a pipe in one hand and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He gave Kate a slow nod.

“Never seen the sky roll in like that,” he said. “Nearest thing was way back in sixty-two, when the river froze solid overnight. Killed half the cattle west of Bridger. This is worse.”

Kate stepped closer to the window, but not too close, to see the snow blowing sideways. She shuddered.

“It’s only going to get worse,” she said. “Anyone with sense is already inside.”

Behind her, Margaret Taylor descended the stairs with a firm stride. Her hair was pinned back tight, though a few rebellious strands curled along her temples. She held a folded wool blanket under one arm.

“We’ve got seven more people on the second floor,” she said. “One of them’s got a baby with a cough. I moved the Lanes to the back room. That freed up the corner rooms. We haven’t had this many people in the inn all year, and now they’ve all come at once.”

“I’ve been warning some of the people coming in from town that we don’t have any more beds. Anyone wanting to stay overnight might need to find a place to sleep in the dining room or lobby,” Kate informed her aunt. “But we haven’t had anyone else come in for a while.”

“Make sure Alan checks the roofline before nightfall. If the weight of that snow gets too heavy, we’ll be using buckets in the middle of the night.”

“I already asked him,” Kate said. “He’s out back with the ladder now.”

Margaret gave a short nod and turned toward the kitchen. Kate caught a glimpse of Emma pulling a pan from the stove, steam rising as she dropped chopped parsnips into the boiling broth. The scent of bay leaves and onion floated into the hall, comforting even with the roar of wind outside.

Kate headed toward the stairs, only to stop short when the front door shook under the force of a heavy knock.

Every head in the room turned. The old man with the pipe shifted uncomfortably.

“Who the hell’s out in this?” he muttered.

A woman near the fire held her baby tighter.

“Leave it shut,” another said quickly. “We’ve got kids in here.”

Kate hesitated. The knock came again, louder this time. A second followed, three sharp raps that rattled the latch. The sound of the screaming wind held her rooted in her spot, more than the danger others perceived from the hour of the late arrival.

Margaret reappeared at the far end of the hallway, mouth pressed into a grim line. “Move aside,” she said.

“No,” the woman protested. “You don’t know who’s out there.”

“They knocked,” Margaret said firmly. “That’s more than wolves or outlaws would do. We don’t turn aside anyone in need of shelter in a storm.”

Kate stepped back as her aunt reached the door, unlatched it, and pulled it open with a hard tug. A wall of snow blew in, coating the floor in white dust and sending everyone a step back.

A crowd pushed through the opening, seven or eight in total, all soaked through, faces pale with windburn and cold. Two of them staggered beneath the weight of a limp body between them.

“Help,” one man panted. “Our carriage got stuck in the snow in the pass and we stumbled upon this man, lying in the snow.”

“Bring him in. Lay him down near the hearth,” Margaret said, waving the crowd in despite the shocked protests from the current guests.

Kate hurried to clear space, motioning for chairs to be pushed aside. A few of the townsfolk rose quickly, gathering their children and stepping back to make room.

The injured man was tall, even slumped between them. His coat was soaked through and plastered to his chest, and one side of his shirt was dark with blood. As they eased him to the floor, Kate caught sight of his face, scraped, bruised, and streaked with dirt, but unmistakably handsome even through the grime. His jaw was clenched, and a deep crease split the space between his brows.

“He was already on the road when we found him,” the other man said breathlessly. “Alone. Horse nearby. Looked like he’d been jumped. Bullet in the ribs.”

“Alan! Get in here!” Margaret called toward the back door. “Damn. We got no place to put him to tend to him.”

The big man came at once, sleeves still wet from hauling firewood. He took one look at the stranger and moved to lift him.

“My room,” Kate whispered, surprising herself with the offer.

Margaret looked at her, raising a brow but didn’t question.

“Upstairs,” Margaret told Alan. “Kate’s Room.”

Alan nodded, scooping the man up as if he weighed little more than a sack of flour.

“Is Dr. Shepherd still here?” Kate asked.

The pipe-smoking man raised his hand. “Upstairs reading. I’ll fetch him.”

Kate turned to follow Alan and the stranger up the steps. The man’s arms hung limp at his sides, but a line of tension remained in his neck and jaw. His boots left a trail of slush on the stairwell. She or Emma would have to mop that up later. For now, she just watched him breathe.

“I will go too,” Margaret said. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Kate climbed the stairs quickly, her heart beating faster than it should. Something about the man unsettled her. Not the injuries. Not the blood. She had tended to worse over the years. But there was something about the set of his face, the way he looked even now like he was fighting off a dream he refused to surrender to.

She reached her room just ahead of Alan and swung the door open. The fire was already lit. Alan carried the man to the bed and laid him down gently. Kate moved forward without thinking, clearing the quilt and pulling a chair closer.

She wouldn’t admit it aloud, not with her aunt standing nearby, but she hadn’t seen a man like him before. No man had ever caught her attention by looks alone, and yet this man had, even half dead. Her heart ached for him, and she wanted desperately to tend to him, to bring him back to life.

The moment Alan stepped back from the bed, Kate reached for the edge of the stranger’s coat and began working it off his shoulders. The fabric was stiff with dried blood and nearly frozen in places. Her fingers moved quickly, tugging it down over his arms and letting it fall to the floor.

Beneath the coat, his shirt was soaked through, the left side torn open from shoulder to waist. A crude bandage had been tied around his ribs.

“Whoever patched him up did it fast,” she murmured.

Margaret stepped through the door, frowning at the dark stain that had soaked through the dressing.

“I’ve seen worse,” she said, though her tone made clear she hadn’t seen many.

Kate dipped a cloth into the washbasin and began cleaning around the bandage. Beneath the grime, his skin was flushed with fever.

“He likely dressed the wound himself,” she said.

Margaret crossed to the fireplace and stirred the coals with the iron poker. As sparks rose into the chimney, Kate reached to touch the scarred ridges on her cheek without thinking. The wind howled against the shutters, and the glass panes trembled, breaking her trance.

The door creaked behind them as Dr. Shepherd entered, wiping his spectacles on a handkerchief.

“Well,” he said as he looked down at the bed, “that’s not the sort of patient I expected tonight.”

“He was found by the overturned coach,” Kate said. “Alone on horseback.”

The doctor hummed as he set down his bag and knelt beside the bed. He peeled back the bandage, frowning as he inspected the wound.

“Grazed the rib. Deep enough to hurt, not deep enough to kill. But there’s bruising here, perhaps some broken ribs. And fever.”

He touched the man’s forehead, then turned his head to inspect other lumps and bumps.

“I’ll give him something to bring the fever down. Change that bandage, and he should sleep for now. He’s got some nasty head wounds there.”

Margaret stepped in behind him, arms folded. “We thought you might have gone home with the Schuylers.”

“I nearly did,” Dr. Shepherd replied, adjusting his spectacles as he knelt. “Then the snow came. Figured I’d spare Alan the chore of digging me out of a ditch.”

“Kind of you to think of Alan,” Margaret said dryly.

“Always,” he said with a short grin. “Besides, I knew someone would need me. You keep a warm hearth and a cursed magnet for the half-dead.”

“It’s the tea and your charm that draw them in, no doubt.”

He chuckled under his breath, then turned serious as he peeled back the bandage. “Wound like this, he’s lucky he made it this far.”

“We all are,” Margaret said, but her tone softened as she stepped beside him. “We can manage him, but I won’t have him waking wild and frightening the guests.”

“Understood,” Shepherd said. He turned to Margaret. “Any laudanum left?”

“In the cabinet. I’ll fetch it.”

Margaret stepped out of the room. Dr. Shepherd glanced at Kate.

“You’ve always had a steady hand. Would you change the dressing for me while I prepare the medicine?”

“Of course,” Kate said quietly.

The doctor stepped away, and she turned her attention back to the man in the bed. His face was slack with exhaustion, but his brow still creased faintly, as though his dreams refused to leave him be. She dipped the cloth again, warmed it with water from the kettle, and carefully cleaned the wound. The smell of old blood rose into the air.

The stranger winced under her touch.

“You’re all right,” she whispered. “You made it.”

His hand twitched. His mouth moved, though no sound came. She paused, waiting to see if he would wake, but his breath only came deeper, heavier. Whatever fight had carried him through the snowstorm was waning now.

Kate dressed the wound with fresh linen and folded the quilt over his chest. Her fingers lingered just a moment at the edge of the blanket, resting above the sharp rise of his ribs.

The room had grown warmer with the stoked fire, but the sound of the storm outside made it feel as if they were wrapped in the eye of something massive and untouchable. Snow drove against the glass. The eaves creaked overhead.

Margaret returned with a small bottle and handed it to the doctor.

“Two spoonfuls should suffice,” he said, pouring the dose.

Kate helped lift the stranger’s head, steadying his jaw as the doctor spooned in the laudanum. The stubble on his chin scraped against her palms as she held him. The man coughed and swallowed, then slumped again with a low groan.

“Let him rest,” Dr. Shepherd said. “We’ll know more by morning.”

Margaret gave a short nod. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see to it you have a place to sleep.”

The doctor gathered his things and left. Margaret lingered at the foot of the bed, studying the man’s face.

“He’ll be trouble,” she said finally.

“Because he’s wounded?” Kate looked up with surprise.

Margaret crossed her arms. “Men like him carry storms of their own.”

“He nearly froze to death,” Kate said. “That doesn’t make him dangerous.”

“Perhaps not. But you haven’t seen what I have. Strangers never arrive clean.”

Kate raised her chin. “You think I’m naïve.”

“I think you have a good heart,” Margaret replied, then slyly added, “And anyone with eyes could recognize him as dashing, good-looking man, even injured. Perhaps you more than others, with your penchant for caring for people.”

Kate raised her chin defiantly. “You should know better than anyone that I have no interest in falling for another man.”

“Let him rest. Watch, but don’t linger too long.” Margaret sighed and rubbed Kate’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Then we will deal with the trouble when it comes.” Kate stood and smoothed her hands over her skirt.

Margaret gave a small hum of acknowledgment, giving Kate a warning look, then turned to go.

Once the door closed, Kate moved to the window and pushed back the curtain. Snow piled thick against the glass, muting the glow of lanterns below. The town had disappeared under white. All that remained was the inn, a handful of lights, and the howling of wind through the dark.

Her thoughts drifted as the storm pressed on, the muffled sound of conversation seeping up through the floorboards, punctuated by the sound of the man’s heavy breathing.

She remembered the blizzard that had taken her father. The silence that followed when the world turned white and still. The sound of a knock on the door just after sunrise, and the neighbor standing there, frost-bitten and grief-struck, with no words to offer.

She had been sixteen. Margaret had been there then, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and sat beside her for hours, saying nothing.

Kate turned back to the man to watch him for another minute. She reached again for the cloth and wiped a bit of soot from the stranger’s temple. His skin felt cooler now. His brow was smooth.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

No answer came. Just the crackle of fire and the heartbeat of the wind outside. She leaned back in the chair beside the bed, listening to the storm.

So many people needed her now. To cook. To manage. To reassure. She hadn’t had time to just sit in a long while. There was something mesmerizing about watching this man sleep, something that felt intimate and unsettling, and she found it hard to look away.

Kate brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. She had no use for fanciful thoughts. The town needed her to be strong and steady. But still, she wondered what kind of man wandered into a storm like this? And why did her chest twist, just slightly, every time he stirred?

Chapter Three

Snow draped the woods in silence, but Ashton didn’t feel cold. He was running barefoot through tall grass, sun spilling golden across his shoulders. Laughter echoed somewhere ahead, the bright sound of his sisters weaving through the trees. He chased after them, heart light, boots forgotten somewhere back by the creek.

They raced past the fence line and into the woods beyond, limbs brushing his arms as he ducked beneath branches. There was the whistle of birds overhead, the snap of twigs underfoot, the rush of breath in his lungs. The kind of day that only lived in memory.

Then came the sound of water and his father’s voice calling from down by the river.

“Ashton, time to reel it in!”

He skidded to a stop at the top of the slope and grinned. Below him, his father stood beside the fishing pole they’d set earlier, waving him over. His mother was there too, kneeling beside a blanket spread with cornbread, jam, and the last jar of summer peaches.

“Come sit, Ashton,” she called.

Her voice wrapped around him like the warmth of a summer’s day. He could almost taste the sugar on her fingers. She looked younger than he remembered, her dark hair shining, skirts spread neatly as she waited for him. She opened her arms and he ran toward her, feet flying.

But just before he reached the blanket, pain exploded at his side.

The wind rattled the windows again, and Ashton’s eyes flew open. His hand twitched toward his side, but his holster was gone. No sound but the stove crackling. Still, it took another breath—two—before his shoulders eased back against the mattress.

Not the war. Not the prison camp. Not the burned-out farm where they’d left bodies in the frost.

The pain in his ribs roared back, pulling him from the dream with a cruel twist. He tried to sit up and failed. His body wouldn’t obey. Heat radiated through his chest, pulsing behind his eyes. Everything felt too sharp. Too loud.

He blinked.

Someone leaned over him. A woman. He could barely see her face through the haze, but she was close, her hands cool against his forehead. The scent of lavender and something faintly sweet drifted over him.

He tried to speak.

“Shh,” she said gently. “You’re safe.”

Her voice was soft but steady. She brushed his hair back from his brow. The gesture made his throat tighten.

“You have a fever,” she continued. “And are seriously wounded. Try not to move.”

He closed his eyes again. She felt real. Her fingers worked carefully, dabbing a cool cloth across his face. The pain flared again, his side burning like fire. He clenched his jaw.

“You’re alright,” she said.

He turned his head slightly, breath ragged. “Am I dead?”

She let out a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes again. The light behind her was dim and golden, maybe candlelight. Shadows fell across her face, settling in lines on her cheeks, yet he could have sworn she was young. Maybe not, but regardless, her hair glinted like polished bronze. Her eyes were kind, her mouth soft. He wanted to ask her name, but his tongue wouldn’t move.

He tried again. “Angel?”

She blinked, surprised. Then she smiled, just barely. “No. I’m not.”

Someone else moved in the room. A man’s voice spoke in low tones, but Ashton couldn’t catch the words. The pain in his chest flared again. His fingers twitched against the blanket.

“Hold still,” the woman said. “Dr. Shepherd’s going to give you something for the pain.”

“I don’t—” he began, but the stab of pain silenced him. A hand gripped gently to his arm. Another voice murmured something calm and firm.

Then something bitter was pressed to his lips.

“Swallow,” the woman said.

He obeyed. The taste was sharp, earthy, but the relief was swift. Warmth crept through his limbs. The fire in his side dulled to a deep throb.

“I’ll be right here,” she said. “You’re not alone.”

The words echoed long after the darkness pulled him back under.

The snow was steadily falling against the window when Ashton opened his eyes again. Not the howl of wind or the hiss of sleet, but a slow, persistent tapping, as though nature had softened overnight and settled into something more mournful than violent.

He blinked, then blinked again, trying to orient himself. The world no longer swam quite so fiercely. The fire still burned low in the grate, casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards and the plain, sturdy furniture of the room. His ribs ached with a dull heat, no longer a blazing fire but a warning coal that flared whenever he shifted.

The sheets tucked around him were soft. Someone had stitched them with tiny stars near the edges. Not the kind of detail he would have noticed before. But this morning, the quiet care in it held him still for a moment.

A creak came from beside him.

There, curled in a chair not two feet from the bed, sat the woman. The one from before. She had fallen asleep with her chin resting on her chest, arms crossed over her middle.

She looked young, no more than five-and-twenty, with dark hair pulled neatly back and features that struck him as neither delicate nor plain but composed. The lines on her face—which, in his feverish dream, he had thought were wrinkles—were deep scars smattered across one side of her cheek.

Ashton tried to sit up. His throat felt like sandpaper. Pain sliced through his side and he gritted his teeth, biting back a groan. The movement was enough to wake her.

“Miss.”

The word rasped from him, hoarse and uneven.

She stirred, then blinked herself awake and sat upright in a fluid motion. Her eyes, dark and clear, met his. She blinked once, then rose from her chair.

“You’re awake.”

Ashton nodded weakly, though the motion pulled at something sharp in his side. “Where?” he asked, his voice catching.

“You’re at the Hollow Creek Inn,” she said, her tone formal, though kind. “You were found outside town, injured. A passing coach brought you here.”

He tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his ribs, and he fell back with a muffled groan.

“I wouldn’t advise moving,” she added, stepping forward. “You have cracked ribs and a bullet wound. You’ve been sleeping feverishly for nearly two days.”

He closed his eyes briefly, willing his breath to even out.

“May I ask your name, sir?”

He opened them again, watching her with faint suspicion. Her manner was calm, practiced.

“Ashton Cullen,” he said slowly.

She gave a small nod. “I’m Kate Taylor. I assist my aunt here at the inn. We were… reluctant to take in strangers during such weather, but you appeared in poor condition.”

“I am obliged to you, Miss Taylor,” he murmured, forcing civility past the fog in his mind. “And to your aunt.”

“She’ll be pleased to hear it. Though I can’t say she was thrilled to find herself hosting another wounded man on the night of a snowstorm.”

“How bad was it?” he asked.

Her brow arched slightly. “I imagine you remember the cold. You were found without your coat fastened and scarcely able to speak. The doctor feared infection.”

“I recall… snow. Then riders.” He coughed lightly, wincing. “I wasn’t far from town, was I?”

“Less than a mile,” she said. “Close enough for rescue. Far enough that no one saw what happened.”

He shifted against the pillows. “There was a man. Gordon Langley. I was transporting him to Helena.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re a lawman?”

“Not precisely.” Ashton paused. “A bounty hunter.”

Kate’s expression didn’t shift, but Ashton caught the faint pause in her breath.

He knew that pause. The moment a person weighed what sort of man sat in front of them. He had seen it in bartenders, in preachers, in schoolmarms whose eyes slipped from his revolver to the scars on his knuckles. Always the same question, barely concealed: was he any better than the men he chased?

“A bounty hunter,” she repeated, with careful neutrality.

He kept his face blank, but his thoughts turned sharp. He didn’t owe her anything, not his past, not the sum of his scars, but her stillness made him uneasy. Not in a fearful way. It was the calm with which she looked at him, as if she were deciding whether to pity him or push him out into the snow.

“I don’t hunt men for the thrill of it,” he said quietly. “Langley is wanted in three territories. I was bringing him to answer for that.”

Still, she said nothing. Ashton let his gaze drift to her hands, folded neatly in front of her, not clenched, not fidgeting. No tremor of fear. He’d been tended by doctors, nurses, jailers, even nuns in his time. Some had fussed, others had flinched. But Kate Taylor seemed made of firmer stuff.

It put him off balance.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, jaw tight. The fire’s warmth pressed at his side, not enough to soften the weight he felt creeping back into his chest.

“You don’t need to believe me,” he added.

“I don’t make it a habit to judge strangers,” she said. “But I would be foolish not to ask questions of a man who arrives at our doorstep bleeding and armed.”

“I’m not armed anymore.”

“That,” she replied, “is part of the concern.”

“I imagine you sleep with a pistol under your pillow, Miss Taylor.” He huffed out a breath, more force than humor.

“No,” she said. “I sleep lightly and lock the doors.”

That surprised a smile out of him, faint and crooked. There was something in the way she said it, dry and wry, but almost like a joke. Like she had weathered enough of the world to earn the right to speak plainly.

For a moment, he let his gaze linger on her. The steady set of her shoulders. The way she kept her distance, not from fear but from dignity. She was not a woman bred for softness, but neither had it been entirely stripped from her. In a different life, he might have called her beautiful. As it was, she unsettled him.

She turned back to the pitcher and poured another glass of water.

“Langley won’t go quiet,” Ashton said after a moment. “He’s clever. Vindictive. If he thinks I’m alive, he may come looking.”

Her hand stilled at the edge of the table.

“Then we’ll keep the doors locked,” she said.

Her tone was even, but he sensed the shift. It was one thing to host a wounded traveler. Another entirely to realize danger might come knocking behind him.

Ashton rubbed his thumb against the bandage at his side, suddenly too aware of his presence in this place. He’d always been careful not to draw trouble where it would cost others, but he hadn’t had a choice this time. Still, he felt the old guilt creeping in.

“I didn’t mean to bring danger here,” he said.

“I believe you,” Kate said. “But intent doesn’t always shield us from consequence.”

He looked away, jaw flexing.

She moved toward the door again. “You should rest. Dr. Shepherd will be up shortly. I’ll bring you some food as well.”

He didn’t answer. Only nodded once, slow and weary.

As the door closed behind her, Ashton let his gaze drift back to the fire. His ribs throbbed in time with his pulse. His head ached. But worse than the pain was the feeling of being seen, truly seen, in the way Kate Taylor had just looked at him.

The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth doing little to melt the cold unease growing beneath his breastbone. Ashton shifted, hissing as pain bit through his side again, and closed his eyes against it. He hadn’t lied, Langley was dangerous. If the bastard thought he was still alive, he might double back.

But that wasn’t what kept Ashton awake.

It was her.

Kate Taylor. The name fit her. Steady. Practical. Not a hint of softness to it, yet not harsh either. She had scars, yes, but she didn’t carry them like wounds. He’d seen men disfigured and hollowed out by less, seen them drag their injuries like chains. But she moved like someone who’d long accepted pain as part of the scenery. Didn’t fight it. Didn’t flaunt it. Just endured it.

He tried to imagine what had left those marks on her face. Fire? An accident? Or something worse? He couldn’t ask. Not yet.

And still, he had called her an angel.

He huffed out a breath. She probably thought him delirious, and he had been, but he’d meant it. She had pulled him from the dark, or close enough to make it feel like it.

A quiet knock interrupted his thoughts. The door creaked open and the doctor stepped inside again.

“Good,” said Dr. Shepherd. “Miss Taylor said you were awake.”

Ashton gave a weak nod.

“I’ve seen men in better shape,” the doctor muttered as he set his bag down. “But I’ve seen worse, too.”

The man’s tone was gruff, but his hands were careful as he examined Ashton’s bandages. “Fever’s broken. That’s something.”

“She said two days?” Ashton asked.

“Aye. Just about.” The doctor glanced at him over the rim of his spectacles. “You remember much?”

“Enough.”

“That’ll do.” The doctor grunted. “You’re not bleeding internally, far as I can tell, but you’ll need to stay abed. Eat what you can. Sleep more than you want. Try not to get shot again.”

Ashton gave a faint, humorless smile.

“Miss Taylor’s been keeping watch,” the doctor added. “Doesn’t say much, but she hasn’t left your side. She even let you have her room when you came in unconscious.”

Ashton’s brows knit together. Looking around the room, he realized that with the trunks and trinkets around the wash basin, the room likely wasn’t one of the normal guest rooms.

“Why?” he asked.

“Ask her.” The doctor stood and collected his things. “Some women are born caretakers. Others choose it. Doesn’t mean it’s easy for them.”

Before he could press further, the man left.

Alone again, Ashton stared at the ceiling. Snow whispered at the windowpanes. The pain in his ribs settled back into a dull throb, but another ache had taken root now—the ache of not knowing why someone would care.

He was used to being tolerated. Respected when useful, cursed when inconvenient. But kindness? Steady, watchful kindness with no strings attached? That was foreign. Dangerous, even.

Because once a man started to believe he deserved it… he stopped running.

And he wasn’t done running yet.