His gaze roamed the hill, the door, the chimney smoke. “You’ve made quite a scene of yourself.”
“I’ve made a home.”
“Homes have rooms. This is a burrow.”
“Then why’re you here?”
His eyes settled on her face. “Franklin is ready to forgive your outburst.”
Hester nearly laughed. “Is he?”
“Olivia’s nearing her time. The family needs help. Return, apologize, and we can discuss marriage once the child arrives.”
“There is no arrangement.”
“There could be.”
“I’d rather sleep in the snow.”
His expression shifted then. The charm drained, leaving something cold and hungry.
“You think this claim makes you safe,” he said.
Hester’s fingers clenched hidden in her gloves.
Bronson stepped closer. “A girl can’t prove land alone. Not really. Accidents happen. Papers get lost. Men testify. Ministers counsel. Clerks misremember. You’ve made people uneasy, Miss Lane. Uncomfortable people seek comfort.”
Then she understood the flicker in Pastor Stowe’s eyes.
“You and Franklin plotted this.”
Bronson’s smile widened. “Franklin has debts. Olivia has needs. I have means. You have a claim better placed than you realize.”
“What does that mean?”
His gaze drifted to the lower slopes where winter grass speared the snow.
“Ask your mother.”
“My mother’s dead.”
“Then perhaps ask why she filed before telling her husband.”
Hester’s heart raced.
Bronson tipped his hat. “The deep freeze comes after Christmas. Pride’s easier in mild weather. When ready for reason, send word.”
He walked away.
That night, Hester rifled through the journal again.
Nothing new surfaced. No second note. No map. No resolution. Just that first letter, the spent money now invested in walls and roof, and her mother’s careful warning.
Feeble men do damage while convincing themselves choice eludes them.
For the first time since building the dugout, Hester barred the door before dusk.
Christmas passed quietly.
Hester roasted a hen Ellen Larkin had traded for sewing. She read Luke, because her mother had, then Job because she felt less forgiving. She sang a hymn softly, stopping midway when her voice broke.
Approaching dusk, Levi Woodson came bearing a parcel.
“Merry Christmas,” he offered.
Inside, a small brass thermometer—better than her battered one.
“I thought your arithmetic deserved proper instruments.”
She turned it in her hand. “I’ve nothing for you.”
“You let me stand inside Cedar Valley’s most fascinating room. That is enough.”
She hesitated before recounting Bronson’s visit.
Levi’s face darkened.
“Bronson holds freight contracts,” he said. “Half the valley owes him.”
“Franklin too?”
“Likely.”
“He claimed my claim is better placed than I know.”
Levi peered toward the frozen creek. “Rumors suggest the railroad survey may come close within years. Land with water access could prove valuable.”
“My mother knew.”
“Sounds like she suspected.”
Hester folded her arms. “So they didn’t just wish marriage—they wanted me erased.”
Levi didn’t sugarcoat the truth. “Yes.”
Ironically, his honesty steadied her.
“What do I do?”
“Survive winter first,” he said. “Legal battles are for the living.”
Two days on, a trader visited.
Gideon Shaw had spent years trapping, hauling, trading, and fibbing across Dakota Territory, though his weather sense was truthful. He stopped by Hester’s dugout near sundown, his mule steaming, gaze on the western horizon.
“Big one coming,” he warned.
“How big?”
“Forty below if the devil’s counting. Wind hard enough to strip paint from a saint’s pride.”
“When?”
“Night after next, maybe sooner.”
Hester surveyed the horizon. It bore a strange metallic tint, bruised green-gray beneath the clouds.
“You telling everyone?”
“Told who’d listen. Most men hear weather warnings as slights.” He eyed her door. “You ought to go into town.”
“No.”
“Hester, I admire gumption, but I don’t worship it. This storm will kill.”
“If this can’t hold, others’ roofs won’t.”
He studied her.
Then nodded once.
“Keep your chimney clear. Bank snow against the door but don’t let it seal you in. Melt water early. And should you hear tapping in the walls, don’t panic. Frost moves earth like a fist.”
Her stomach tightened. “That happens?”
“Occasionally.”
“Reassuring.”
“Truth rarely is.”
After he left, Hester prepared.
Extra wood stacked near the entry. Barrels filled. Beans soaking. Chimney checked, door barred, roof bolstered. Chickens crated near the wall despite their protests. A rope tied from door to a willow stake should whiteout blind her. Cornbread cooked, wrapped, and stacked near the stove.
Then she sat with her mother’s journal, writing in its blank pages.
December 28. Thermometer outside shows 4 below at twilight. Inside 61 with a low fire. Wind southwest, rising. If I perish, let it be known the house didn’t fail for lack of care.
She studied the sentence.
Then struck out If I perish.
Rewrote:
When I survive, remember to widen chimney before next winter.
The blizzard hit at 2:00 a.m.
It roused her like cannonfire without the cannon.
The hill itself groaned.
Not the cabin. The hill.