“The old ridge path will be passable if we take Fern.”
“Fern?”
“My mare.”
“No.”
Iris stared at him.
“No?”
“I’m not taking the only horse from you and your son.”
“You’re not taking her. We’re all going.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Most necessary things are.”
“Iris, your baby is nine weeks old.”
“Your baby may not have nine hours.”
He closed his eyes.
The words were cruel.
They were also true.
They packed quickly. There was not much to pack. Blankets. Bread. A jar of boiled water. Extra cloths. The rifle. Iris strapped Micah to her chest beneath her coat, his tiny face protected from the wind. Callum carried June inside his jacket, keeping her upright against him. The mare, patient old Fern, stepped into the snow with the weary dignity of a creature who had endured human foolishness for years.
They left the cabin at dusk.
The world outside had been erased.
Trees stood black against white hills. The sky hung low and bruised. Every breath cut the lungs. Snow swallowed sound until even fear seemed muffled.
Callum walked beside Fern, one hand on the bridle, one arm around June. Iris rode only when the drifts were too deep to cross on foot, then climbed down again when the mare needed relief.
After the first mile, Callum stumbled.
“You’re bleeding through the bandage,” Iris said.
“I’m fine.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“I’ve had little practice lying to you.”
That made her glance at him.
He was watching the trail, not her, but his mouth curved faintly.
“Don’t start being charming,” she said. “It wastes energy.”
“Was that charm?”
“Barely.”
“Then I’ll save the better version for when we’re not freezing.”
Against her will, Iris smiled.
It vanished at the sound of a rifle shot.
The bullet struck a tree ahead of them, exploding bark into the air.
Fern reared.
Iris grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and Micah with the other. Callum seized the bridle and pulled the mare down before she could bolt.
Another shot cracked across the ridge.
“Down!” Callum shouted.
He dragged Iris behind a granite outcrop just as two riders emerged between the trees.
The young man from the porch.
And the scarred one.
Warren’s men.
The scarred rider called out, “Mr. Reid! Your brother wants you home!”
Callum’s eyes went flat.
“My brother wants me dead.”
The young one laughed. “That depends how difficult you are.”
June whimpered weakly.
The sound was so small it tore through every adult thing in Iris.
Callum looked at her.
“Take June.”
“No.”
“Take her.”
“What are you doing?”
“Giving them what they came for.”
“You can’t.”
“I can if it gets both babies away.”
Iris clutched Micah, then looked at June’s pale face.
Before she could answer, the scarred man raised his rifle again.
“Come out, Reid!”
Callum stepped from behind the rock with his hands visible.
“Don’t shoot. My daughter needs a doctor.”
“Then stop making this hard.”
“My daughter goes first.”
The young man spat into the snow.
“She goes where Warren says she goes.”
Something in Iris went quiet.
Not calm.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet that came before a kettle screamed, before a branch snapped under too much ice, before a woman who had swallowed a lifetime of insults decided her mouth was no longer a grave.
She looked up at the slope above the riders.
A long shelf of wind-packed snow hung over the trail. Her father had warned her about shelves like that. Sound could break them. Vibration could loosen them. A careless gunshot could start what no horse could outrun.
The young man aimed at Callum.
Iris stepped out.
Callum’s head snapped toward her.
“No.”
The scarred man laughed.
“Well, look at that. Mountain mama wants another chance to be brave.”
Iris held both babies close, one against her heart, one against her side.
“I’m not brave,” she said. “I’m observant.”
The young man frowned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been firing rifles under a loaded snow shelf.”
The scarred man looked up.
Too late.
Iris screamed.
It was not a scream of fear. It was a sharp, cutting sound thrown straight at the mountain.
The snow answered.
A deep crack rolled across the slope.
Callum lunged toward her.
“Move!”
The shelf broke loose.
Not a killing avalanche. Not the kind that took whole cabins. But enough. A white wall of snow slammed down across the trail, striking the riders’ horses, throwing both men sideways, swallowing legs, rifles, curses.
Callum pulled Iris behind the outcrop as snow burst around them.
For several seconds, there was no world.
Only white.
Only cold.
Only the babies crying against their chests.
Then silence.
Iris coughed, blinking snow from her lashes.
“Micah?”
Her son wailed.
Good.
“June?”
Callum opened his coat. The baby shuddered but breathed.
“Alive.”