One

North Texas, 1878

The howling December wind whipped around Hank Destry, doing its best to knock him from the saddle. His numb hands could no longer feel the reins. Seconds later, his blue roan stepped into a snow-covered hole and went down to one knee before rising to struggle on. One more obstacle to overcome would probably do them both in.

Mother Nature was throwing everything she had at him to test his mettle.

Hank shivered in the freezing cold, trying to ignore the stinging sleet hitting his face. He tugged the collar of his threadbare coat up around his ears and studied the barren land, looking for some kind of shelter. The blizzard limited his vision to ten yards, and no dry place appeared in sight. Darkness would soon fall and he didn’t know how much farther he could ride. He was worried about the condition of his horse, Boots, more than himself. Boots and his dog, Beau, were all he had.

An old man had once told him that when all hope seemed lost, cinch up your britches, set your sights on the horizon, and keep moving. That’s what Hank had been doing his whole life—just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to stay ahead of trouble. He’d all but given up hope for better. There didn’t appear to be a place for him.

The border collie walking alongside glanced up and whimpered.

“I’m doing the best I can, Beau. I’ll find shelter soon.” Hank squinted and scanned the inhospitable landscape again. “Just a little farther. I promise.” He prayed he could deliver on that. The animals didn’t deserve to suffer because he couldn’t take care of them.

His eyes stung from the twisting wind, and he’d long lost the feeling in his feet and hands. Hank cursed the fact he had to be out in this storm at all. But he had nowhere to turn back to. The roads behind him were barricaded by mistakes and misfortune. There was nothing but pain and hurt back there. Forward was the only direction left—if he survived these freezing temperatures.

Surely he could find one place that welcomed a down-and-out man like him.

A few miles farther, he slid from the saddle and crumpled to the frozen ground. Snow drifted around him.

Directions didn’t matter much anymore. The only way was down.

His eyes drifted shut and he no longer felt the bitter cold.

* * *

Sidalee King tucked a third warm blanket around Mamie Tabor. The old woman’s rheumy eyes found hers. “Miss Mamie, please let me take you home with me. This place isn’t fit for a woman, especially a sick one. I’m worried about you. And it’s almost Christmas.”

“Child, this place’s as good as any. I won’t be a burden.” Mamie patted Sidalee’s hand. “I feel terrible that you had to traipse through this weather to tend to me. You’ll catch your death.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known a more cantankerous woman.” Sidalee tenderly smoothed back the gray strands. Miss Mamie reminded her so much of her grandmother who had long passed. Mamie had seen eighty-four years come and go. Sidalee had discovered her by accident living in an abandoned line shack on the Lone Star Ranch almost two months ago.

“When my son, George, gets here, he’ll take me home with him,” Mamie murmured.

Sidalee prayed he came soon. His mother needed him. “Did he live near you? Maybe we can send someone for him.”

Confusion filled the old woman’s eyes. “I can’t recall. But I know he’ll find me.”

She coughed and the sound came from deep in her chest. She needed to be looked after, but her son seemed the only person left of her family. Miss Mamie had said that after she and her husband, Albert, lost everything they had in a house fire, they hitched up a wagon and came looking for someplace to start over. Except Albert died along the way. Lord only knew how Mamie had managed to roll him into a shallow grave and place rocks over him to keep the animals from scavenging. Then the horse had run off, leaving her afoot. She walked to the line shack that Stoker Legend had abandoned when he bought more land and built another crude shelter farther out.

And now she waited, though whether death or her son would come first was anyone’s guess.

“Don’t worry,” Sidalee reassured herself as much as Mamie. “George’ll come. Take some more of my cough cure.” Sidalee reached for the mixture of honey and lemon she’d brought and spooned some into Mamie’s mouth.

Misery filled her gaze. “You got better things to do than tend to a sick ol’ pitiful woman, child. Now git along before this weather gets worse.”

“Why are you trying to rush me out? Are you tired of my company?”

“Nope. I jus’ don’t want you to get caught out in this mess halfway between here and home.” Mamie forced a smile. “I never met a girl with as much kindness as you. You’re an angel.” Another coughing spell took Mamie’s breath.

Sidalee held a cup of water to her mouth and watched her sip. She glanced around the small one-room dwelling. It was clean enough inside, but with the dirt floor, drafty window, and a roof that leaked, it wasn’t fit for habitation. Yet Miss Mamie had dug in her heels and wasn’t budging. Not only that, she’d made Sidalee promise not to tell anyone about her. But she was sure Stoker Legend should know. The big rancher would come and take Mamie to a warm place where Doc Jenkins could look after her. And that’s exactly what she needed.

Stoker Legend was different from most ranchers. She’d never seen a more compassionate man, and he treated the people who worked for him like family. He would care for Miss Mamie.

Yet Sidalee wouldn’t go back on her word. She rose and added more wood to the fire. The supply was getting low, so she bundled up and went out to the wagon for the firewood she’d brought. The snow fell harder. Flakes stuck to her eyelashes. She’d have to start for home as soon as she finished tending to the poor, sick widow.

After carrying in the supply of wood, she dipped out some bean soup she’d set warming in the fireplace. Then she sliced off a thick slice of bread from the loaf she’d baked that morning and poured some milk.

Miss Mamie sat up on the bed’s thin mattress. “Bless you, my child. When I was a little girl, my mother used to cook bean soup, and the smell filled the whole house with goodness and love.” A wistful look filled her eyes. “Now everyone is all gone, even my Albert.” She glanced up. “Don’t ever outlive all your people, Sidalee. The loneliness gnaws at you every minute.”

What about her son, George? Had Miss Mamie forgotten about him? But then, she got confused at times.

“I’m sure it does.” Sidalee fought back tears and held Mamie’s hand; it was lined with wrinkles and blue veins. “But you have me. And George, don’t forget.”

Miss Mamie’s face lit up. “Oh, yes. I do have my George.”

Her heart ached for this woman who’d borne a son and toiled beside her husband, trying to scratch out a living in the red Texas dirt. Even though she hadn’t known Miss Mamie long, the woman had become like family.

Truth was, Sidalee didn’t have anyone either. She’d buried them all during a cholera epidemic. She remembered the huge bonfire when she had to burn everything they’d touched to prevent the spread. It had about killed her to part with treasured keepsakes, the house she’d grown up in, and everything she owned. Stoker had found her wandering the streets of Fort Worth and brought her here to the Lone Star Ranch to give her a new start. He’d built a small town here on the ranch—complete with a doctor, a schoolhouse, and a telegraph. Since he’d built the businesses, she had been the third person to operate the mercantile and split both profits and expense with Stoker. Despite the loneliness, it was a good life and she was young and strong.

While the old woman finished her soup, Sidalee tidied up the room and stuffed rags into the cracks in the walls. Maybe that would help keep in some of the warmth.

Finally, she gave the room one last glance. She’d done all she could. “I have to go now, Miss Mamie,” she said, washing up the soup bowl and putting it away. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nary a thing.” Mamie fumbled for a little bag she kept near, pulled out a stone, and handed it to Sidalee. “For your trouble. Wish I had more than a blasted rock to give you.” She waved her arm toward the door. “Now git.”

“I told you I don’t want any payment,” Sidalee scolded.

“Do an old lady a favor and take it.” Miss Mamie stuck it into Sidalee’s pocket. “Let me show my gratitude, little though it is.”

“If it puts a smile on your face, I reckon I won’t argue.” With a glass of fresh water on a crate beside the bed and the blankets tucked snugly around her friend, Sidalee bundled up. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest.”

“Be careful, child. Storms bring troubles. Don’t be forgettin’ that.”

Sidalee nodded and went out the door. Darn it, she hated to leave. George had better hurry and see about his mother. She forced herself to climb onto the seat of the buckboard and set it in motion before she could change her mind.

A mile from the line shack, the weather worsened until she could barely see. She heard the barking dog before she spotted it. She pulled back on the reins when she made out the black-and-white fur. Why was a border collie out here?

She looped the rigging around the brake and climbed down. The poor thing would freeze to death. Maybe she could take him home with her until she could find where the animal belonged.

“Hey, boy, where do you live? I’ll bet you’re freezing.”

The dog came close enough to pet. But when she tried to pick him up, he skittered away, barking furiously.

“Come on, boy, it’s too cold out here. Let’s go home.”

Barking, the collie ran off the trail a ways and stood there, waiting. When she didn’t follow, he came back, barking insistently. He stood there a second, then ran back out where he had been, waiting for her.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, but I’ll follow you.” She climbed back into the buckboard and eased off the trail, across the snowy ground, trying to avoid the drifts. Sidalee prayed she didn’t get stuck. If she did, she’d spend the night here, for there’d be no one to come along.

She squinted through the haze, not sure what she was seeing. It was easy in a blinding storm to imagine things that weren’t there.

But maybe the dark clothing she glimpsed was real. She moved closer, calling for the dog.

A little farther, she spied the dog curled up next to a snow-covered man. A horse stood nearby. With her heart pounding, she gave a sharp cry and plowed through the knee-deep drifts as fast as she could, praying, hoping it wasn’t too late.

She brushed snow from the stranger’s high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. Was he dead?

The dog gave a pitiful whimper. Sidalee put her cheek next to the man’s mouth and was rewarded by a faint whisper of air.

He was alive!

“Mister, can you hear me?” There was no response. “I’m going to try to get you into the back of my buckboard.” Sidalee glanced at the length of him. He stood at least six feet, maybe more, and was muscular. Standing at five feet four inches in her wool stockings, accomplishing this would be difficult for her.

Her eyes swept to a gun belt and the deadly revolver in the holster. Maybe he was an outlaw on the run. For all she knew, he could be a killer.

Still, this man needed help, and she’d give him that, killer or no.

She pulled him to a sitting position, holding him to keep him from falling back. “Mister, I’d sure appreciate some help, if you’re able.”

Again no response.

Gently letting him back down, she scanned the landscape. Spying a wide ravine that would work, she drove the wagon into it and backed up where it was even with the ground where the stranger lay. Then she brought his horse around and let the animal do most of the work. Between the roan, her, and even the dog, that pulled with his teeth, they managed to get the half-frozen man into the wagon bed. She wished she hadn’t left every blanket with Miss Mamie. She could sure use one now. His threadbare coat would do little to warm him. The cow dog jumped up next to him and lay with his muzzle resting on his master’s chest. Tying the roan to the back, she drove toward home as fast as she dared.

“Don’t you die on me, mister!” she hollered over her shoulder.

She was not going to bury another soul. Not Miss Mamie and not this stranger.