Chapter 1 - The Scream in the Snow
By the time Silas Hayes found Cora Whitfield, she had already decided there were only two ways the night could end.
Either she would die before sunrise, or her child would.
Maybe both.
The thought had stopped frightening her sometime during the previous afternoon. Fear required energy, and Cora had almost none left.
Outside the abandoned trapper's shack, November had turned the western Montana Territory into a white wilderness. Snow drove sideways through the pines, erasing trails almost as quickly as they formed. Wind screamed around the corners of the little cabin and forced itself through every crack between the logs.
Inside, the cold was worse.
Cora lay on a bed of rotten hay and old blankets beside a stove that had gone dead hours earlier. Her swollen belly tightened again.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“No.”
The pain came anyway.
It rolled through her with such force that she curled onto her side, fingers digging into the frozen dirt beneath the hay.
“Thomas!”
Her husband's name disappeared beneath the howl of the storm.
Cora screamed.
When the pain finally loosened its grip, she collapsed against the wall, breathing in shallow gasps.
Three days.
Thomas had been gone for three days.
He had kissed her forehead before leaving.
“I'll bring somebody back before dark.”
Those had been his exact words.
Cora remembered because she had repeated them to herself through the first night.
Before dark.
She had repeated them again the next morning.
Before dark.
By the second evening, the words had become a prayer.
Now they sounded like something spoken by a dead man.
Cora refused to accept that.
Thomas knew these mountains. He had crossed them in worse weather.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Another sound came from outside.
Cora froze.
Not wind.
Something heavy moved through the snow.
Her hand slid toward the revolver lying near the blankets.
She could barely lift it.
Footsteps approached.
Cora's heart pounded.
“Thomas?”
No answer.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
The latch moved.
Cora grabbed the revolver.
The door opened.
A large man filled the doorway.
Snow covered his shoulders. Dark wavy hair hung damp around a weathered face, and a thick beard concealed most of his jaw. A rifle rested in one gloved hand.
Cora raised her weapon.
“Stay back.”
The stranger's gaze moved from the revolver to her face and then to her enormous belly.
He understood immediately.
“Lady,” he said, “I think you got bigger trouble than me.”
A contraction seized her before she could answer.
The revolver slipped from Cora's hand.
She screamed.
The stranger kicked the weapon gently out of reach and shut the door against the storm.
Cora curled forward.
The man stood motionless for one stunned second.
“How long?”
“Since yesterday.”
His expression hardened.
“You alone?”
“My husband went for help.”
“When?”
Cora hesitated.
“Three days ago.”
The man's eyes shifted toward the door.
That tiny movement frightened her more than anything he could have said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You think he's dead.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You thought it.”
The stranger removed his snow-covered coat.
Cora watched him carefully.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a fire.”
He crouched beside the stove.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Because yelling 'woman' for the next ten hours seems impolite.”
Despite everything, Cora nearly laughed.
“Cora Whitfield.”
He nodded.
“Silas Hayes.”
He opened his pack.
Cora had heard the name.
Most people in the Bitterroot country had.
Silas Hayes lived somewhere beyond the northern ridge. Depending on who told the story, he was either a trapper, hunter, scout, outlaw, or half-wild hermit who spoke to bears.
Cora had dismissed most of the stories.
Looking at him now, she was no longer certain.
Silas broke apart an old wooden crate and stuffed pieces into the stove.
“What are you doing this far north?” Cora asked.
“Tracking mule deer.”
“In this storm?”
“Storm wasn't here when I started.”
He struck a match.
Nothing.
Again.
A small flame appeared.
Silas sheltered it with both hands and touched it to a piece of pitch.
Fire crawled across the wood.
Cora stared at the growing orange glow.
She could have cried from gratitude.
Silas moved quickly. He packed moss into gaps between the logs, tore pieces of canvas from an old sack, and covered the worst cracks. He placed a dented pot over the stove and filled it with snow.
Then he removed his rifle and leaned it against the far wall.
Cora noticed.
“You don't trust me with my revolver, but you're leaving that there?”
“You can't reach it.”
“That isn't very gentlemanly.”
“Never claimed to be one.”
Another contraction began.
Cora's humor disappeared.
Silas turned toward her.
“What do I do?”
She almost laughed again.
“You're asking me?”
“You're the one having the baby.”
“I've never done it before!”
“Neither have I.”
Cora stared at him.
“You don't know how to deliver a baby?”
“No.”
Her eyes widened.
Silas apparently recognized the panic spreading across her face.
“I've pulled calves.”
Cora stared harder.
“Turned a breech foal once.”
“That does not help.”
“Stitched horses.”
“Stop talking.”
“Dug bullets out of two men.”
“Silas.”
“Put my own shoulder back against a tree.”
“Silas!”
He stopped.
“That does not make me feel better.”
“Wasn't meant to.”
For one absurd second, silence filled the shack.
Then Cora laughed.
It was broken and exhausted and lasted only a moment before becoming a sob.
Silas looked away, giving her the dignity of pretending he hadn't noticed.
He melted more snow.
Washed his hands.
Then took his cleanest shirt from his pack and tore it into strips.
Cora watched.
“That looks expensive.”
“It isn't.”
“You'll ruin it.”
“Cora.”
“What?”
“I have another shirt.”
She closed her eyes.
The fire slowly warmed the room.
Hours passed.
The storm grew worse.
Cora drifted between pain, exhaustion, and fragments of sleep.
Every time she woke, Silas was still there.
Sometimes he fed the stove.
Sometimes he checked the water.
Sometimes he simply sat beside the wall, listening to the wind.
He never told her everything would be fine.
Cora noticed that.
People lied to frightened people because lies were easier than silence.
Silas did not.
Whenever panic overwhelmed her, he said only one thing.
“I'm not leaving.”
Near sunset, Cora suddenly grabbed his sleeve.
“I want Thomas.”
Silas looked at her.
“I know.”
“He promised he'd come back.”
Silence.
“Tell me he's coming.”
Silas could have lied.
Cora wanted him to.
For perhaps the first time in her life, she desperately wanted somebody to tell her something untrue.
Instead, Silas placed his rough hand over hers.
“I can't tell you that.”
Her face crumpled.
“He's dead, isn't he?”
“I don't know.”
“You think he is.”
Silas said nothing.
Cora turned away.
Tears slid silently into her hair.
Then another contraction came, and grief had to wait.
Night settled over the mountains.
The storm buried the windowsill.
Silas found an old lantern and lit it.
Cora's breathing became weaker.
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I have nothing left.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I'm too tired.”
Silas leaned closer.
“Be tired tomorrow.”
Cora looked at him through tears.
“You survived three days waiting for a man who didn't return. You survived labor on frozen dirt. You're not dying five minutes from the finish because you got tired.”
Her lips trembled.
“I'm scared.”
“Good.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“Fear keeps you alive.”
The next contraction struck.
Silas caught her hand.
“Now, Cora.”
She screamed.
“Push.”
She did.
Again.
Again.
The wind battered the cabin.
The stove rattled.
Cora gripped Silas's arm with both hands.
Then Silas looked down.
And stopped.
Completely.
Cora saw the change immediately.
Until that moment, nothing had seemed capable of frightening him.
Now the color drained from his face.
“Silas?”
He didn't answer.
“What is it?”
His eyes remained fixed below the blankets, outside Cora's view.
“Silas.”
His hands trembled once.
Cora's heartbeat became thunder.
“What do you see?”
Slowly, Silas lifted his eyes to hers.
For the first time since he had entered the shack, the mountain man looked genuinely afraid.
May you like
And when he finally spoke, Cora understood that the hardest part of the night had only begun.
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