A Christmas Star to Guide the Bounty Hunter (Preview)

Chapter One

Grant’s Ford, Montana Territory – December 1884

Abigail Peterson’s brown eyes fluttered open and she stifled a yawn. The room was cold and the brick she’d used to warm her feet when she got in bed last night was of no use now. She was warm enough under the pile of quilts and in her flannel nightdress. But Abigail’s nose was cold where it peeked out of the warmth.

She allowed herself the luxury of a few minutes spent huddling under the covers as she ran through all the things she needed to take care of that day.

Light the fires, get water, feed the chickens, check for eggs, make breakfast, wake the twins, iron Papa’s shirts, dust downstairs, make a list of any medicinal ingredients Papa might need, then go to the apothecary and purchase them…

It was a long list, and Abigail grew weary of it before she reached the end of everything she needed to accomplish before she could crawl back into that very bed.

Ever practical, Abigail had laid out her clothing for the day the night before. This allowed her to put on a full layer before she had to emerge from the blankets. Once her stockings, shift, and first petticoat were in place, she finally crawled out from her warm cocoon.

She shivered at the icy air and hurried to pull on her additional flannel petticoats, corset, corset cover, shaper, dress, cap, apron, and finally a thick sweater. By the time Abigail was buttoning up her shoes, she was well insulated and didn’t notice the cold air nearly as much.

She tiptoed out of her bedroom and downstairs, avoiding the squeaky floorboards and the stairs that protested the loudest whenever she stepped upon them. Her eyes watched for any hint that either of her twin brothers were stirring and her ears strained for their movements. The two nine-year-olds would have slid down the banister, she reflected ruefully. If she’d done the same, her movements probably would have been quieter than attempting the creaky old stairs.

Fortunately, neither Arthur nor Anthony nor their father, Dr. Peterson, made any sounds. Abigail got to work, grateful for this small boon as she built the fire. Since their mother died two years ago, Abigail had shouldered the full burden of keeping house, parenting her brothers, and aiding her father with his medical practice. It was a good thing she was young, strong, and willing to work hard, because Abigail Peterson was on the move from dawn until dusk, and often for several hours beyond.

She put on her wooden overshoes and steeled herself against the winter weather as she reached for the basket of scraps for the chickens. Abigail pulled her sweater tight and bent into the icy wind that always took a shortcut between the house and the chicken coop.

They kept a few laying hens, which was a big help when the doctor’s patients weren’t able to pay their bills. Anything Abigail could make or grow or forage herself meant that their money went just a little further.

Once she returned to the house, she checked the stove, which was heating nicely. She began to prepare breakfast for her father and brothers.

“Thank goodness for potatoes,” she said to the empty kitchen as she scrubbed the eyes off a few that had begun to sprout.

Abigail soon had the potatoes chopped and diced up alongside an onion for good measure. She heated a bit of lard in the frying pan and tossed in the vegetables. Once they were sizzling and the delicious smell of simmering onions filled the air, she retrieved the cooked ham from the cold cellar.

Keeping two growing boys fed, clothed, and shod was certainly a chore. Abigail did her best, but the mischievous pair were always getting holes in their pants or losing their mittens. And their father wasn’t much better. Dr. Peterson was certainly a good doctor, but he far preferred conducting research to actually seeing patients. It wasn’t uncommon for him to ask Abigail to take over and bandage someone or administer medicine.

She checked the potatoes, nodded with satisfaction that they were almost done, then went to fill the wood box in the parlor. When she came back through the kitchen, she removed the potatoes from the heat and started the coffee perking. Abigail filled the wood box in the dining room, then worked to start the fire in there. She repeated this chore in the parlor.

Once breakfast was ready, she returned upstairs to wake the boys and her father. She began in her father’s bedroom. As Abigail opened the drapes, cold air trickled in around the edges of the window.

She frowned. New windows would cost dearly, but they would certainly improve the comfort of the family living in this big house.

Abigail sighed and went to pull her father’s clothing from the chair where he’d placed it the previous night. There wouldn’t be money for new windows any time soon. No, sir.

“Wake up, Papa,” she said to the mound of quilts topped with a buffalo hide.

Her father let out a groan and Abigail left to allow him a modicum of privacy. She walked down the hall and turned left into the boys’ room.

Artie and Ant were every bit as chaotic in their sleep as they were when awake. Each had his own wrought iron bedstead on opposite walls. However, somehow in the night, one of them would inevitably end up in the other’s bed.

On that particular morning, Abigail found one boy’s bare foot sticking out of the blankets on the pillow next to the other boy’s face. There was an especially tall lump that was sure to be this twin’s rear end sticking up.

Abigail reached for the foot and rolled her eyes when she felt how icy it was. Honestly, these boys could lose a toe to frostbite and be too busy to even notice, she clucked inwardly. She went to the heap of discarded clothing that the twins had removed last night, sniffing at the shirts and holding up the trousers for inspection.

Though there were a few small stains, they could be worn at least once more. Still, it was their Sunday best that she laid out on the bed. The other clothes were folded on the opposite bed to be changed into once they returned from church.

“It’s time to wake up,” she said, pulling the quilts back.

Two almost identical faces were revealed, wrinkled from the sheets. Neither boy woke easily when she wanted him to. Sure, the smallest creak of the floorboards could rouse them, but when Abigail had to come in, she was in for a fight.

Today, though, the cold was a helpful ally in her attempts to wake the twins. Soon, Artie was moaning and groping blindly for the quilts. Then Ant moved and kicked him right in the nose. Instantly, the boys went from dead asleep to brawling.

“Breakfast is ready,” Abigail said. “You’d better get dressed before it gets cold.”

“Did you make pancakes?” Ant asked, pulling up from where he was wrestling his brother.

“No, potatoes and ham.”

“Aw, Abby,” Artie groused. “Why don’t we have pancakes?”

Her hands went to her hips and one dark eyebrow lifted dangerously. “You could say, ‘Thank you, Abby,’ instead of complaining. Otherwise, tomorrow you can be the ones to wake before sunrise, light the fires, feed the chickens, and make breakfast. Then you could clean up the huge mess you’d inevitably make.”

“What’s ‘inevitably’ mean?” inquired Ant, not really listening at all.

“It means ‘get dressed and come down for your breakfast,’” Abigail said dryly, turning on her heel.

She dished up the food, toasted some bread, laid the table, set out a pot of jam, and listened to the crashes above her as her brothers fought and dressed and schemed. Soon, though, the stairs creaked and Abigail heard her father coming down.

“This all smells delicious,” he said and pecked her on the cheek before settling at the kitchen table. “I was up late in my laboratory. I’m making some real progress on my experiment, I believe. I have an idea how to tweak it just a little. After breakfast, I’ll head back and write up my notes.”

Abigail placed a full mug of coffee in front of him. “No, you won’t. Today is Sunday and we’ve got church. You’re wearing your best tie, you know.”

Dr. Peterson looked down and then blinked in genuine surprise. “Is it Sunday? I could have sworn it was a Tuesday. I’ve had my head in the clouds ever since I got that new microscope.”

A clatter and yell came from the top of the stairs. Then one of the twins came tumbling down. Abigail frowned in the boy’s direction. She’d long since given up fretting over whether her brothers were injured. They sustained injuries on a regular basis. Though they wailed loudly, nothing kept them down for long. Their scars were one of the few ways to tell them apart, as a matter of fact.

“Ow! Abby! I hurt my leg!” hollered the boy crumpled at the bottom of the stairs as he began to wail.

The other twin slid down the banister, reached the bottom, then doubled over laughing at his brother. “You noodle-head! I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” He slapped his knee, cackling.

“You’d both better get to the table. We’re leaving for church in twenty minutes,” Abigail threatened.

Despite her cool demeanor, she carefully watched Ant rise from the floor and limp to the table. He proceeded to pile his plate high and dig in with gusto. Upon realizing that he’d come to no permanent harm, Abigail sipped her coffee and set aside any shred of concern she might have had for his tumble.

Once breakfast was eaten and Abigail had washed the dishes, it was time to bundle everyone up and walk the three blocks to church. Dr. Peterson led the way, pointing out to his sons everything he found scientifically fascinating. The twins always seemed to find these little lessons captivating. Or perhaps it was more that they craved their father’s unwavering attention for a change.

There was no question that Dr. Abner Peterson was a kind father. He never had a harsh word for anyone. As Abigail walked along a few paces behind him, she remembered to be thankful for this. She’d known men who were overbearing and critical of their children. Still, she admitted with a sigh, it would be nice if he weren’t so distracted so much of the time.

Dr. Peterson had earned his degree at a large, fancy university back East. He’d decided to move to the frontier in the hopes of making new scientific discoveries. Along the way, he’d met tall, lovely Ava Hertsprung, a German immigrant. To his delight, she agreed to marry him and the pair settled in the newly founded town of Grant’s Ford in Montana Territory.

When Ava was alive, money was managed well. The young couple had built a two-story house with a small office for the doctor’s medical practice and bed chamber for any overnight patients both on the ground floor off the dining room. Ava passed on her statuesque figure, blonde hair, and dark eyes and eyebrows to her firstborn, Abigail. No more children were born for some time. But, with great delight and quite a bit of surprise, Ava presented her husband with twin boys when Abigail was fourteen. They named the pair Arthur and Anthony, pleased to have the entire family share the same first initial.

The twins certainly resembled their father, at least in looks. All three had hazel eyes, round faces, pale freckles, and were lanky. Dr. Peterson’s sandy hair was grayer and frizzier these days than it once had been. And he was much rounder in the midsection than his sons. Still, there was no denying the boys’ parentage.

“Abigail!” cried a voice, pulling her from her reverie.

She looked up, eyes searching for the speaker. When she spotted Lucy Wilde, Abigail smiled and waved. Lucy’s hands were tucked into a fur-lined muff and was hunched as though trying to stave off the bitter Montana winter.

“Why haven’t you gone inside?” Abigail chided her friend when she drew close enough to do so without being overheard. She never liked other people to know about more of her business than was strictly necessary. And there were always several of the congregation coming and going before the service.

“I’m waiting for Grandmother,” Lucy said, raising her muff to gesture. But since both her hands were tucked firmly inside, it did little to help Abigail actually understand where Mrs. Wilde could be. “I’m about to go inside. How you have managed to survive twenty-two Montana winters, I can’t imagine.”

Abigail smiled impishly. “Well, I do wear my wool union suit during January. Have you picked one out yet?”

Lucy shuddered dramatically. “Grandmother has been threatening to order one for me.”

“They aren’t so bad,” Abigail cajoled. “If they keep me from getting chilblains, I’ll wear them gladly. Have you seen someone with chilblains? They’re very uncomfortable.”

“You’re entirely too practical, Abigail Peterson,” sighed Lucy.

“Excuse me, ladies,” a smooth voice pulled them from their private conversation.

Abigail’s eyes landed on young man with a carefully trimmed beard, fine wool coat, top hat, and jewel-encrusted walking stick. She knew this man. His name was Richard Hastings, and he had only just arrived in town, having recently inherited his father’s full estate—including the town bank.

On Richard’s arm was his mother, dressed head to toe in black. From her black veiled hat to her black patent leather boots, Mrs. Hastings was the picture of a widow in mourning.

Abigail stepped back, allowing the pair a clear path to the church’s front doors where Reverend Moffat was waiting, Bible in hand. As Richard passed by, he tipped his hat to Abigail and offered her a small smile. They continued on, and Abigail noticed that their clothes were every bit as fine from the back. Mrs. Hastings’ bustle had to be made of at least four extra yards of material.

What a lot of work to wash such a garment, she thought with a frown.

“I think he likes you.” Lucy elbowed her.

“Who likes me?” Abigail asked, completely taken aback.

Lucy gestured again with her muff, this time toward the church’s front doors. “Richard Hastings, of course. He smiled at you and tipped his hat.”

Abigail considered that. Now that Lucy had pointed it out, it did appear that Mr. Hastings had singled her out. Abigail wasn’t sure how she felt about his attention.

“You should marry him,” whispered Lucy with a giggle. “You could have your own servants cooking and cleaning for you. Wouldn’t that be a nice change?”

“I’m sure he has no intention of marrying me,” said Abigail dismissively.

Lucy turned to watch the Hastings disappear into the warmth of the church. She cocked her head to the side, considering them for a moment. “If he turned his attention to me, I’d probably marry him,” she declared. “I don’t find his looks very appealing, but I certainly like the size of his bank account.”

Abigail had to cover her mouth with her gloved hand as she guffawed. When Lucy’s grandparents approached, Lucy shot her one last impish grin before following them inside.

It took some doing to find Artie and Ant. The two were somehow very damp. Abigail practically dragged them into the warmth of the building by the ears before pushing them into the back pew. She searched for her father but didn’t see him. Since it was entirely possible that he’d forgotten what he was doing and headed off to investigate an interesting phenomenon of nature, she wasn’t too concerned.

Abigail had a hard time attending to Reverend Moffat’s sermon on the Book of Ezekiel. The twins wiggled and pinched and whispered and wiggled some more. Once she’d shushed them, her mind wandered to her long list of duties waiting for her back home. Finally, they were allowed to leave and Abigail promised herself she’d reread the passage from Ezekiel before bed that night.

Abigail was the only one of the family to arrive home immediately after the service. She changed into a house dress and got down to the business of preparing luncheon. There was a knock on the door, and she opened it to find a farmer with a bad cut. Since there was no sign of her father, Abigail ushered the man inside and got to work cleaning and stitching the wound.

Before long, the farmer was stitched up and on his way. Abigail had begun to clean up her tools when a cry from the backyard reached her ears.

“Abby! Come quick! Artie nailed his hand to the barn door!” Ant was shouting.

Wearily, Abigail stopped what she was doing and went to the backyard. Bedtime seemed a very, very long way away.

Chapter Two

Tyson Salinger rode along numbly, flanked on either side by the Dempsey brothers. The taller one with the long stringy mustache who was missing most of his teeth was Daryl. The shorter one with the heavy beard who was missing most of his teeth was Dwayne. Though these distinctions didn’t matter much to Ty or, apparently, anyone else.

The Dempseys were bounty hunters and self-proclaimed lowlifes. Ty could no longer recall how or when he’d first become acquainted with them. But when the Dempseys weren’t in jail, they were hunting down outlaws who were just a little bit more despicable than they were.

In his past life, Ty would never have known men such as these. Once upon a time, he’d been a blacksmith in a small country town in the Wyoming Territory. He and his wife Victoria had kept a tiny one-bedroom apartment above the general store. This had suited them fine. Even the addition of a baby daughter hadn’t strained their happy, if a tad small, home.

Ty shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He didn’t think of the time before now if he could help it. It was one of the very few things that appealed to him about riding with the Dempseys. Hunting bail jumpers and wanted men required a sharp focus.

Sure, there were lots of long hours in the saddle. But Ty had become adept at keeping his mind busy by searching for any telltale signs of whoever he was tracking. Then there were the eventual takedowns of his prey. It was vital that Ty keep focused on the present as he tried to evade any tricks that might be thrown his way.

It’s cold, he grumbled inwardly.

Ty’s toes were icy even in his warmest socks. Granted, there were holes in both toes of said socks. And, come to think of it, his old boots did need resoling. His hands in their leather gloves were starting to have trouble gripping the reins, so cold were they.

But worst of all was the spot on the back of his neck where the winter wind would dip its frozen finger every now and again, making Ty shudder and dream of sitting near a blazing fire, a cup of hot coffee in his hand.

“Lookee there,” growled one of the Dempseys before he spat a long, brown gob of tobacco off to the side.

Ty followed the bounty hunter’s finger and spotted the branch that was giving them the first clue that they were on the right track for several hours.

“Gittin’ sloppy,” agreed the other Dempsey.

“Good thing it isn’t snowing any harder,” added Ty, “or else we wouldn’t be able to see much of anything.”

“We ain’t far from a town. I can see the smoke rising up over them trees.” The first man nodded his head in that direction. “Maybe they got them a sheriff.”

The three men nodded grimly at this. No words were needed. They all knew that a sheriff in the town meant they could secure their quarry in an actual jail before heading off in search of a hot meal and warm bed for the night. There would be no payment for this particular criminal until he was delivered back to the cattle ranch where he’d stolen from and the bounty had first been posted. But allowing the sheriff to share the watch duty was always a welcome boon.

Ty flexed his hands and tried to burrow deeper into his coat. They could use a bonus. This particular thief had been eluding them for days. If Ty had to sleep rough one more night, he’d swear off this life forever and… He didn’t know what he’d do. Living a quiet domestic life had lost its appeal once he no longer had his wife and little girl.

The three men rode in a line as they left the main road. Though a couple inches of snow blanketed everything, they could tell they’d been on a packed dirt road that was likely the main thoroughfare leading to whatever small town was ahead. Once they spotted the broken branch, it was easy to see the thief had pushed past that particular tree and gone down towards the river.

Flurries of snow lazily drifted pass making little attempt to hide the thief’s tracks. Ty could tell the man hadn’t been here more than a few minutes past. Perhaps he’d spotted the men on his tracks and decided to try to get down to the river. It was a foolish move, and Ty couldn’t keep a half-smile from his lips. Towns offered more places to hide and there wasn’t snow indoors which left clear tracks to be followed.

Ty’s nerves were beginning to thrum. They were drawing close to capturing their man. The lead Dempsey brother kicked his horse’s flanks and it increased its speed, though its usual clops were muffled by the blanket of snow.

Suddenly, a figure came into view off in the distance. The man looked back over his shoulder before plunging onward. Ty’s dark eyebrows dropped.

Is he going to try to cross the river? Surely not.

It was cold, but this was a running river. Besides, with the snow covering everything, it would be impossible to see if the ice was safe and would hold a man’s weight.

Wordlessly, the Dempsey leading the line kicked his horse into action and raced ahead of their quarry. The other bounty hunter went to cover his retreat. This left Ty to cover the middle and eventually move in and actually take the man down.

It’s always like this with the Dempseys, Ty thought with a flicker of annoyance. At six feet, two inches, he was the tallest of the three. And even after all these years, he’d been able to maintain the hard-earned muscles that he’d developed over hundreds of hours in the forge wielding a heavy hammer. Ty was a formidable foe, and more than one smaller man had simply surrendered when he found himself being stalked by this large, muscular man.

But not this time. Ty dismounted and began to approach the thief who had just turned away from the mounted man ahead of him only to make the unhappy discovery that there was another behind him, closing in. Almost comically, the hunted man looked back and forth, first moving one way then another before finally jumping when he realized how close Ty.

Ty’s entire body was tensed and ready for action. He watched the thief with an eagle eye, muscles coiled tight.

There!

The thief’s hand plunged into his inner pocket. Ty didn’t wait but grabbed for his own two six-shooters from his belt holsters. He whipped the guns out, pulling back the safety mechanisms as he moved.

With a large armed man bearing down on him, the thief licked his lips, clearly trying to decide what to do. Neither of the Dempseys was doing anything more than nudge their horses closer, always content to let Ty do this dangerous final part of the hunt himself. But there was no way the man they were chasing could know this.

Instead of surrendering, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Oh no, groaned Ty inwardly.

Sure enough, the thief made a desperate turn and ran down to the riverbank where he took a tentative step onto the ice, arms akimbo.

“What’s that darn fool doin’?” sighed one of the Dempseys, shaking his head.

“You’d best go after him, Salinger,” said the other.

“I’m not going out there!” protested Ty. “That would be suicide.”

The taller of the two brothers chuckled at this, revealing his few stained teeth. “You ain’t too far off that, from what we can see. ’Sides, if you don’t go, he’ll get away and we won’t get paid. You want all this to be for nothin’?”

Ty holstered his guns and frowned. He wasn’t suicidal. He wasn’t. All right, maybe he had taken a few unnecessary risks in the past six years. It wasn’t like there was anyone who would care if he lived or died anymore. But that didn’t mean he was actively seeking those life-threatening scenarios.

Still, he stepped forward without further argument. That was their paycheck out on the ice, their meal ticket. If that man escaped or died, all this sleeping in the cold would be for nothing.

He held his breath as he stepped out onto the ice. Gingerly, Ty put his weight onto his leg and listened. There was no cracking. The ice held. He took another step forward. Then another. Ty had once heard that some ice fishermen were able to smell if the ice was thick enough to stand on. Well, he didn’t have that particular skill. The air around him was woodsy and filled with that cold dampness that simply smelled, indescribably, of snow.

The thief might be reckless to come out onto the frozen river, but he had slowed down considerably. Ty gritted his teeth and tried to hurry up enough to close the gap between them. The ice gave an unpleasant tinkling sound beneath his boots and Ty had to admit that perhaps the Dempseys weren’t entirely wrong to point out that he seemed to have a death wish.

“Stop!” he called, his deep voice muted by the falling snowflakes. “Stop before you get us both killed.”

The thief glanced back over his shoulder, opened his mouth to speak, and then his eyes grew wide with horror as the ice gave way under his feet.

Instantly, Ty slid to his stomach, wriggling to the edge of the broken ice, his hand plunging in to try and grab the man. But the ice wasn’t done yet. With a loud crack, it gave way and Ty was immersed, pulled down, down, down.

The cold was so terrible that Ty struggled to breathe. He couldn’t have possibly imagined this if he’d tried. It was both like being stabbed all over his body and being smothered at the same time. Ty’s brain couldn’t seem to find purchase. His arms flailed, his legs kicked, and the cold tried to swallow him whole.

Once, Ty had ended up in a shootout at a derelict farm in Texas. He’d been cornered with bullets whizzing past. That time, he’d been able to remember Victoria’s soft brown eyes, the way her strawberry blonde hair would fan over his shoulder after she rolled away from him in the night, and how happy she’d been singing to little Elizabeth. Victoria hadn’t had a beautiful voice, but she’d loved music.

Ty had let himself wallow in the memories he usually worked so hard to keep at bay. But he’d had time to decide that he was likely, finally, at the end of his life and had indulged himself.

Well, he’d survived that particular tight spot. And several more that came after. But at that moment, there was no way to think consciously about anything. The need to get oxygen battled with the intense pain of the icy water. Which way was up? And when his face smacked into something cold and hard, Ty realized with dawning panic that finding the surface didn’t mean reaching fresh air.

His lungs were bursting. It took all the mental energy he could muster to keep from gulping in water. Then he was sinking again, his soaking clothes and heavy boots pulling him away from the surface.

Without considering the consequences, Ty jerked his arms from his coat and used his toes to pull his heels out of his boots. Once he was free of them, he rose again toward the surface.

Suddenly, his head burst out of the water. He took a gulp of precious air which was promptly knocked out of him as he was slammed against a rock. Ty wasn’t a strong swimmer, but he was a strong man. By kicking and flailing, he managed to keep his face above water.

Unfortunately, there was a perfectly good reason why the ice failed to harden here. The river was moving very rapidly. Ty struggled to keep afloat, not wanting to let any part of his body sink into the cold water if he could help it. He blinked the water from his eyes repeatedly until he was able to keep them open long enough to assess how far he was from the bank.

He’d decided to abandon the thief and try to swim to safety when something large knocked him back. Ty was shoved back onto something sharp under the water and the large object smacked him back again, this time knocking the side of his head into a rock. The blow made him dizzy, and Ty almost lost his bearings. But he gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of the rock, trying to anchor himself.

What had hit him? Ty’s eyes searched the water, afraid that it was a large, angry animal or else a dangerous submerged tree. But no. There was the same brown coat he’d been catching glimpses of off in the distance for the past few days. This was the man they’d been hunting.

Ty grabbed hold of the man’s coat with one hand and used the other to try to pull his way to shore, kicking off from the rock. The water kept pulling them downstream, but Ty was able to make slow progress until the current slowed enough for him to plunge forward. Out of the pull of the water, Ty needed only two more strokes before his feet found purchase.

The Dempseys came running toward him and helped Ty haul the wanted man from the water. Ty wanted to collapse on the bank, but he knew the cold was a dangerous enemy now. Besides, his side hurt something fierce, and he could feel blood trickling down his cheek.

“We gotta get to town fast,” surmised one of the bounty hunters. “We’re not even a mile away. Can you mount up?”

Ty shook his head, exhausted. “I need a leg up.”

It took some doing. Their prisoner was alive but unconscious. Once his hands were bound and he was tossed across the back of one of the horses, Ty grabbed the saddle horn, put one frozen foot on the knee of one of the Dempsey brothers, and used the last of his strength to pull himself up.

They began to ride out. Ty was shivering so badly that his teeth clattered. He had to fight to stay alert enough to keep upright in the saddle. He had no awareness of the world around him and was surprised when one of the Dempseys asked someone where the sheriff’s office could be found. Were they in town? It had felt like the blink of an eye and an eternity and Ty knew he was starting to succumb to the cold.

He wasn’t sure what was happening around him. But one minute he was riding his horse, and the next he was sliding off. He slumped on the ground, too cold to even feel the pain of his wounds. Someone pounded on a door, which was promptly opened.

“This the doctor’s place?” asked a man’s voice above him.

“It is,” came the reply. A woman’s?

“This here fellow’s fallen in the river and is pretty banged up. Can you see to him?”

“Yes. Can you help bring him inside?”

“Naw. I got to get back to the sheriff. We pulled someone else out of the river.”

“Does he need medical care, too?”

“Naw. He’s a criminal. Besides, if he ain’t locked up, he’ll do a runner.”

“Criminal or not, he deserves medical care.”

“We’ll send for you if we need you.”

“I see. Well, be sure to feed him something hot just as soon as you can. It’s the best treatment. And if his hands and feet seem frostbitten, get a pail of snow and rub it on them.”

Footsteps. He was so cold. Colder than he’d ever been. And then Victoria was coming near and calling him to supper. Little Elizabeth sat in the chair her grandpap had made her, already with stew all over her dress. No, wait. She wouldn’t be a baby any longer. She would be…

But someone moved Ty then, and the pain in his ribs was so fierce that he mercifully blacked out.