Chapter 1

1

Whistling wind made Amy Northe anxious, especially when it was as frigid as the gales whipping through Yellow Rock. It always presaged change, whether it announced a storm that would keep them locked away for days on end, or something else entirely, like the winds that had blown the side off her parents’ house when she was only seven. They’d had to move after that. Her mother had never been the same.

The January storm that had blasted through the tiny Utah mining town two days earlier looked to be turning back. Clouds rolled thick and black overhead, while the winds erased the fresh dusting over the packed snow. Temperatures had dropped drastically since lunchtime, giving Amy no choice but to haul in more firewood. She needed to stock up for the night. If the snows returned, it would be a difficult task to clear it away from her stores, even protected as it was beneath the lean-to at the side of the house. She just prayed that the cord she’d recently purchased would be enough to see them through to spring. With the winter already raging harder than usual, Amy feared there would be bitterly cold nights in their future.

Her fingers were too numb to fumble for the front door. Amy kicked at the bottom, and stomped her foot to get the blood circulating. The wind filled her head, in spite of the scarf wrapped over the lower half of her face and ears. When the door opened, she rushed in blindly, simply grateful to be inside.

“You want me to get the next load, Ma?”

Amy shook her head as she dropped the wood onto the pile next to the fireplace. “You need to go check on Rocky and Hazel,” she instructed, unwinding the scarf from her head. “Make sure they’re bedded in good and tight. Give ‘em enough feed to last through the morning, in case we can’t get out to the barn come sun-up.”

“Do we need milk, too?”

She glanced up to see Woodrow already bundled tight in his jacket and gloves. At nine years old, he was small and lithe, built more like his father than her. For a split second, she debated going out to do the animals herself. She wasn’t too cold yet, and she was stronger than Woody. But she took one look at his fierce blue eyes and knew she couldn’t deny him this. He was growing up. He wanted more responsibility around the house than she was comfortable allowing him. She needed to start trusting that he could handle it.

“We’ve got enough to tide us over. Just get them warm and fed, and get back in here for supper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Amy turned her back on the fresh gale through the house as he slipped outside. The fire danced in the hearth, calming again once he shut the door. The scent of stew bubbling over the flames made her stomach growl, and not for the first time that night, she debated making dumplings. Dumplings were good comfort food. She’d already held back adding the beef Mary Hull had given her as payment for setting her youngest son’s broken arm. The soft pastry would make up for it.

Leaving her coat and mittens to dry by the fire, Amy pulled out the flour, salt, and baking powder from the cupboard and set them on the narrow table. She ducked quickly into the back larder, grabbing the bucket of milk she stored there. Ice had formed over the top. It would be delicious in the morning, provided it wasn’t frozen solid. Maybe she’d make extra biscuits tonight to have for breakfast. It would give them extra time under the blankets if she didn’t have to worry about cooking.

Glass rattled in the window frames as she made the dough. Amy tried to block it out, focusing on the rhythm of her stirring, the slow thaw of her flesh. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so dark already. The night would be long, especially after she sent Woody to bed. She could distract herself with some mending she’d taken in, but after she crawled under her blankets, sleep would be elusive.

It always was. It had been for the last six years, ever since Woody’s father had passed away. Ernest Northe had been her companion, in friendship and then in marriage, from the moment they’d met. His premature death had changed her entire life.

Amy shook her head. Thoughts of Ernest were as bad as dwelling on the storm. Neither did her any good. She had a child to feed and a night to get through. She didn’t have time for sentimental ruminations.

She finished the dough and turned toward the fire, bending low to gently drop each spoonful of the mixture into the simmering stew. Amy heard the latch in the door lift, but her heart jumped to her throat when the wind caught the door and slammed it against the wall.