Winter’s Gift to a Pregnant Widow (Preview)

Chapter One

Aspen Falls, Wyoming, 1870

 

The stench of blood and antiseptic seared Cate’s nostrils as she darted between cots, her low-heeled boots slick with something she didn’t dare identify as she reached for the next patient. Cries of the wounded filled the air, their voices tangled in pain and panic. She barely had time to breathe as she pressed a cloth against a soldier’s mangled arm, barked instructions to an orderly, then moved on to the next man clinging to life.

A nurse rushed past her, skirts fluttering, hands coated in red. Somewhere across the ward, a doctor shouted for more bandages, more ether, more time they didn’t have. Cate’s pulse pounded as she reached for another set of forceps, her hands steady despite the chaos.

Then she saw him.

Jonathan.

He lay sprawled on a cot, his uniform dark with blood, his face pale as death. For a moment, the entire world tilted, the noise fading into a muffled hum. Then, instinct took over.

Cate lunged forward, desperately pressing her hands against the coarse fabric of Jonathan’s uniform. Unable to staunch the flow of blood, the scarlet stain spread like wildfire across his chest. The hospital ward echoed with a maelstrom of moans, frantic shouting as doctors barked orders, and the clatter of instruments, but all she could focus on was the weakening flutter beneath her fingers.

“Please, let me try again,” Cate begged, her voice cracking. “I can save him!”

But the doctors stood firm, their words cold and unyielding as they pulled her hands away and pronounced the end of her efforts. 

“Enough, Mrs. Winslow,” the doctor said. “Your husband is gone.”

With that decree, Cate’s world fractured. The shards of her identity as both a healer and a wife slipped through her trembling hands. “No!” she screamed, struggling against their grip. “Jonathan!”

 

With a strangled gasp, Cate’s eyes flew open, wrenching her from the depths of the nightmare and back to the dim, quiet comfort of her bedroom in Aspen Falls. Her heart hammered wildly as she gulped in the cool, crisp air of her bedroom, desperately trying to rid herself of the last vestige of the horrors from her dream. 

Despite the chill of the pre-dawn air seeping through the walls of her ranch house, her nightgown was plastered to her skin by sweat. The nausea of pregnancy also mingled with the lingering horrors of the dream.

“Shh, Cate, you’re alright,” June’s gentle voice cut through the fog of the dream. 

She was barely nineteen, all youthful energy and boundless enthusiasm on most days, such a sharp contrast to Cate. But tonight, that exuberance was quietly contained. The young woman sat perched on the edge of the bed, her blonde curls haloed by the gray light creeping through the window and her wide eyes, filled with concern.

Cate’s hands trembled violently, and she clenched them into fists, twisting them in the blanket. 

I will NOT let this haunt me, she thought fiercely.

“I’m fine,” Cate replied, her tone a bit more clipped than she meant. Pushing herself up, she grimaced as her swollen belly made the movement awkward. “Was just a bad dream.”

“Maybe so, but it sounded like a mighty fierce one.” June searched Cate’s face for reassurance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Morning chores would be the perfect distraction. “There’s work to be done.”

Cate swung her legs over the side of the bed, determined to banish the lingering shadows with action. Her limbs felt heavy, burdened not by sleep but by a relentless ache that whispered of the life she was carrying within her. 

As she stood, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Cate gripped the bedpost, willing the room to stop spinning.

“Careful now … maybe you should rest a bit longer,” June suggested hesitantly. “The chores can wait.”

Cate’s jaw tightened. “I said I’m fine.” She softened her tone, seeing the hurt in June’s eyes. “Thank you for your concern, but I need to keep busy.”

June’s gaze followed her, filled with the kind of quiet scrutiny that Cate had come to expect. The floorboards creaked as June shifted uncertainly. “At least let me make you some tea before you start your day.”

June’s kindness was a balm Cate both craved and resisted. She was still learning how to accept help from others. “That would be nice,” she conceded quietly. “Thank you.”

As June’s footsteps faded, Cate allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. She pressed a hand to her rounded belly, feeling the flutter of movement within. “We’ll be alright,” she whispered, as much to herself as to her unborn child. “We have to be.”

As she moved to her dresser, Cate caught sight of her reflection. She saw the weariness in her hazel eyes and the tautness of her expression. She brushed a wavy lock of chestnut hair back into place, ignoring the streak of white standing defiantly among the brown. 

The streak seemed more pronounced, a stark reminder of all she’d endured. It hadn’t always been there—the first strand had appeared the first week after Jonathan died when grief and exhaustion had stolen the last of her innocence. More had followed in the weeks after, as the weight of pregnancy and her survival pressed down on her, carving its mark into her very being. 

She quickly looked away, focusing instead on the practicality of dressing for the day ahead. 

Using the basin of cold water on the dresser, she splashed her face. The icy droplets trickled down her cheeks as if trying to cleanse away the remnants of the dream, to wash away the blood that had never truly been on her hands. But some stains ran deeper than the skin, rooted in the soul where no water could reach.

Drying her hands, she dressed for the day choosing a basic blue linen dress. The fabric stretched tight across her swollen belly, and Cate winced as a dull ache radiated through her lower back. She gritted her teeth, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Instead, she focused on the scent of chamomile that wafted through the air as June returned with a steaming cup of tea. 

“Here you are,” June said softly, offering the teacup with a tentative smile. 

Cate accepted it with a nod, her fingers curling around the warm porcelain. “Ah … thank you. This is heavenly,” she said, taking her first sip, the hot liquid soothing her raw throat. As she lowered the cup, she caught June watching her worriedly. 

“I wish you’d take it easy today,” June ventured. “After such a rough night—”

“It was just a dream,” Cate cut her off, her tone sharper than intended. She softened, adding, “I appreciate your concern, but I can’t afford to slow down.”

June bit her lip, clearly wanting to say more. 

Setting the teacup down, Cate took June’s hands in hers. “I promise I won’t do too much, and I will lean on you and Luke as much as I can.”

“All right,” June said somewhat mollified. “I’ll leave you to finish getting ready and start on the kitchen.”

Cate joined her in the kitchen a few minutes later, and they knocked out the indoor chores pretty quickly. As Cate placed the last clean dish up on the shelf with a soft clink, Rusty, her trusty two-year-old border collie, whined softly, nudging her leg. 

She looked down, meeting the border collie’s intelligent eyes. “I know, boy,” she murmured. “It’s time to head to the barn.”

He yipped excitedly and spun in a circle as Cate grabbed her shawl from its peg by the door, wrapping it snugly around her shoulders. The familiar weight of the soft wool was comforting and would be a shield against the chilly Wyoming air.

As they stepped outside, Cate took a moment, one hand resting on her swollen belly, allowing herself a moment to savor the scent of pine and distant smoke. Rusty trotted ahead, his black and white coat gleaming in the late morning sun.

The barn door creaked as Cate pushed it open, the sound echoing in the stillness. She blinked, adjusting to the dimness inside. The scent of hay and leather greeted her, an earthy perfume that usually brought comfort, but today it failed to ease the restlessness clawing at her insides. 

A man stood at the far end of the barn, hoisting bales of hay onto the loft. Cate didn’t need to see his face to know it was Luke—broad-shouldered and moving with the ease of a man who had spent his life working on a farm. He lifted each bale with practiced efficiency, pausing just slightly before each toss.

Luke had been a part of the ranch long before Cate. He and Jonathan had grown up together, only nine months separating them in age, though Jonathan had rarely spoken of their shared past. Cate knew little other than that Luke had lived a hard life, and that most of his family was gone, leaving him with no home but this one.

He turned, and upon seeing her, his movements stilled, his expression shifting from concentration to something far less welcome. His eyes narrowed, the lines at the corners deepening with disapproval as he looked down at her very pregnant belly.

“Cate,” he said, his voice measured. “Should you be out here in your condition?”

Cate bristled, her chin lifting. “My condition doesn’t prevent me from overseeing my own property, Luke.”

Luke stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. “Of course not,” he said, his tone placating. “I just worry about you, is all. Have you given any thought to what we discussed? About finding someone to help shoulder the burden?”

Cate felt her pulse spike, a mix of anger and something else she refused to name. “The only burden I’m concerned with,” she said evenly, “is getting this ranch through the winter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She turned, reaching for a nearby pitchfork, but Luke’s next words stopped her cold.

“A woman in your position shouldn’t have to work so hard,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s time you thought about getting some additional help. A husband could take care of all this, making things easier for you and the babe.” He glanced down at her belly before adding, “Wouldn’t Jonathan have wanted you taken care of?”

Cate’s grip tightened on the pitchfork, her knuckles white. How dare he use Jonathan’s name like that? she thought, fury and grief tangling in her chest. But beneath it all, a small, traitorous part of her whispered: What if he’s right?

She could feel his eyes on her, judging her, and she fumed with indignation. Cate whirled to face him, her hazel eyes flashing with defiance. 

“I am taken care of,” she said, her voice low and steady. “By myself.”

Luke’s brow furrowed, his expression full of concern and frustration. “Cate, be reasonable. You’re carrying a child. This ranch is too much for—”

“For what, Luke?” Cate interrupted, stepping closer. She met his gaze. “For a woman? For a widow? I’ve run this ranch for months now, through grief and morning sickness. I’m not about to hand it over just because you think I’m incapable.”

Luke opened his mouth to respond, but Cate was already passing him, her swollen belly brushing against a wooden beam as she headed to the far stall. She could feel Luke’s eyes on her back, his disapproval radiating like heat.

I’ll show him, Cate thought, gritting her teeth against a wave of fatigue. I’ll show them all.

She reached for the latch on the stall door, determined to prove her competence by handling the most stubborn cow in the herd. But as she swung the gate open, a sudden commotion erupted.

The cow, startled by the abrupt movement, let out a panicked bellow and reared up. Cate stumbled backward, her center of gravity thrown off by her pregnancy. She felt herself falling, her arms flailing uselessly as the ground rushed up to meet her.

At that moment, strong hands gripped her waist, steadying her. Luke’s presence enveloped her, solid and unmovable. Cate’s breath caught in her throat, torn between relief and frustration at needing his help.

“I’ve got you,” Luke murmured, his voice too close to her ear.

Cate’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and anger—at herself, at Luke, at the entire situation. She wanted to push him away, to prove she didn’t need anyone. But she was still recovering from the almost fall and had to lean into him for support.

For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to feel safe in his arms. Then, reality crashed back in, and Cate stiffened, pulling away from Luke’s steadying grip. She stepped back, her fingers smoothing down her dress with quick, agitated motions. The lingering warmth of Luke’s hands on her waist felt like a brand, a silent accusation of her weakness.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice clipped. Cate didn’t meet Luke’s eyes, couldn’t bear to see the satisfaction she knew would be lurking there. She turned away, busying herself with adjusting the hay in the nearby stall. 

“I know you’re capable,” Luke said softly from behind her. “But there’s no shame in accepting help.”

Cate’s hands stilled. She wanted to lash out, to tell him she didn’t need his help or anyone else’s. But the words caught in her throat. Instead, she let out a long breath and said, “I appreciate your concern, Luke. But I can manage.”

As she spoke, her gaze drifted across the barn, seeking anything to focus on besides Luke’s worried frown. That’s when she noticed it—a leather satchel tucked away in the corner, half-hidden behind a pile of old tack.

Something about it nagged at her, a memory just out of reach. Frowning, Cate took a step closer. “What’s that doing here?”

She turned to Luke, keeping her tone deliberately casual. “I don’t recall seeing it before.”

Luke glanced over. “Oh, that old thing?” He shrugged, busying himself with coiling a length of rope. “Found it while clearing out some of Jonathan’s things. Just haven’t gotten around to tossing it yet.”

Cate’s instincts prickled, the satchel wasn’t something she recognized. “Jonathan’s? I don’t remember him having a satchel like this.”

Luke met her gaze, his brown eyes steady. “Must’ve been tucked away somewhere. You know how he was with his odds and ends.”

Cate nodded, her mind racing. It was true, Jonathan had been prone to collecting bits and pieces, always insisting they might come in handy someday. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded, forcing a small smile. 

She turned away from the satchel, her hand unconsciously moving to rest on her swollen belly. The morning’s excitement and her fatigue from a poor night’s sleep settled over her like a heavy blanket.

“I should head back to the house,” Cate said, striding toward the barn door. “June will be wondering where I’ve gotten to.”

Chapter Two

West of Aspen Falls, Wyoming, 1870

The stagecoach lurched over another rut, jolting Matthias from his half-sleep. His fingers tightened instinctively around the flat cap in his lap, an old habit he hadn’t shaken. Outside, Wyoming’s winter landscape crawled past, a world of ashen white and dull brown.

“Gonna be a cold one tonight,” the merchant beside him mused, his voice cutting through the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels. “Colder than a banker’s heart at foreclosure time.” The merchant’s weathered face cracked into a smile beneath a salt-and-pepper mustache.

Matthias offered a tight smile, shifting his weight on the hard bench. His back ached from hours of maintaining the same rigid posture, while they bounced around on the rough-hewn roads. 

“Name’s Wilbur. Heading to Aspen Falls myself. Supplying the general store there.” He paused, clearly waiting for Matthias to introduce himself.

“Matthias,” he said simply, offering no more. 

The cap beneath his fingers was worn thin at the edges, the fabric still carrying a lingering scent of woodsmoke and cheap tobacco. Tommy had been so proud of it. He’d saved for months to buy something that wasn’t a hand-me-down. Now the boy was in the ground, and the cap was all that remained. 

The merchant, Wilbur, was undeterred by Matthias’s reticence. “Got family out this way?”

“No.” Matthias turned toward the window, watching his breath fog the glass. The truth of that single syllable cut deeper than he’d expected.

“Business then? Aspen Falls is mostly ranching. Good folk, though. Hard-working.” Wilbur tapped his fingers against the leather seat as he spoke.

Matthias smoothed the cap across his thigh, his thumb tracing the faded stitching along the brim. “Just passing through.”

The coach hit another rut, sending the third passenger—a dozing elderly woman—into a startled snort before she settled back against her corner. Outside, the afternoon sun struggled against a bank of heavy clouds, casting the snow-covered hills in a gray shroud.

“Strange time of year to be ‘passing through’ these parts,” Wilbur observed, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “Most folks with sense are either hunkered down for winter or headed south.”

Matthias’s shoulders tensed beneath his threadbare coat. He’d been running for months, sleeping rough, taking odd jobs when he could and moving on before anyone asked too many questions. The stage ticket had cost nearly everything he had left.

“I go where I need to,” he finally said.

The stagecoach clattered over a wooden bridge, the sound echoing back like distant gunfire. Matthias flinched, his hand instinctively moving to his side where his pistol would have been if he hadn’t pawned it three towns back.

Wilbur noted the movement but said nothing. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the creak of leather straps and the rhythmic clopping of hooves.

Matthias closed his eyes, but the darkness brought no peace. Behind his eyelids, he saw Tommy’s face, heard Hans’s sharp commands, and felt the weight of the choices he’d made, and the paths not taken. The flat cap was a reminder of his failure, yet he couldn’t bear to part with it.

“Interesting cap,” Wilbur said suddenly, nodding toward Matthias’s lap. “Got a boy myself who wears one just like it. Popular with the younger fellas, I suppose.”

Matthias’s fingers went still. “It was a friend’s.”

“Was?”

“He’s gone now.”

The merchant’s expression softened with understanding. “My condolences.”

Matthias didn’t respond. Condolences wouldn’t bring Tommy back. Wouldn’t change the fact that Matthias should have left the gang sooner, should have taken the kid with him. Wouldn’t erase the memory of blood soaking through rough cotton as Tommy’s breathing grew shallow and finally stopped.

As the stagecoach rattled westward, Matthias stared at the passing landscape and wondered if any place was far enough to escape the things he’d done—and the man who would surely be hunting him.

Hours later, the stagecoach rattled to a stop, the driver calling out the name of the small settlement as he reined in the horses. The driver turned to him on the bench. “This is the last stop before we head back west.”

Matthias’s fingers curled at his sides. He couldn’t go back. He knew what lay in wait for him if he did.

“Not going that way,” he said simply, shifting to grab his bag.

The driver shrugged. “Suit yourself. Snow’s coming in heavy, though. You sure?”

Matthias nodded, stepping down onto the frozen ground. He was willing to take his chances. “I’ll manage.”

The stage creaked as the driver gave him one last, considering look, then snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward, wheels crunching over the packed snow as the coach rumbled away. 

Matthias didn’t watch it go. His feet already carried him toward the dimly lit homestead, with smoke curling from its chimney.

As he got closer, the small cabin came into view, its wooden bones weathered to the color of wet ash. He hesitated at the sagging porch steps, his breath curling in the frigid air. The place wasn’t much, but it was warm. 

He’d barely knocked before the door swung open, unleashing a flood of children. Five, maybe six of them, all wide-eyed and tangled in each other’s limbs. They circled him with curious eyes and half-formed smiles, their clothes patchworked and faded but clean. 

“You the man Ma’s expecting?” asked a girl with a missing front tooth, her dark braids trailing over thin shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than eight.

Matthias shook his head, suddenly aware of how threatening he must appear—unshaven, trail-worn, his eyes hollow from too many nights without proper sleep. “Just passing through,” he said, the same words he’d offered the merchant. 

The door creaked open further, and a woman appeared in the doorway, wiping flour-dusted hands on a frayed apron. She took one look at him, and her expression softened. “Children, let the man breathe.” Her face was lined with the gentle erosion of hard years, but her eyes remained kind. “Can I help you, mister?”

Before Matthias could respond, a boy of about ten squeezed past her, his movements quick and purposeful. Something in the tilt of his head, the careful assessment in his gaze, sent a jolt through Matthias’s chest. Not Tommy—nothing like Tommy in appearance with his shock of red hair and a smattering of freckles—but something in his manner carried the same quiet determination, the same watchful intelligence.

“Ma, he’s got a cap,” the boy said, pointing at the flat cap in Matthias’s hand. “A proper one, not like Pa’s old thing.”

Matthias looked down at the cap. The wool was worn thin at the edges, the band darkened with sweat and time. Tommy had loved this cap and had worn it tilted jauntily to one side, even when the other boys had teased him for trying to look older than his fifteen years.

The red-haired boy stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the cap with the kind of naked wanting that only children can display without shame. “Is it yours, mister?”

Matthias’s throat tightened. “It was a friend’s,” he managed.

“Where’s your friend now?” the boy asked with innocent curiosity.

“Gone,” Matthias said, the word barely audible.

The woman’s face softened with understanding. “Jacob, don’t pester the man. I’m sorry for your loss,” she added.

But the boy—Jacob—remained transfixed, his gaze moving between Matthias’s face and the cap. “It’s like the one in the picture of Pa,” he said, “from before.”

Matthias looked at the woman, a question in his eyes.

“Their father passed last winter,” she explained quietly. “Hunting accident. Jacob was with him.”

Understanding settled heavy in Matthias’s chest. A boy who’d witnessed death too young, just as he had, just as Tommy had. Without fully comprehending why, Matthias found himself extending the cap toward Jacob.

“It’s from your father,” he said, the lie slipping out smoothly. He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because the boy needed it more than he did.

Jacob’s mouth dropped open. “Really?” he whispered, reaching for the cap with reverent hands.

Matthias forced a smile. “He’d want you to have it.” 

Jacob placed the cap carefully on his head. It was too large, slipping down to rest on his ears, but his face transformed with a joy so pure it was almost painful to witness.

“Thank you, mister,” he said.

Matthias nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

The woman studied Matthias with a gaze that seemed to peel back his layers. “Would you like to stay for supper? It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”

Matthias wanted to say yes. To sit at a table and have a nice home-cooked meal. But he didn’t deserve that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Can’t,” he said, stepping back. “Storm’s coming. Thank you, but I need to keep moving.”

As he turned away from the cabin, leaving behind the last piece of Tommy, he told himself he felt lighter.

 It was a lie.

The wind didn’t howl so much as scream, tearing at Matthias’s coat, seeping into his bones. Each step forward was a struggle, his boots breaking through ice crust into knee-deep drifts that seemed determined to hold him in place. Snow swirled thick around him, erasing the world in white. He pushed forward, legs heavy, lungs burning. Stopping meant dying, and despite everything, Matthias wasn’t ready to die.

He’d left the cabin hours ago, pushing westward with no clear destination beyond putting some distance between himself and the boy wearing Tommy’s cap. He needed a break. A clean break. A necessary one. To get away from the temptation of warmth and belonging that had no place in the life of a man like him. But now, the snow that had started gently enough, fat flakes drifting lazily from a slate-gray sky, had quickly transformed into something vicious and blinding.

A sound cut through the wall of white noise—so faint he almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. Crunch. There it was again. The distinctive crunch of hooves on packed snow. 

Matthias froze, his pulse hammering.

He turned slowly, scanning the ridge he’d descended just thirty minutes earlier. At first, he saw nothing but swirling white. Then, a shadow separated itself from the uniform grayness—a darker silhouette etched against the pale backdrop. A rider, moving with purpose.

Hans.

A cold spike of fear shot through Matthias’s chest, sharp and undeniable. Even at this distance, even through the veil of snow, he would know that posture anywhere—the slight forward lean, the predatory patience. 

An image flashed through Matthias’s mind: Hans standing over Tommy’s body, his expression as cold as the air currently freezing Matthias’s lungs. “Casualties happen,” Hans had said, not even looking at the dying boy. “You getting soft, Matt? That’ll get you killed faster than any bullet.”

That was when Matthias knew he had to leave. Not just the robbery gone wrong, not just Tommy bleeding out, but the realization that Hans had become something he’d promised himself he’d never follow.

Now, seeing that familiar shadow on the ridge, Matthias felt a different kind of cold wash through him. Hans wasn’t here by chance. Somehow, he’d tracked Matthias across three territories, through snow and wilderness. And there could be only one reason: the diamonds. The damn diamonds Matthias didn’t even know existed until he was two states away and heard about the mysterious missing gems from the Winslow robbery.

Panic shoved aside his exhaustion. He ran.

Matthias plunged forward, abandoning any pretense of careful progress. He crashed through snowdrifts, half-running, half-stumbling down the slope toward a stand of distant trees. His breath came in white clouds, immediately torn away by the wind. His legs burned, muscles pushed beyond endurance, but fear proved a powerful fuel.

He didn’t know if Hans had spotted him and didn’t stop to look back to find out. Matthias forced himself faster, ignoring the burning in his lungs. The wind howled in his ears, drowning out everything but the thunder of his heartbeat.

He only had one thought. Escape. He needed to disappear, get to the trees, and find cover. The pines loomed like sentinels in the gathering dusk, their snow-laden branches bowing under winter’s weight. Matthias stumbled between their trunks, forcing himself deeper into the forest. 

His boot caught on something buried beneath the snow—a root or fallen branch—sending him sprawling face-first into a drift. Snow exploded around him, burning his cheeks as it covered his face. 

Matthias tried to push up, but his body wouldn’t obey. His arms trembled, and his legs refused to move. He was too cold. Too weak. 

“Gotta keep moving,” he muttered, as he slowly managed to get to his feet. 

But which way? He turned in a slow circle, the trees offering no guidance, no distinctive features to orient himself. Had he been traveling west? North? The storm had stolen the sun, and with it, his ability to navigate. For all he knew, he was walking in circles.

Matthias cocked his head, straining to hear through the muffled silence of the snow-packed forest. He could detect nothing. No hoofbeats. No cracking twigs. 

Had he lost Hans in the storm? 

A violent shiver racked his frame, his body’s desperate attempt to generate heat. Matthias tucked his hands into his armpits, continuing his staggering progress through the trees. His thoughts drifted. 

He saw Tommy showing off his new cap, grinning with boyish pride. He felt the phantom weight of his pistol and remembered the acrid smell of gunpowder. He heard Hans’s laughter around a campfire, back when they had been something like brothers.

The memories blurred together, past and present interweaving until Matthias could no longer distinguish them. 

A fallen log appeared before him, half-buried in snow. Matthias collapsed onto it, knowing he should keep moving but unable to command his legs to rise. Without shelter, without fire, he couldn’t survive.

Matthias fumbled with frozen fingers at his coat, searching for matches, for anything that might spark a flame. But he came up with nothing. Accepting the inevitable, he carved a small indent in the snow next to the log and curled up against it, using it as a windbreak as best he could.

Above him, the wind howled mercilessly. 

Matthias tried to stay awake, tried to fight the pull of unconsciousness. But the snow was so soft and quiet. Just a moment. He’d close his eyes for just a moment. 

The world faded to white, then to nothing at all.