Last Ride Through the Blizzard (Preview)

Chapter One

The Winchester’s stock had worn smooth as river stone under Samuel “Hawk” Harrison’s palm, seven years of high-country winters leaving their mark in the wood’s polished surface. Today the rifle felt different—heavier, like it sensed what was coming before he did.

The December air cut through his wool coat with the persistence of a blade, each gust carrying the peculiar metallic taste that meant serious weather. Below him, the stagecoach bucked and lurched through Sangre de Cristo Canyon like a ship in heavy seas, wheels clattering over rough stone and echoing off the towering red walls.

“Storm’s building faster than I ever seen,” called Jim Taggart from the driver’s box, his voice barely carrying over the wind that poured down from the peaks like water through a funnel. The old-timer’s hands—gnarled as oak roots and twice as strong—worked the leather reins with forty years of experience, but even Jim kept glancing at the sky worriedly. “Them clouds got the devil in ’em.”

Hawk said nothing, but his eyes never left the ridge line where pinyon pine bent like grass before gusts that stripped the last brown leaves from the scrub oak. The sky had gone the color of old pewter, the change in atmosphere making the horses nervous. Above the timberline, snow devils danced across the exposed peaks, and the wind blew cold.

But the approaching blizzard wasn’t what made his neck prickle with unease.

Movement flickered against the canyon rim where shadows pooled beneath wind-twisted juniper and pinyon. Three riders, dark as storm clouds themselves, kept pace with the coach while trying to blend with the broken landscape of red sandstone and sage. Hawk had marked them two miles back when their dust first caught his eye. They rode parallel to the road, maintaining distance like wolves following a wounded elk.

They had to be amateur road agents to be standing in such an obvious place. Any man worth his salt would know better than to silhouette himself against granite spires with a storm breathing down his neck. Their horses showed lather even at this distance, white foam visible against dark flanks where they’d been pushed too hard for too long. Either stolen animals they didn’t care about ruining, or their own mounts ridden by desperation rather than sense.

The canyon walls rose on either side like the ribs of some long-dead giant, their faces painted in bands of rust and gold. Wind-carved alcoves held pools of shadow where anything might hide, and the road itself was barely more than a scratch across the landscape.

Inside the coach, leather creaked and wood groaned as the vehicle fought the road’s punishment. The salesman—a nervous man with soft hands and a sample case full of mechanical marvels—had been muttering prayers in German since they’d left Santa Fe. His voice rose and fell with each lurch and sway, creating a rhythm that matched the horses’ labored breathing. Beside him, an elderly couple from back East were pressed together, the woman’s gloved hand finding her husband’s.

But it was the fourth passenger who held Hawk’s attention whenever he wasn’t watching the ridge line. The man had given his name as Flemming and paid his fare in gold coin without haggling over the price. His clothes spoke of money and were the kind of garments a man wore when he expected to work in them or fight in them.

Flemming sat too still for a man experiencing his first taste of frontier travel, his hands resting easy on his knees despite the coach’s wild bucking. When Hawk had helped him up that morning, the stranger’s grip had the calloused strength of someone familiar with reins and firearms both.

The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees since noon, and the first scouts of the main storm began to arrive—fat snowflakes that struck the coach roof like thrown pebbles, melting instantly against wood warmed by the friction of hard travel. Devil’s Bend lay just ahead.

The bend had earned its name honestly over the years, marked by wheel ruts that ended in splintered wood and bones picked clean by ravens. Smart drivers approached it with respect; desperate men used it for murder. It was the perfect killing ground. The road curved sharply around a house-sized boulder that forced coaches to slow down or risk tumbling into the ravine that fell away to darkness below.

The riders on the rim had stopped trying for concealment now, spurring their mounts down the steep slope in a shower of loose stone and struggling sage. Their war cries echoed off the canyon walls.

“Jim,” Hawk called, his voice carrying just far enough. “Don’t slow for the bend.”

The driver’s weathered face turned toward him, eyes widening. “That’s courting disaster—”

“Less disaster than what’s coming down that slope.”

Hawk brought the Winchester to his shoulder. The lead rider was maybe twenty years old, beard scraggly as a molting bird, hat pulled low over eyes that probably held more fear than malice. His horse was a good animal, a bay gelding with the clean lines of cavalry breeding, most likely stolen.

The canyon’s acoustics played tricks with sound. Wind howled through gaps in the stone while the coach wheels created their own percussion section against the rocky road. Behind it all lay the deeper rumble of the approaching storm, a bassy rumble seeming to rise from the earth itself.

As the coach approached Devil’s Bend, the three riders committed to their attack. They came down the slope hooting and hollering like Comanche on a war party, revolvers waving in the air more for show than accuracy. The leader fired first, a warning shot that went wide by twenty feet and probably wasn’t meant to hit anything but air.

Hawk’s answering shot cracked like thunder. The bullet took the leader’s hat clean off his head, sending it spinning into the wind. The Winchester’s muzzle flash lit the gathering gloom for an instant, and suddenly the bandits’ war cries turned to something else.

The leader’s horse reared, forelegs pawing air as it fought its rider’s panic. The animal had sense enough to fear gunfire even if its master didn’t. Behind him, his companions hauled back on their reins so hard their mounts sat down on their haunches, sliding in the loose shale that covered the slope.

“Yahh!” Jim’s whip cracked over the team’s heads with the sound of breaking bones, and the four horses threw their weight into the harnesses. The coach swayed on its springs as they took Devil’s Bend at a pace that would have terrified passengers if they’d had time to think about anything beyond holding on.

Hawk worked the Winchester’s lever, brass cartridge case spinning away into the wind as a fresh round slid home. His second shot struck stone six inches above the scattered bandits, showering them with granite chips sharp as razors. Their horses began to pitch and dance, rolling their eyes white as they caught the scent of fear from their riders.

The third shot he sent high into the air, but the message was clear enough. The would-be road agents scrambled back up the slope like startled rabbits. One of them lost his revolver in his haste to retreat, the weapon clattering down the rocks to disappear into a crevice where ravens might nest come spring.

Inside the coach, the salesman was cursing in rapid German. But underneath the profanity came something unexpected: laughter. The elderly woman’s voice was shaky but genuine with amusement.

“My stars, I haven’t had such excitement since Atlanta burned!”

The well-dressed stranger’s response came through the leather window curtain, calm as morning coffee despite the violence just concluded. “Professionally handled. How much farther to the next station?”

“Willow Creek’s just ahead,” Jim called back, but his voice carried less confidence than his words. “Five miles if this weather holds.”

The weather had no intention of holding. What had been individual snowflakes became a coordinated assault, wind-driven crystals that struck like buckshot against anything in their path. The temperature plummeted again, and ice began forming on the horses’ muzzles where their breath met the frigid air. Their flanks steamed like locomotives, and their hoofbeats took on a hollow ring against the rapidly freezing ground.

Within an hour, the world had vanished behind a white wall that reduced visibility to the length of a man’s arm. Snow drove horizontally with a malice that nearly seemed personal. It piled against rocks and filled every depression, turning the familiar landscape into an alien maze. The road disappeared beneath a blanket that grew deeper with each passing minute.

The horses labored now, their easy gait replaced by the plunging struggle of animals working against forces beyond their understanding. The coach lurched and wallowed in drifts that reached the wheel hubs, and twice Jim had to use his whip to keep the team moving when they tried to stop and turn their backs to the storm.

Hawk pulled his hat low and hunched deeper into his coat, but the cold worked its way through every gap. His hands went numb inside his gloves, and he had to work his fingers constantly to maintain feeling in them. The Winchester’s metal surfaces grew cold enough to burn exposed skin, and his breath formed icicles on his mustache that clicked when he turned his head.

“There!” Jim’s shout barely carried over the wind’s howl. “Willow Creek Station!”

The building materialized from the storm. Two stories of solid log construction, chinked tight against weather like this and set on a stone foundation that would shed water come spring thaw. Warm yellow light glowed from windows and smoke rose straight up from stone chimneys before the wind caught it and scattered it in the building tempest.

But it was the figure on the covered front porch that caught Hawk’s attention—a woman holding a lantern high. The light revealed wind-whipped skirts and hair that escaped its pins to stream like a banner. She stood rooted as the mountains themselves, ready to offer shelter or defend it depending on what approached through the storm.

The coach lurched to a stop in the station yard, wheels sliding the last few feet in snow that was already knee-deep and building fast. Hawk swung down from his perch with the stiff movements of a man who’d been fighting cold and wind for hours. His boots punched through the snow’s crust and sank to the leather tops.

The woman on the porch stepped forward into the lantern’s circle of light, and what Hawk saw there made him reassess his first impression. This was no frontier farm wife grown weathered by hardship. Her face held that particular quality of Eastern refinement—features that spoke of good breeding and better education, but set in lines that had learned to read strangers quickly and accurately.

Chestnut hair escaped from a practical bun to frame a face that belonged to neither youth nor age. Her brown eyes swept over the coach and its occupants with an assessing gaze.

“Welcome to Willow Creek Station,” she called, her voice carrying clearly despite the wind. “I’m Catherine Powell. You’ll be staying the night, I expect.”

It wasn’t a question, and Hawk found himself appreciating the directness. Too many station keepers either fawned over passengers, hoping for generous tips, or treated them with suspicion that bordered on hostility.

The wind chose that moment to demonstrate why she was right, howling down from the peaks with force that made the coach rock on its springs and sent snow spiraling in devils that seemed to dance with malicious joy. The temperature had to be near zero now, and the storm showed no sign of weakening.

Hawk began helping passengers from the coach, noting how each reacted to their forced imprisonment. The elderly couple—the Weatherbys—seemed relieved to reach any shelter, clinging to each other as they navigated the treacherous footing. The salesman clutched his sample case tighter and unleashed a litany of complaints about delayed business and missed opportunities.

The man who called himself Flemming stepped down from the coach. His eyes swept the property with calculating interest.

“Ma’am,” Flemming said, touching his hat brim with practiced courtesy. “Might I ask about your other guests this evening?”

An odd question from a man who’d given no name beyond the obvious lie he’d offered. Catherine Powell’s expression didn’t change, but Hawk caught the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her grip shifted on the lantern as if getting ready to swing it into someone’s head.

“I run a way station, sir, not a hotel registry,” she replied, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “My guests’ business is their own.”

“Of course. I meant no offense.”

But something in Flemming’s tone suggested he’d learned what he wanted to know anyway—that there were others here, that the station wasn’t empty except for its operator.

The front door of the station opened with a rush of warm air that carried the smells of woodsmoke and good cooking. A gray-haired woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron.

“Land sakes, Catherine, get those poor souls inside before they turn to ice sculptures!” Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to managing kitchens and the people who filled them. “I’ve got rooms ready and stew that’ll put meat back on their bones.”

The next few minutes became a confusion of introductions, stamping feet, and the grateful sighs of travelers who’d found shelter from a storm that wanted to kill them. Catherine Powell proved as efficient as her first impression suggested.

The Weatherbys, who explained they were from Pennsylvania and traveling to see their son in Colorado Territory, settled near the massive stone fireplace with visible relief. The old man extended his hands toward the flames with gratitude while his wife fussed over him.

The salesman—Cornelius Finch, he’d introduced himself with commercial enthusiasm—spread his samples across a side table like a card sharp displaying a winning hand. Patent leather goods gleamed in the firelight alongside gadgets that promised to revolutionize frontier life and bottles of patent medicine that probably held more alcohol than healing herbs.

Flemming had taken a seat where he could watch both the front window and the room’s occupants, declining offers of coffee and conversation. He’d asked for a room with a view of the road, and when Catherine mentioned the extra cost, he’d produced a gold piece without hesitation or haggling.

“Storm could last a while,” he’d explained with the kind of smile that revealed nothing. “I like to keep an eye on the weather.”

Hawk didn’t believe that for a minute. Men who watched roads weren’t concerned with weather. But Catherine had pocketed the gold and led Flemming upstairs without comment.

The main room of Willow Creek Station revealed a woman’s hand applied with both taste and practicality. Clean but not fussy, with furniture built to last through years of rough use by strangers who might not respect what wasn’t theirs. Brightly patterned quilts covered the sturdy chairs. Books lined one wall in numbers that would have impressed a town library, their spines showing the wear that came from actual reading rather than display.

The smell of good cooking drifted from the kitchen, mixed with the comforting scents of beeswax and wood smoke that spoke of a home maintained with care. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth deep enough to burn logs the size of telegraph poles, and the warmth it threw reached every corner of the room.

“You’ll want to see to your horses,” Catherine said when she returned from settling Flemming in his room, appearing at Hawk’s elbow quietly. “I’ve got good hay and oats in the stable, and my man Pedro left extra blankets before the storm hit.”

“Much obliged.” Hawk gathered his saddlebags and rifle case. “Your Pedro—he around to help?”

“Rode to town three days ago to visit his sister. Won’t be back until this weather clears.” Something in her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely pleased about being short-handed, especially with a station full of strangers whose intentions remained unclear.

Through the window, Hawk could see Jim Taggart already leading the coach horses toward the stable, bent against wind that tried to knock him sideways with each step. The driver knew his business—animals came first, always. Passengers might complain about delays and discomfort, but horses that froze to death couldn’t pull anybody anywhere.

“I’ll help him get them settled,” Hawk said. “This storm’s going to be a long one.”

Catherine nodded, but her attention had shifted. Following her gaze, Hawk saw that Flemming had returned from his room and positioned himself near the front window, seemingly absorbed in watching the snow fall in sheets.

But the angle of the man’s head suggested he was listening to their conversation. When their eyes met briefly across the room, Hawk recognized something familiar in Flemming’s expression—the patient watchfulness of a hunter.

The recognition was mutual. Flemming’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes, and his right hand moved almost imperceptibly toward his coat.

Outside, the storm hammered against the station’s walls with increasing fury, wind shrieking through gaps in the logs and rattling windows in their frames. Snow piled against the building, and somewhere in the distance, the howl of what might have been wind or wolves echoed eerily.

Chapter Two

Catherine Powell had learned to count heads the way a general counts soldiers—quickly, thoroughly, and with constant awareness that numbers could change without warning. Six travelers tonight, including the driver and the guard who’d finally given his name as Samuel Harrison. “But you can call me Hawk,” he’d said.

She moved through the station’s common room, calculating supplies against an unknown number of storm-bound days. The pantry held enough flour and preserved meat for a week if she stretched it, but coffee would run short if everyone drank it like the salesman, who’d already emptied two cups since arriving. The root cellar was well-stocked with potatoes and turnips, and Martha had canned enough vegetables last fall to feed a small army. Still, feeding six extra mouths for an extended period would strain resources she’d been carefully hoarding for the lean months ahead.

“Mrs. Powell?” The elderly woman, Mrs. Weatherby, approached with the hesitant shuffle of someone unaccustomed to imposing. “Might we trouble you for hot water? My husband’s joints ache something fierce in this weather.”

“Of course.” Catherine’s smile came easily; these two posed no threat beyond their obvious frailty. “Martha will bring it up directly. The room at the top of the stairs stays warmest—the kitchen chimney runs up that wall.”

The Weatherbys were traveling to visit their son in Colorado Territory, a journey that spoke of either desperation or devotion. During supper, Catherine had noticed how the old man’s hands shook when he lifted his coffee cup, and how his wife cut his meat without being asked.

“You’re too kind,” Mrs. Weatherby murmured. “I do hope we won’t be too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. It’s what we’re here for.”

But even as Catherine spoke the familiar words, her attention tracked the room’s other occupants. The salesman, Cornelius Finch, had cornered the driver near the fireplace, demonstrating some mechanical device from his sample case with the breathless enthusiasm of a man who lived for his next commission. His nervous energy had been filling every silence since he’d arrived, a constant German-accented chatter about progress and modern conveniences that set Catherine’s teeth on edge.

“…and this little beauty can repair leather goods right in the field! No more waiting for the cobbler when you’re a hundred miles from civilization. Why, I sold six units in Santa Fe alone…”

The driver, Jim Taggart, nodded politely while his eyes glazed over. He’d probably heard a thousand such pitches during his years on the road. Catherine almost felt sorry for him.

But it was the well-dressed man who’d introduced himself as Theodore Flemming that made her skin crawl. Western Railroad Company, he’d said, as if that should impress her. His handshake had lasted a moment too long, his smile never quite reaching pale eyes that swept her property with calculating interest. Even now, supposedly relaxing by the fire, those eyes never stopped moving.

The guard, Harrison, had positioned himself by the front window where he could watch both the storm and the room’s occupants. He’d given his name reluctantly, with the clipped tone of a man unaccustomed to social pleasantries.

His face bore the kind of weathered scars that came from violence survived, not accidents endured. The most prominent ran along his jawline, a thin white line that suggested knife work or perhaps broken glass. But it was his eyes that held Catherine’s attention longest—green as bottle glass and just as sharp, missing nothing even when he appeared to be looking elsewhere.

Those eyes were tracking Theodore Flemming now, though Harrison maintained the pretense of disinterest.

“Mrs. Powell.” Flemming’s voice oozed charm like honey from a cracked jar. “Might I have a word? I believe we have matters of mutual interest to discuss.”

Catherine’s heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. She’d been dreading this conversation since he’d introduced himself, hoping the storm might spare her at least one night. “Of course, Mr. Flemming. Shall we step into the kitchen? It’s warmer there.”

“Actually, I find the fireplace quite comfortable.” His smile revealed teeth too white and even. “Privacy isn’t necessary for what I have to say.”

But privacy was exactly what Catherine wanted—not for herself, but to spare her other guests from witnessing what promised to be an unpleasant conversation. The railroad’s previous “representatives” had started politely enough before their offers became threats.

Flemming settled into the best chair by the fire, making himself at home with the presumption of a man who typically got his way. “I understand you’ve received several generous offers for this property. The railroad is prepared to be even more… accommodating.”

“I’m not interested in selling, Mr. Flemming. I’ve made that clear to your associates.”

“Associates?” His eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “I’m afraid there’s been some miscommunication. The Western Railroad Company employs only the most professional negotiators. If you’ve dealt with anyone claiming to represent our interests, I assure you they were acting without authorization.”

The lie came so smoothly that Catherine almost admired its construction. But she’d lived through three years of escalating pressure since Robert’s death, from reasonable offers to barely veiled intimidation. Someone had killed her chickens last month, and her supply deliveries had become mysteriously unreliable. Professional negotiators, indeed.

“Nevertheless,” she said, “my answer remains the same.”

“I wonder if you’ve truly considered the dangers of operating such an isolated station. Winter storms, Indian raids, road agents…” His tone remained conversational, but his pale eyes had gone cold. “A woman alone faces so many risks. The railroad could provide security, protection from those who might wish you harm.”

Across the room, she noticed Harrison’s shoulders tense as Flemming’s tone grew more menacing, though he continued staring out at the storm as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“I appreciate your concern,” Catherine replied, injecting steel into her voice. “But I’ve managed quite well on my own.”

“Have you?” Flemming leaned forward, his veneer of politeness finally cracking. “Tell me, Mrs. Powell, what happens when your supply wagons stop coming? When word spreads that this station isn’t… safe… for travelers? When you’re left alone in the wilderness with nothing but your stubbornness for company?”

The threat was clear enough to make Catherine’s pulse quicken. “Are you suggesting the railroad would interfere with legitimate commerce, Mr. Flemming? That seems like something the territorial authorities might find interesting.”

His smile returned, colder than before. “The railroad only protects its investments, Mrs. Powell. We can’t be held responsible for the unfortunate consequences of poor business decisions.”

Catherine felt rather than saw Harrison shift position slightly. The movement was subtle, but it suggested he was listening more carefully than his casual posture indicated.

“I think this conversation is over,” she said, rising from her chair.

“For now.” Flemming remained seated, making it clear he considered himself the one ending their discussion. “But winter is long, Mrs. Powell, and spring brings changes. The railroad always gets what it needs.”

The words followed Catherine as she made her rounds, checking locks and securing the station for the night. It had become a ritual since the railroad’s interest intensified. Once, such precautions would have seemed excessive. Now they felt like the difference between safety and disaster.

Martha helped with the evening tasks, her experienced hands working alongside Catherine’s as they banked the fires and prepared for the long winter night ahead.

“That railroad man’s got the look of a snake,” Martha murmured as they checked the kitchen door.

“Indeed he does.” Catherine turned the key twice, listening for the solid click that meant the lock had engaged properly. “Keep an eye on him, Martha. Men like that don’t make idle threats.”

“What about the guard? He seems decent enough.”

Catherine considered the question as they climbed the stairs toward their rooms. Harrison did seem decent. But decent men could still be dangerous—perhaps more dangerous than obvious threats like Flemming, because they made you want to trust them.

Her room occupied the corner of the second floor, with windows facing both the front yard and the stable complex. It had been Robert’s choice, claiming he liked to keep an eye on arrivals and departures. Catherine had kept the arrangement after his death, finding comfort in the ability to monitor her domain even from rest.

Tonight, that habit served her well. As she prepared for bed, movement outside caught her attention. Through the front window, she could see a figure emerging from the stable, moving through the swirling snow gracefully despite the storm’s fury. Harrison, she realized, returning from checking on the horses.

But something was wrong with the picture.

Catherine pressed closer to the glass, wiping away the condensation her breath had created. The snow was falling heavily enough to obscure details, but not heavily enough to hide footprints entirely. And what she saw made her stomach clench with sudden fear.

Two sets of tracks led from the main house to the stable. One set—deeper and more defined—showed Harrison’s path through the snow. But the other set, lighter and partially filled but still visible, suggested someone else had made that journey recently.

She counted guests in her head: the Weatherbys had retired to their room an hour ago, the salesman was in the room beside theirs, chattering to himself as he organized his samples. The driver had taken his usual bunk in the back room near the kitchen. Flemming she’d left in the dining room, nursing a glass of whiskey by the dying fire.

That accounted for everyone. So who had left the second set of footprints?

Catherine watched Harrison trudge back toward the house, his form bent against the wind. As he reached the porch, another figure detached itself from the shadows near the stable—someone who’d remained hidden while the guard was inside, someone who’d waited patiently for the right moment to move.

The second figure moved differently than Harrison. Even through the storm, Catherine could tell this person knew how to avoid being seen, how to use shadows and weather as concealment.

Her hand found the small pistol Robert had insisted she keep in the bedside table—a nickel-plated .32 that she’d learned to use after his death. The cold weight of it should have been comforting, but tonight it felt inadequate.

Below, she heard the front door open and close as Harrison returned from his errand. His footsteps crossed the common room, pausing at intervals that suggested he was checking the same locks and windows she’d tested earlier.

But somewhere in the storm, someone else was moving with equal purpose through the darkness surrounding her home. Someone who knew the property well enough to navigate it in near-zero visibility, who understood which paths offered concealment and which led to observation points.

Catherine remained at the window long after Harrison’s footsteps faded up the stairs to his room, watching for movement that might betray the presence of whatever threat had begun circling her refuge. The storm showed no signs of abating, and sunrise was still hours away.

Chapter Three

Dawn came like a half-remembered promise. Hawk had been awake since before first light, listening to the storm’s assault on the station’s walls. By full morning, if morning had any meaning in the white hell outside, visibility had shrunk to nothing. A man could lose himself between the front porch and the stable, swallowed by a world that had turned into one vast white mouth.

The station’s main room held the close, tense atmosphere of a place under siege. Coffee percolated on the kitchen stove with steady rhythm, and the fire crackled in the hearth, but underneath the domestic sounds lay something else—the edgy restlessness of people forced together.

Cornelius Finch had been pacing the length of the common room since before sunrise, his sample case clutched in white-knuckled hands as he muttered about missed appointments and lost commissions. His patent leather shoes clicked against the wooden floor, each step like the ticking of a clock.

“Three days I was supposed to be in Pueblo,” he announced to no one in particular, his voice carrying the high pitch of barely controlled panic. “Three days! Baxter and Sons will cancel their order if I’m not there to demonstrate the leather punch. Twenty-seven units, Mr. Harrison! Twenty-seven units of prime inventory, gone because of this… this meteorological catastrophe!”

The elderly woman, Mrs. Weatherby, had developed a cough during the night, probably a result of the strain of yesterday’s cold journey. She sat bundled in quilts near the fire while her husband hovered nearby.

“It’s nothing, Henry,” she wheezed, but the sound contradicted her words. “Just the dry air. I’ll be fine once we get to Colorado.”

Assuming they ever got to Colorado. The storm showed no signs of weakening, and Hawk had lived through enough high-country winters to know weather like this could last a week or more.