Chapter 1 - The Man in the Storm
By the third night, I had stopped expecting my husband to return.
I hadn't stopped hoping.
There was a difference.
Every few minutes, another contraction tore through me, forcing my fingers into the splintered edge of the wooden crate beside the couch. Snow hammered the cabin windows so violently that the entire structure groaned.
“Evan,” I whispered.
Nothing.
Three days earlier, our SUV had died on a mountain road outside Fort Benton.
Evan had kissed my forehead and promised to find help.
He never came back.
Now I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, freezing, and bleeding enough to understand that waiting was no longer a plan.
Then the door exploded inward.
I screamed.
A massive figure appeared through the snow.
Black coat.
Broad shoulders.
Gun at his side.
Vincent Callahan.
Even I knew the name.
People in Montana called him a businessman when microphones were nearby. Everywhere else, they called him something considerably worse.
He stared at me.
“How long have you been like this?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Where's your husband?”
“He went for help.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Something changed in Vincent's face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
He knew what three days in that storm meant.
But instead of saying it, he removed his gun and deliberately placed it on the table where I could see it.
Then he started tearing apart a broken chair.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don't freeze before you terrify me with whatever happens next.”
Despite the pain, I laughed.
Twenty minutes later, the fireplace was burning.
Vincent melted snow, found towels in his travel bag, and repeatedly tried a satellite phone.
Nothing.
Another contraction hit.
I grabbed his wrist.
“I can't.”
He knelt beside me.
“Yes, you can.”
“You don't know that!”
“No.”
His hand closed around mine.
“But you're going to do it anyway.”
Two hours disappeared into pain.
Then Vincent's expression changed.
“The baby's coming.”
After that, everything became fragments.
Firelight.
Snow.
Vincent's voice.
My own screaming.
One final push.
Then—
Silence.
Vincent held my newborn in both hands.
Wrapped quickly in clean cloth.
Still.
“Vincent?”
He didn't answer.
“Why isn't my baby crying?”
For the first time, the most feared man in Montana looked frightened.
Then headlights swept across the windows.
One SUV.
Then another.
Then four more.
Vincent instantly pulled the baby against his chest.
Men surrounded the cabin.
A voice thundered through the storm.
“CALLAHAN!”
My blood turned cold.
Because I knew that voice.
“Hand over the baby!”
Vincent looked at me.
“Claire?”
I could barely speak.
“That…”
May you like
The cabin door shook beneath a heavy blow.
“That’s my husband.”
