A luxury transport coach sat abandoned in a Wyoming blizzard, its heavy iron doors padlocked from the outside.
As two hired guns rode away, leaving whoever was inside to die, the click of a Winchester rifle stopped them cold.
A towering furclad widowerower stepped from the white out. Open it now. The winter of 1886 was known across the Wyoming territory as the great die-up.
It was a season of merciless white outs that swallowed cattle whole and froze the blood of men who dared to wander too far from their hearths.
Deep in the Absuroka range, Wyatt Hatcher thrived in the isolation. He was a man carved from the very granite of the mountains he called home.
A towering broadsh shouldered trapper with a thick frost tipped beard and eyes the color of a bruised winter sky.
Wyatt lived alone save for the ghosts of his past. 3 years prior a sudden November fever had taken his wife Sadi.
The memory of her last breaths in their snowbound cabin had permanently hardened him against the world below the timberline.
He preferred the honest brutality of the wilderness to the treacherous nature of civilized men.
It was mid January when the storm hit its peak. Wyatt was trudging back from his trap lines on snowshoes, his breath pluming like locomotive smoke when he heard it.
The panicked, high-pitched winnie of a horse. He crested a snowdrift overlooking Dead Man’s Pass and squinted through the blinding squall.
Down in the ravine, a heavy reinforced stage coach was bogged down in snow up to its axles.
It wasn’t a standard passenger coach. It was a customuilt transport reinforced with iron plating, the kind usually reserved for hauling payroll or transporting dangerous outlaws to the territorial prison.
Two men bundled in heavy canvas dusters and wool scarves were unhitching the four draft horses.
They weren’t trying to dig the coach out. They were abandoning it. Wyatt slid down the embankment, his snowshoes cutting silently through the powder.
As he closed the distance, the howling wind carried fragments of their shouting. “I ain’t leaving her in there, Caleb!”
The younger man yelled, struggling with a leather trace. “It’s 30 below. She’ll be dead by midnight.
The older man, Caleb, struck the younger one across the jaw with the butt of his riding crop.
That’s the whole damn point. Billy, MR. Galt, paid us $500 to see. She doesn’t make it to Cheyenne.
He said, “Let the mountain have her. Now get on the horse before I leave you to freeze with her.”
Wyatt’s blood ran colder than the wind. Leaving a soul to freeze was a coward’s murder.
He stepped out from the veil of falling snow, his Winchester rifle raised and leveled dead at Caleb’s chest.
“You ain’t going anywhere.” Wyatt’s voice boomed, cutting through the gale like a thunderclap. Caleb spun around his hand, dropping to the cult revolver on his hip.
He froze when he saw the sheer size of the mountain man and the unblinking black eye of the rifle barrel.
“Mister, this ain’t your business.” Caleb sneered, his breath hitching. This is private freight. You unhitch a team in a blizzard and leave a locked box behind it.
Becomes my business, Wyatt growled, stepping closer until the muzzle of his rifle pressed against the heavy brass buttons of Caleb’s coat.
He nodded toward the heavy iron padlock securing the coach’s door. “Open it now. I don’t have the key.”
Caleb lied, his eyes darting to the side. Wyatt didn’t blink. He cocked the hammer of the Winchester.
The metallic click was louder than the storm. Then I guess I’ll just use you to break the lock.
I won’t ask again. Trembling, Caleb reached into his vest pocket and produced a heavy brass key.
He fumbled with the frozen lock, his fingers stiff and clumsy. With a harsh clank, the padlock popped open.
Wyatt shoved Caleb back into the snow and yanked the heavy iron door open himself.
The interior of the coach was completely stripped of cushions or blankets. It was a rolling ice box.
Huddled in the farthest corner, curled into a tight, shivering ball, was a woman. She was dressed in a thin pale blue cotton dress, clothing meant for a summer parlor, not a Wyoming blizzard.
Her lips were blue, her skin pale as porcelain, and her dark hair was plastered to her cheeks with frozen tears.
She was barely breathing. A fierce protective rage flared in Wyatt’s chest. He remembered Sadi’s cold hands.
He remembered the helplessness. He would not let another woman die in his mountains. Wyatt turned his terrifying gaze back to the two hired guns.
Take your horses. Ride north. If I see either of you in this pass again, I’ll feed you to the wolves piece by piece.
The men didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled onto their bearback mounts and spurred them into the storm.
Desperate to escape the devil of the Absuroka. Wyatt reached into the coach. The woman felt like marble.
He stripped off his massive buffalo hide coat and wrapped it tightly around her frail body, lifting her into his arms.
She weighed next to nothing. Her eyelids fluttered, revealing eyes the color of dark molasses, but she was too far gone to speak.
“Hold on,” Wyatt whispered into her frozen hair, pulling her against the radiating heat of his chest.
“I’ve got you.” The trek back to his cabin was a grueling two-mile ascent. Wyatt’s muscles burned his lungs, screaming in the thin, freezing air, but he didn’t stop.
He kicked his cabin door open immediately, carrying her to the thick bare rug, positioned in front of the cast iron potbelly stove.
He worked with frantic precision. He stoked the embers into a roaring fire, filling the one room cabin with desperate heat.
He knew the dangers of warming frostbite too quickly. He couldn’t just plunge her into hot water.
Her heart would stop. He had to thaw her from the inside out. Wyatt peeled away the frozen cotton dress, keeping his eyes respectfully averted, and dressed her in his thickest flannel shirt and wool long johns.
He wrapped her in three layers of Hudson Bay blankets, leaving only her face exposed.
Heating a kettle of snow melt, he brewed a strong tea of willow bark and pine needles, carefully spooning the warm liquid past her chattering teeth.
For two days and two nights, the blizzard raged outside, beating against the log walls like a living beast.
And for two days, Wyatt didn’t sleep. He tended the fire. He rubbed snow on her extremities to slowly draw out the frostbite, his large, rough hands working with unexpected gentleness.
He listened to her shallow breathing, haunted by the fear that he was going to watch another woman slip away.
But on the morning of the third day, the wind died down, and the mountain woman opened her eyes.
Josephine Cole awoke to the smell of woodsm smoke and roasting rabbit. Her body felt heavy aching with a deep, throbbing soreness, as if she had been trampled by a herd of mustangs.
She blinked against the warm golden light of the cabin, her mind struggling to piece together the shattered fragments of her memory.
The last thing she remembered was the paralyzing cold, the sound of the iron door slamming shut, the horrifying realization that Bartholomew had actually gone through with it.
She jolted upright, gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, and she slumped back against the pillows.
Easy there. A deep grally voice rumbled from the corner of the room. Josephine turned her head.
Sitting at a small wooden table, cleaning a hunting knife with a rag, was the largest man she had ever seen.
He looked wild, untamed, like a creature born of the forest itself. Yet when he looked up, his eyes held a surprising, steady calm.
“Where am I?” She managed to croak her throat roar and dry. Mule Deer Ridge, about 30 mi from the nearest town,” Wyatt said, standing up.
He poured a tin cup of warm broth from a pot on the stove and walked over to her.
He knelt by the bed, offering the cup. “Drink this slowly.” Josephine hesitated, her dark eyes flashing with deeply ingrained mistrust.
The last men she had trusted had locked her in a freezing box. Seeing her fear, Wyatt took a sip of the broth himself, then wiped his beard.
“It’s just rabbit and wild onions. I ain’t going to hurt you, lady. If I wanted you dead, I would have left you with Caleb and Billy.”
The mention of the hired guns made Josephine stiffen. She took the cup with trembling hands, the sleeves of Wyatt’s massive flannel shirt swallowing her arms.
The broth was rich and salty, sending a desperately needed wave of warmth through her core.
“You saved me,” she whispered, staring into the liquid. “I did,” Wyatt replied bluntly, pulling up a wooden stool.
Now I want to know why a Cheyenne Aireys was locked in a territorial transport coach in the middle of a blizzard.
Josephine looked up startled. How do you know I’m from Cheyenne? Wyatt pointed a thick finger at the hem of the pale dress resting on a drying rack.
That’s imported silk trim. Cheyenne or Denver money. And nobody goes to the trouble of hiring private guns to freeze a woman unless there’s a fortune involved.
Josephine let out a bitter, exhausted laugh. You’re very observant for a hermit, mister. Hatcher.
Wyatt Hatcher. Josephine. Josephine Cole. She took another sip of the broth, gathering her strength.
The heat of the cabin was intoxicating, but the chill in her heart remained. My father was Harrison Cole.
He owned the Central Freight and Cattle Company out of Cheyenne. Wyatt raised an eyebrow.
Harrison Cole was a legend in the West, a self-made baron whose wagons supplied every mining camp from Colorado to Montana.
I know the name. Word is he passed away last month. He was murdered, Josephine said, her voice turning sharp as shattered glass.
Poisoned. The coroner called it a weak heart. But I know the truth. My father left the entire company to me.
But my stepbrother Bartholomew had other plans. He’s a greedy, degenerate gambler who owes thousands to the syndicates in Denver.
Wyatt crossed his arms, listening intently. The fire light danced across his rugged features, making him look entirely immovable.
Bart couldn’t contest the will. Josephine continued her hands, gripping the tin cup tightly. So he bribed a corrupt judge to declare me mentally unfit.
Hysteria, they called it. The papers ordered me committed to an asylum in Oregon. But Bart didn’t want me locked away.
If I lived, there was a chance I could contact a lawyer and fight back.
If I died in a tragic transportation accident, in a winter storm, the entire empire defaults to him as my sole surviving guardian.
Wyatt’s jaw tightened. He had seen the cruelty of men fighting over gold claims, but engineering the freezing death of a sister was a special kind of evil.
He locked you in that iron box and told his men to leave you in dead man’s pass.
The cold would do the work, and there wouldn’t be a bullet hole to explain to the sheriff.
“Exactly,” Josephine whispered a tear slipping down her cheek. She angrily wiped it away. They left me to freeze.
I could feel my blood slowing down. I was praying for sleep to take me.
And then I heard you. Wyatt looked away, staring into the belly of the iron stove.
The mountain didn’t want you today, Josephine. But Bart G isn’t going to stop. When the spring Thor comes and they find that coach empty, he’ll know you’re alive.
He won’t wait for spring. Josephine said a sudden edge of panic entering her voice.
She threw off the heavy blankets, attempting to stand, but her legs buckled instantly. Wyatt caught her before she hit the floor, his massive arms wrapping around her waist.
She felt fragile like a wounded sparrow, but there was a fierce blazing defiance in her eyes.
For a split second, Wyatt’s breath caught in his throat. Up close, Josephine Cole was breathtakingly beautiful.
Her dark hair cascaded over his forearm, and the scent of wild mint soap, which he had used to clean her frostbitten skin, rose between them.
“Wo there,” Wyatt murmured, lifting her effortlessly back onto the bed. “You aren’t going anywhere with those legs.
The frostbite nearly took your toes.” You don’t understand, Wyatt,” she pleaded, grabbing the front of his buckkin vest.
“Bart needs a body. Without a death certificate signed by a coroner, the bank won’t transfer the deed to the company.
He’ll send trackers to verify I’m dead in that coach. When they see the tracks, they’ll follow them.”
Wyatt’s eyes darkened. He gently removed her hands from his vest. He walked to the window, scraping away the frost with his thumbnail.
The blizzard had broken, leaving the mountain bathed in brilliant, blinding sunlight. The sky was an innocent crystalline blue.
But down in the valley, about 5 mi away near the treeine, a thin, unnatural ribbon of black smoke curled into the sky.
Campfire smoke. Wyatt turned back to the room, walking over to the fireplace mantle. He took down a heavy double-barreled shotgun and cracked it open, inspecting the shells.
“You’re right,” Josephine Wyatt said softly, his voice vibrating with a dangerous lethal calm. “They didn’t wait.
We have company.” Betrayed by her own blood and locked in an iron coach to freeze, he Josephine Cole was left for dead in a brutal Wyoming blizzard.
But her assassins didn’t count on Wyatt Hatcher. Now a ruthless bounty hunter tracks them, and the mountains deadly vengeance is about to finally begin.
The smoke in the valley thickened a dark gray stain against the pristine Wyoming sky.
Wyatt Hatcher didn’t panic. Panic was a luxury the frontier did not afford. He moved with a practiced terrifying efficiency, pulling heavy iron shutters over the cabin’s small windows and bolting them shut with thick oak planks.
He tossed a heavy wool coat over the dying embers in the stove, instantly cutting off the smoke from his own chimney.
If the men tracking them were relying on sight, he would make his home as invisible as a boulder in the snow drifts.
“How many do you think there are?” Josephine asked, her voice, trembling but her posture straightening.
She swung her frostbitten legs over the edge of the cot, wincing as the blood rushed to her tender feet.
She was wearing his oversized boots, now stuffed with rabbit fur for insulation. Caleb and Billy wouldn’t come back alone.
Not after looking down the barrel of my Winchester, Wyatt said grimly, loading thick brass shells into a leather bandelier strapped across his broad chest.
Bartholomew likely hired professionals, trackers, men who know how to read broken twigs and disturbed snow.
When they found that coach empty, they just followed the drag marks of my snowshoes right up the ridge.
He walked over to the center of the room and kicked aside the heavy braided rug.
Beneath it lay a cleverly concealed trap door, blending perfectly with the rough huneed pine floorboards.
He pulled a brass ring, lifting the heavy hatch to reveal a dark earthscented root cellar.
It was lined with jars of preserved peaches, salted venison, and sacks of dry beans.
Get in, Wyatt commanded his tone, leaving no room for argument. It’s dug deep into the perafrost.
Even if they manage to breach the door, they won’t find you down there. And if the worst happens and they put a torch to this cabin, the earth will keep you safe until the fire burns out.
Josephine stared at the dark hole, a sudden suffocating wave of claustrophobia washing over her.
It looked too much like the inside of that freezing iron transport coach. She took a step back, shaking her head.
No, I won’t hide in a box again. If my stepbrother sent men to kill me, I want to look them in the eye.
Wyatt stepped closer, his massive hands gently gripping her shoulders, his calloused thumbs brushed against her collarbone, a touch so unexpectedly tender, it sent a jolt straight to her heart.
Josephine, listen to me. You are a survivor. You beat the blizzard and you beat the ice.
But out there right now are men who kill for a wage. I need to know you are safe so I can do what needs to be done.
Please. His dark eyes held a pleading intensity that broke through her fear. With a reluctant nod, she climbed down the wooden ladder into the dim cold cellar.
Wyatt handed her a small cult pocket revolver. Pointed at the opening. If anyone but me opens this hatch, pull the trigger and do not stop until it clicks empty.
He closed the trap door, plunging her into darkness. Outside, the crunch of snow broke the mountains heavy silence.
Wyatt pressed his ear against the thick log wall. He could hear the heavy labored breathing of horses and the metallic jingle of spurs.
Three men, maybe four, they were surrounding the cabin in a tactical half moon formation, cutting off the only path down to the valley.
Hello, the cabin.” A raspy, booming voice called out from the treeine. It was a voice Wyatt recognized from his days running freight in the Dakotas.
It belonged to Gideon Cross, a disgraced former deputy turned hired gun, infamous for a streak of ruthless killings along the Bosezeman Trail.
We know you’re in there, Hatcher. We tracked your big snowshoes right up the ridge.
We ain’t got a quarrel with you. Hand over the woman and we’ll leave you to your trapping.
You’re a long way from the trail, Gideon. Wyatt shouted back through a narrow firing slit in the heavy window shutter.
There’s no woman here, just a man with a shotgun and a short temper. A harsh laugh echoed off the granite cliffs.
Don’t play me for a fool. Hatcher Caleb told me you pulled a rifle on him.
MR. Galt is paying $1,000 for her head. Now you can open that door and share the bounty or we can burn you out like a badger in a hole.
Wyatt didn’t waste his breath on another reply. He slipped the barrel of his Winchester through the firing slit, adjusting his sights.
He spotted a flash of brown canvas moving behind a snow draped pine tree. It was Billy, the younger of the two men he had spared in the past.
Wyatt exhaled a slow, steady breath and squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared, filling the small cabin with acurid gray gun smoke.
Outside, a yelp of pain rang out as the bullet splintered the pine bark, sending razor-sharp wooden shrapnel into Billy’s shoulder.
The young gunfighter dropped his weapon and fell back into the deep snow, screaming for help.
Gunfire immediately erupted from three different directions. Heavy-led slugs slammed into the cabin’s reinforced log walls, tearing chunks of bark and sending sawdust raining down from the ceiling.
Wyatt ducked below the window sill, cycling the lever of his rifle with blistering speed.
He moved to a second firing slit on the eastern wall, firing blindly into the brush to keep them pinned down.
Suddenly, a massive crash shook the front of the cabin. One of the mercenaries had used a heavy saddle log as a battering ram against the reinforced front door.
The iron hinges groaned the thick wood bowing inward. Wyatt dropped his rifle and grabbed the double-barreled shotgun from the mantle.
With a deafening crack, the door splintered open. A large, heavily scarred man in a buffalo coat lunged into the room, a drawn hunting knife gleaming in his hand.
Before the man could swing, Wyatt drove the heavy oak stock of the shotgun directly into his jaw.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed over the gunfire outside, and the intruder crumpled to the floor, unconscious, but the distraction cost him.
Gideon Cross stepped into the ruined doorway, a smoking pair of cult revolvers in his hands.
Before Wyatt could bring the shotgun to bear, Gideon fired. The bullet tore through the fleshy part of Wyatt’s left shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing against the cast iron stove.
Gideon sneered, stepping over his fallen comrade. “I warned you, Hatcher,” he spat, cocking both hammers.
Before he could pull the triggers, the braided rug in the center of the room heaved upward.
The heavy wooden trap door flipped open, and Josephine Cole emerged like a vengeful ghost.
She held the small pocket revolver with both hands, her dark eyes blazing with untamed fury.
Bang, bang, bang. She fired three times in rapid succession. The first shot missed entirely, shattering a lantern on the wall.
The second clipped Gideon’s arm, causing him to drop one of his pistols. The third struck him squarely in the thigh.
With a howl of agony, the notorious tracker stumbled backward, tripping over the ruined doorframe and falling out into the bloody snow.
Wyatt fought through the searing pain in his shoulder, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed his Winchester, rushing to the doorway to finish the fight, but the remaining mercenaries were already dragging Gideon onto his horse.
Seeing the blood and the ferocity of the defense, they lost their nerve. They spurred their mounts fleeing down the mountain trail and leaving their unconscious companion bleeding on the cabin floor.
The silence following the gunfight was profoundly heavy. Josephine dropped the empty pocket revolver upon the rough floorboards, her pale hands shaking uncontrollably as the burning adrenaline finally began to bleed from her exhausted veins.
She slowly looked at the crimson blood rapidly soaking through Wyatt’s heavy canvas hunting shirt and instantly rushed to his side.
“You are terribly hurt,” she gasped very loudly, tearing a clean linen strip right away for him.
“It is just a small bullet hole,” Wyatt grunted loudly, slumping down into a sturdy wooden rocking chair.
“The lead bullet entirely missed the collarbone. I have certainly had worse injuries from a cranky mountain bobcat.
Despite his rugged bravado, his weathered face was undeniably pale. Josephine worked with frantic precision, pressing the folded linen firmly against the bleeding injury to staunch the very steady flow.
Her slender fingers were surprisingly strong and remarkably gentle at that exact time. As she leaned in closely to tie the heavy bandage, Wyatt looked deeply into her dark eyes.
Her lovely black hair hung loosely beautifully, framing her delicate porcelain features, and her warm gaze was filled with a fierce, fiercely protective affection.
“You bravely saved my life today, Josephine,” he whispered softly, his deep voice incredibly rough with raw emotion.
She looked up slowly. There are two faces mere inches apart now. You bravely saved mine first, she replied very, very quietly.
The sharp scent of lingering gunpowder and sweet wild mint hung very thickly in the cold air directly between them.
Wyatt slowly reached upward with his one good arm, gently cupping her soft cheek. She eagerly leaned into his rough, deeply calloused palm.
Her dark eyes happily fluttering shut. When he pulled her incredibly gently toward his chest, she met his warm lips with a desperate, breathless hunger.
The long kiss was a profound collision of two deeply lonely souls. “But Gideon is still alive out there,” Wyatt said firmly, finally breaking the long, passionate kiss with a noticeably heavy sigh.
He peered out the totally shattered oak door toward the vast empty valley. He will undoubtedly ride straight back to bustling Cheyenne.
He will immediately tell cruel Bartholomew that you are not just fully alive, but heavily guarded here.
Bart will certainly not send cheap hired guns next time. He will quickly come himself with heavily armed corrupt lawmen.
Josephine’s lovely expression instantly hardened into pure solid granite. Then let the vile man come right here.
I am completely done hiding in the freezing mountain snow. If Bartholomew truly wants a bloody war over the lucrative central freight and cattle company, we will definitely give him a massive one.
Two incredibly quiet weeks quickly passed by. The exceedingly harsh Wyoming winter gradually began to soften gracefully, the incredibly deep snows slowly melting into very rapidly rushing, violently icy streams.
The grand confrontation finally arrived on a crisp, brightly sunlit morning in early February. Wyatt was vigorously chopping firewood when he suddenly heard the rhythmic thudding of multiple heavy hooves steadily approaching from the distant valley.
He instantly dropped his sharp iron axe, swiftly grabbing his Winchester rifle from the bloody chopping block.
Coming directly up the steep rocky ridge was a heavily armed posy of six angry men.
Leading them proudly was arrogant Bartholomew Galt and corrupt Sheriff Josiah. Hatcher, Josiah loudly called out smugly, holding up a fake parchment.
I have a legal warrant for your immediate arrest. Surrender the kidnapped woman right now or we will blindly shoot you absolutely dead.
Josephine boldly stepped out onto the wide wooden porch, proudly wearing Wyatt’s spare thick canvas coat and firmly holding the loaded heavy iron shotgun with incredible practiced ease.
She forcefully threw a small black leather journal directly onto the cold snow. It was Gideon’s incriminating ledger.
Shoot them both. Bartholomew shrieked madly, desperately, drawing his expensive shiny pearl revolver. But before anyone could fire, Wyatt whistled sharply.
High above the rocky ridge, an incredibly massive icy snow pack that Wyatt had deliberately weakened with dynamite, finally gave way completely.
Tons of heavy snow cascaded down the southern slope, rapidly entirely blocking the only escape trail.
The totally trapped deputies immediately surrendered, cowardly tossing their rifles away. Wyatt then expertly shot Bartholomew’s evil gun hand, permanently disarming him.
A sunny month later, corrupt Bartholomew Galt was rightfully sentenced to 20 miserable years inside the grim territorial prison.
Josephine brilliantly reclaimed her late father’s massive transportation empire in Cheyenne. She proudly stood inside her very grand office wearing a stunning silk dress.
Wyatt Hatcher slowly walked in looking wonderfully handsome. He gently wrapped his very strong arms around her slender waist.
Josephine smiled very brightly. She had bravely survived the freezing ice to finally find her true wild love.
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