Chapter 2 - The Ascent into White
The trail up to Black Ridge was not a trail built for wagons or city boots. It was a narrow, stony deer path that twisted through dense stands of lodgepole pine, hugging the sheer granite faces of the canyon above Black Creek.
By four o'clock in the afternoon, the rain had turned into a thick, blinding mountain snow. Large, heavy flakes settled on the pack mules' loads, turning their dark coats white.
Gideon led the way, his long stride breaking a trail through the mounting drifts. Behind him walked the lead mule, carrying the heavy supplies. Toby, wrapped in Gideon’s spare oilskin coat, sat atop the second mule’s pack saddle between two flour sacks, his small hands buried deep in the mule's thick mane.
Christa and Samuel walked behind the second mule.
Christa’s boots had finally given out two miles above the valley floor. The soles had completely separated from the uppers, leaving her raw, bleeding feet exposed to the icy gravel. She hadn't said a word. She had wrapped her feet in strips of burlap torn from a grain sack Gideon had handed her, and kept her head down, taking one agonizing step after another.
She kept her eyes on the back of Gideon’s massive shoulders.
Why did he pay eighty dollars? the question beat in her head like a hammer against anvil. Nobody pays eighty dollars for charity. Not in Montana. Not to a dead logger's daughter.
She knew what men in the valley wanted. She had seen how Rooker looked at her. She had seen the way the miners at the saloon spoke about women brought up from Denver. She expected the moment they reached his cabin, the bargain would be collected. She had resolved herself to it—if it meant Samuel and Toby had bread and a fire, she would endure whatever the giant man demanded.
"Hold," Gideon’s voice broke through the whistling wind.
He stopped at a sharp turn in the canyon trail. Below them, through a tear in the blinding white clouds, the small, ugly town of Black Creek looked like a cluster of dark beetles crawling along a muddy ditch.
Gideon turned, his gray eyes sweeping over the three of them. His gaze dropped to Christa’s feet. The burlap wraps were soaked through with dark, red-stained slush.
Without asking, Gideon walked back down the line, dropped to one knee in the snow, and reached for her ankle.
Christa flinched, pulling back instinctively. "Don't touch me!"
Gideon froze. His large, leather-gloved hand remained suspended in the air. He looked up into her face, his gray eyes devoid of anger—only cold, sharp assessment.
"Your feet are freezing," Gideon said flatly. "If the black rot sets into your toes before we reach the cabin, I'll have to cut them off with a skinning knife. Is that what you want?"
Christa’s throat tightened, but she stood still.
Gideon reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a pair of heavy, beaver-fur lined moccasins—supple, oil-tanned leather made for winter trapping—and two pairs of thick, hand-knitted wool socks.
He unwrapped the bloody burlap from her right foot. His large hands were surprisingly gentle as he stripped away the soaked rags. He didn't wince at the sight of the torn, raw skin on her heel. He pulled a thick wool sock over her foot, followed by the soft, warm fur of the moccasin, and tied the rawhide thongs securely around her calf. He did the same for her left foot.
The warmth was immediate, intense, almost painful as the blood began to circulate back into her frozen toes.
Christa stared down at the dark beaver fur covering her feet. "Where did you get these?"
"Made them," Gideon grunted, standing up and dusting snow from his knees. "Three winters ago."
"They're too nice for me," she whispered.
Gideon looked at her for a long, quiet moment, his face unreadable behind his frost-dusted beard. "I paid eighty dollars so I wouldn't have to carry a dead body up my mountain, girl. Keep moving."
He turned back to the lead mule and resumed his heavy, steady march into the white storm.
They reached the cabin as the last pale light died behind the granite peaks.
The cabin sat built against a sheer wall of gray stone, protected from the north wind by a thick stand of ancient Douglas firs. It was built of heavy, hand-hewn logs, notched perfectly at the corners, with a massive stone chimney rising from the sod roof.
Gideon pushed the heavy oak door open.
Inside, the air was cold and dry, smelling of cedar shavings, dried herbs, and old iron.
"Get inside," Gideon commanded, stepping aside to let them pass.
He immediately went to the hearth, struck a flint against a steel striker, and ignited a nest of dry birch bark. Within two minutes, bright yellow flames were licking up the dry pine logs, filling the dark cabin with golden light and heat.
Toby collapsed onto a low wooden bench near the hearth, instantly asleep from pure exhaustion, his cheek pressed against the rough cedar wood. Samuel stood near the door, his hand still resting on the rusted skinning knife in his pocket, his small body tense as he looked around the room.
The cabin was simple, immaculate, and sparse. A large wooden table, two heavy chairs, shelves lined with tin cans, dried meat, and skinning tools, and a single, broad bed built into the log wall in the far corner, covered in heavy bear skins.
Christa stood in the center of the room, her hands clutched around her wool blanket, her eyes darting to the single bed.
This was it. The moment she had been dreading since the auction on the whiskey barrels.
Gideon walked past her, carrying a heavy iron kettle filled with clean snow, which he hung over the roaring fire. He pulled a large sack of dried navy beans and a slab of smoked salt pork from his pack and set them on the table.
He looked at Christa, noticing the rigid, terrified posture of her body.
He picked up his bedroll—a thick bundle of buffalo robes and canvas—and walked toward the door.
"The bed is yours," Gideon said, his voice low against the crackle of the fire. "And the boys'. Lock the bar on the door behind me."
Christa blinked, stunned. "Where... where are you going?"
Gideon pointed a gloved finger toward the wall behind the chimney. "Lean-to shed. The mules need feed, and I have furs to scrape."
May you like
He stepped out into the howling snowstorm, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
Christa heard the heavy wooden bar drop into place from the outside—not locking them in, but locking the storm and the world out.
