Her voice came out in a whisper that barely survived the air.
“Martha,” she said. “Martha Lindley.”
Garrett nodded once, then tipped his chin toward the children.
The boy answered before his mother could. “Thomas,” he said, voice steady with effort. “I’m ten. She’s Sarah. She’s six.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered half open. She looked at Garrett’s beard, his rough coat, his scarred hands, and then she did something that surprised him.
She leaned her head against her brother’s shoulder and fell asleep like her body had finally decided the fight was over.
Garrett crouched by the fire and fed another log into it. The flames licked up, brighter, throwing light across the cabin walls where old tools hung and shadows slept.
He didn’t ask more questions yet. Curiosity could wait. Frostbite couldn’t.
He went to the back room and dug through an old cedar chest that still smelled faintly of mothballs and time. He pulled out an oversized wool shirt, thick socks, and a dress that had belonged to his mother. The fabric was worn soft, as if it had been loved hard.
He returned and set the bundle on the table.
