He had been tracking it for an hour, more out of curiosity than concern. Not many fools traveled these high passes when the sky turned iron and the snow fell thick enough to erase tracks before they were made. A freight wagon meant something. Money. Fear. Trouble.
Now he understood.
Someone had paid to throw a woman away.
Silas moved fast, snowshoes whispering over the drift. His body was built by mountains: broad shoulders, ropey strength, joints that knew how to bend without breaking. Gray threaded his dark hair, braided neatly down his back. A scar cut through his left eyebrow, pale against sun-browned skin.
When he reached her, she lay curled on her side like a fallen bird, hair loose against the snow.
He crouched and touched her cheek.
Ice.
But under it, a pulse.
“Still here,” he murmured, and the words were half prayer.
He gathered her into his arms. She was heavier than he expected, and his muscles adjusted without complaint. The baby’s weight shifted against his forearm. He felt it, unmistakable, a living warmth buried under all that cold.
