CHAPTER1
December 22, 1870
Wilderness near Canvas Creek, Montana Territory
Almost to the mine.
As Sampson Coulter’s horse neared the last curve in the trail, he straightened in his saddle, stretching out his back. After working so many months in McPharland’s cave mines, his body had forgotten how it felt to spend hours in the saddle. He should have left Missoula Mills earlier yesterday. Then he wouldn’t have had to stop for the night in that old trapper’s cabin. At least he’d had shelter before the rest of today’s long ride.
Now he barely had time to check in with Mick, hitch the horses quickly, and get back to Jedidiah with the wagon load he’d been sent to retrieve. He didn’t relish sleeping in the cold again, especially with the blasting powder packed in the wagon bed, but he’d have to if he didn’t want to drive through the night. That stuff became unreliable in icy temperatures.
As the trees opened up around him, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light reflecting off the snow around the mountain that hid McPharland’s mine. Even though the sun shone high overhead, the cold wind bit through his coat and sent chills up his spine. It wouldn't be long now until the snow started falling.
And Christmas. A pang gripped his chest, one he usually didn’t allow in. He’d lost track of the exact day, but someone in Missoula Mills had said Christmas was later this week.
This was the first yuletide he’d be away from his family. They’d have a festive time, with the place all decorated with holly and ribbons and a tree. The women would make a big meal, and there’d be presents. Singing.
He pushed hard against the memories, forcing his mind onto the terrain around him.
A strange noise sounded, and for a second, it felt like part of his imaginings. His family singing carols.
But this wasn’t singing. A cry, maybe. Not a fox or any kind of wildcat.
Was that…a baby?
Another cry confirmed the sound. What on earth? It didn’t come from the direction of the mountain. To the right of it maybe.
His mind whirled with possibilities, and he turned his horse that direction. Approaching the source of the noise, he slowed his mount.
A small wagon came into view, partially hidden by a cluster of pine trees. A young woman stood beside it, her back turned to him as she bent over something in the wagon bed.
The baby's cries grew louder, and the woman's voice rose in frustration. "Shh, shh, little one. I know, I know. Just give me a moment."
Sampson pulled his horse to a halt a few steps away and dismounted. "Ma'am? Is everything all right?"
The woman spun, her eyes wide.
He took her in, the force of her appearance—such a small, dainty thing out here in this wilderness tainted so fully by McPharland’s presence—caught him off guard. He braced his feet to keep from backing up a step.
She stared back, mirroring his shock. Then the babe wailed, and her attention snapped to the child on the wagon. The lower half of the child had been stripped bare. That explained the crying and kicking its little legs. The infant must be half frozen in this wind.
The woman wrestled to cover the babe with a strip of unwieldy cloth. “I just…it won’t… Be still, Ruby. We have to get you…”
She seemed to be having a rough time of it, with one hand firm on a little leg and the other trying to wrap the fabric around the child.
He moved to her side, keeping enough space between them that she hopefully wouldn’t think him a threat. “How can I help?” He’d never put on a diaper before, but he could offer an extra set of hands.
She spared the quickest of glances his way, but a fresh wail from the child made her cringe. She spoke loudly to be heard over the cries. “Can you hold her feet? Gently. She keeps squirming, and I don’t want to get the clean diaper soiled.”
He reached in to grip the tiny ankles in one fist. How had he never realized how massive his hands were? But the moment his calloused fingers closed around those toothpick ankles, he added his other hand. He couldn’t grip them tight. This babe was barely bigger than his palms, and her ankles weren’t much larger around than his thumb. Any little squeeze might snap the bones in two.
The woman worked around his gangly arms, wrapping the cloth in a neat hold that hadn’t seemed possible when she was fighting with the material seconds ago. As she pulled the knot tight, she murmured, “Keep hold of her another minute while I get the rest of it off.”
He checked the pressure of his grip as the woman worked the babe’s tiny hands out of her sleeves. Did she intend to strip the child fully? It was too cold out here for all that. This infant couldn’t be more than a few days old. How could she even survive being so tiny?
But when the woman turned the babe’s shoulders to release the back of the gown underneath her, a wave of stench wafted up. Ugh.
Turning away, he pressed his mouth closed and tried not to breathe through his nose. That diaper must not have done its job well at all.
