Page 60 of Mail-Order Viscountess

She watched Thomas more than listening. The way his hands moved as he spoke, the play of light through the windows across his features. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when Robert said something dry and clever.

As Rose started collecting used plates, the rumble of approaching hooves outside made them all lift their heads.

A rider coming fast at midday couldn’t be normal. Not in this remote place with the nearest neighbor an hour’s ride away.

James rose from his chair and moved to the window.

“Single rider from the south. I think that’s Mary Jenkins.”

The young family Thomas had mentioned, the one with the baby less than a year old.

Enoch was already moving toward the door, Thomas and Robert close behind. Kate followed them all into the great room, then slipped outside with them.

The cold air sliced through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She should have grabbed her coat.

A brown mare stood heaving in the yard, sides lathered white despite the chill. Mary Jenkins sat slumped in the saddle, exhaustion etched into every line of her young face. She clutched a bundle against her chest—the baby, wrapped in what looked like every blanket they owned.

“Mrs. Jenkins.” Enoch reached the horse first, his hand steadying the mare’s bridle. “What’s happened?”

“Samuel.” Mary’s voice cracked. “There’s been an avalanche. The cattle—they’re trapped in the canyon.”

Thomas moved to her side, reaching up to help her down. “Easy now. Take a breath.”

But Mrs. Jenkins was already sliding from the saddle, clutching her baby tightly as her boots hit the snow. “Samuel’s watching them, but there’s nothing he can do. They’re trapped, and there’s another storm coming, and we can’t—we don’t⁠—”

A hearty wail loosed from the babe, muffled by the pile of blankets.

Rose was there in an instant, wrapping her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Come inside and get warm. Tell us everything.”

The next few minutes were a blur of motion. Rose guided Mrs. Jenkins to a chair by the fire. Bea pressed a cup of hot tea into her trembling hands. Mandie took the baby—a round-cheeked infant with dark eyes and a surprisingly powerful wail—and began walking the room, bouncing gently until the crying subsided.

Kate hung back with Clara. Everyone seemed to know what to do in this crisis. What more was needed?

“Start from the beginning.” Enoch perched on a chair near the woman. “What happened?”

Mrs. Jenkins drew a shaky breath. “We wintered the herd in Coldwater Canyon, like always. The shelter’s good there, and the spring doesn’t freeze. Except the grass has been eaten for days, and Samuel was planning to move them. Then two days ago, that warming spell started, and then—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “Yesterday morning, the whole north slope came down. Blocked the canyon entrance. Twenty feet of snow and rock and broken trees.”

Kate drew a sharp breath. Twenty feet.

“Samuel tried to dig through.” Mrs. Jenkins curled in around her teacup. “Worked all day and barely made a dent. And the cattle—” Her voice wavered. “They’re still alive, we can hear them, but they’re trapped on the other side with no food and barely any water. If we can’t get them out before the next storm hits...”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

“How many head?” James asked.

“Eighteen. It’s everything we have.”

The weight of that settled over the room. Kate didn’t know much about ranching, but she understood enough. Eighteen cattle might not sound like many compared to the Balfour herds, but for a young couple just starting out, it must be everything. Their entire future, trapped behind a wall of snow.

The brothers exchanged glances. Communicating in that wordless way siblings did—the way she and Clara could.

“We’ll need shovels,” Enoch said finally. “Picks. The draft horses might be able to help move the larger debris.”

“It’ll take days.” Robert frowned. “Even with all of us working in shifts⁠—”

“We don’t have days.” Mrs. Jenkins’s voice held an edge of desperation. “The next storm is coming. Two days at most, Samuel thinks. Maybe less. If the snow gets deeper before we get them out...”

“Then we work faster.” James was already buttoning his coat. “We’ve dug through worse.”