— “Will you come with me?”

The wind howled through the hollow trees as Wyatt gathered the infants into his coat. Their frail bodies trembled against his chest, and the sound of their weak cries pierced deeper than any bullet ever had. The woman clung to him, half-conscious, her breath shallow, her skin ice.

He carried them down the slope, boots crunching in the snow. His mare whinnied, nervous at the scents of blood and fear in the air. Wyatt set the woman carefully across the saddle, holding the children close, and mounted behind her. There was no time to lose. Whoever had left her there would not be far.

The trail was barely visible, swallowed by drifts. Wyatt pressed the mare forward, heart pounding with a weight he had not felt in years. He had seen war, seen men torn apart by violence and greed, but never had he seen cruelty as senseless as this—abandoning a woman and three newborns to die in the cold.

Hours stretched in silence, broken only by the harsh wind and the muffled sobs of the babies. The woman stirred once, whispering names he could barely hear—Ana, Maria, Eliza. Her daughters. He repeated them softly, as if saying them aloud might keep them alive.

By dusk, the valley opened before him. Smoke rose faintly from the chimney of a small cabin, a solitary mark of life in the wilderness. Wyatt urged the mare on, every muscle aching, until they reached the door. He pounded with his fist, shouting for help.

An old woman opened, startled at the sight. Without a word, she pulled them inside, where the heat of a fire cracked against the logs. Wyatt laid the infants near the flames, rubbing their tiny hands to stir warmth into their skin. The young mother’s eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with relief.

“You’re safe now,” Wyatt said firmly, though inside he knew safety was only temporary. A man cruel enough to leave his family bound in the snow would not give up easily. He would come looking. And when he did, Wyatt Holt would be waiting.

That night, as the storm raged outside, Wyatt stood guard at the cabin door, rifle in hand. Behind him, the babies’ soft breathing filled the room, their mother sleeping at last with her daughters beside her.

For the first time in years, Wyatt felt the stir of something long buried—purpose. He had not gone searching for it. It had found him on a forgotten road between dead pines. And he knew, as sure as the snow kept falling, that he would not let anyone take it from him.