Chapter 3 - The Hard Climb to the Ridge
The trail to the upper sheep camp was little more than a goat track cut into the steep slate face of the mountain, winding upward through dense stands of pine and Douglas fir where the moonlight barely reached the forest floor. Clara rode behind Matthew on a bay gelding that had seen better winters, her hands gripping the saddle horn as the horse’s hooves clicked against loose shale near the edge of a sheer drop-off.
Hours had passed since they fled the ranch house, and the adrenaline that had kept Clara moving through the midnight hours was slowly giving way to a deep, biting exhaustion. Every breath came out in a visible white cloud in the freezing mountain air. She hadn't complained once—not when her fingers grew numb inside her thin mittens, and not when the horse stumbled over a moss-slick root crossing the swollen creek below the falls. She knew better than to ask for pity from a man who carried his own quiet burdens like a pack mule.
Around three in the morning, Matthew pulled his mount to a halt in a narrow clearing sheltered by an overhanging ledge of granite. A small, dry stone cabin stood half-buried against the rock face, its wooden door bolted shut with an iron padlock that had rusted red with age.
"Dismount carefully," Matthew said, swinging down from his saddle with practiced ease and tossing his reins over a sturdy pine branch. He reached up to help Clara down, his hands strong and warm as they gripped her waist to steady her as her stiff legs hit the frozen ground. For a brief second, neither of them pulled away. In the absolute quiet of the high timber, the distance between them felt smaller than it had across the kitchen table. Clara looked up, meeting his steady gaze in the pale moonlight, seeing the raw fatigue etched around his eyes and the quiet determination that held him together.
"We'll be safe here until daylight," Matthew murmured, his voice softening just a fraction before he stepped back to pull the heavy iron key from his coat pocket. "Nobody comes up this high after October unless they're running from the law—or running from Miller."
Inside, the cabin was small, smelling of dry cedar, old sheep fat, and dust. Matthew quickly set about building a small fire in the stone hearth, keeping the chimney draft low so the smoke wouldn't drift down the draw and betray their position. As the flames caught the dry pine kindling, casting a warm, flickering glow across the rough-hewn walls, Clara knelt by the hearth to warm her frozen hands, feeling the life slowly return to her fingers.
Matthew knelt beside her, setting a small iron kettle of water near the coals. "You didn't have to come, Clara," he said quietly, staring into the flickering flames. "You could have stayed in town when the stage dropped you off. You didn't sign on for a gunfight."
Clara turned her head, looking at him with a steady, unyielding gaze that had surprised him more than once since she arrived from the east. "I didn't sign on to be packed away in a box when things got difficult either, Matthew. Back in Boston, I spent three years watching my brothers run every time a creditor knocked on the door. I’m done running. If we’re partners in this ranch, then we face what's coming together—ledger and all."
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Matthew looked at her for a long moment, a slow, quiet realization dawning in his dark eyes. He didn't offer a grand speech or a flowery promise of protection. Instead, he reached out and gently pulled the woolen shawl closer around her shoulders, his knuckles brushing her collarbone with an unconscious tenderness that spoke louder than any words.
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