Chapter 2 - Footsteps on the Frozen Porch
The second set of knocks was heavier, rattling the wooden latch of the front door.
Rosalie froze, her hand instinctively pulling back from Gideon's. In Coldwater, visitors after dark during a winter blizzard meant only two things: trouble or tragedy. Her mind flashed instantly back to her father's parlor, to the smell of cheap whiskey and the pounding of creditors demanding money her family didn't have. For a terrifying second, she wondered if her drunken brother Merrick had tracked her out to the isolated northern ridge, trailing debt and ruin right to her new doorstep.
Gideon stood up instantly, despite the lingering vertigo. His movements were swift, calculated, and entirely devoid of panic. He grabbed the heavy iron poker from the hearth with his left hand while his right hand instinctively went to check his pocket.
He looked down at Rosalie, his expression stern, communication flashing clearly in his eyes without a single word: Stay behind the table.
"I'm coming," Rosalie called out, her voice steadying as she forced herself to stand. She snatched the oil lamp from the table, casting long, dancing shadows across the log walls.
Before Gideon could intercept her, she crossed the room and threw the heavy wooden bolt. She pulled the door open just a few inches, shielding the flame with her hand against the bitter blast of wind and snow.
Standing on the porch, half-buried in drifting snow and wrapped in a soaked wool coat, was Dr. Arthur Vance.
The elderly physician looked half-frozen, his spectacles frosted over and his gray beard stiff with ice. He clutched a worn leather medical bag to his chest like a shield. When he saw Rosalie, relief washed over his tired features.
"Thank God," Vance wheezed, stepping past her uninvited before she could even speak, driven inward by the fierce wind. "I saw your light from the lower road. My carriage axle snapped two miles back in the drift. I didn't think I'd make the ridge alive."
Gideon stepped out from the shadows of the kitchen, lowering the iron poker only slightly. His gaze on the doctor was cold, suspicious, and entirely unwelcoming. He didn't like visitors under the best of circumstances; during a blizzard, an unexpected doctor carrying a bag felt like an ominous complication.
Dr. Vance slammed the heavy door shut against the storm, leaning back against it to catch his breath. He unbuttoned his coat, shaking snow onto the braided rug, before his eyes darted from Gideon to Rosalie, and finally to the porcelain bowl resting on the dining table.
Vance stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face a second time that night, leaving the old doctor looking as though he had seen a ghost.
"Where..." Vance's voice hitched, his eyes fixed on the covered bowl. "Mrs. Rook, tell me you didn't..."
Rosalie stepped defensively in front of the table. "Dr. Vance? What are you doing out here in the middle of a blizzard? And what do you know about what was in that bowl?"
The doctor looked up, his gaze darting nervously between Rosalie and the deaf rancher. He swallowed hard, pulling off his frozen gloves with numb fingers.
May you like
"I wasn't caught in the storm by accident, child," Vance said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, trembling murmur. "I came because I knew the signs. And if that thing is out of his head... then the men who put it there will already know."
---
