Something in the room re-aligned—the smallest tilt of gravity toward hope.

When spring began to gnaw at the drifts, trouble rode the switchbacks. Hattie Boyd came first, cheeks wind-burned, shawl green with snow.

“It’s about her,” Hattie said. “Joseph put out word. Says Marabel’s unstable, ran off, and he’s sending men to bring her and the babies ‘home.’ Four riders. Don’t look like a church party.”

Silas only nodded. Hattie left them a pouch—lentils, jerky, a flask—and thundered back down the ridge.

Silas worked without talk: mending a rear latch, bracing the door, stacking wood, shifting supplies to the root cellar. He kept his hunting knife honed to a whisper.