Cora Whitfield had two nickels, one battered trunk, and nowhere to go.
She counted the coins for the third time even though she knew perfectly well they had not multiplied since the last.
Ten cents.
That was all that remained after seven years of believing education could earn a woman some small measure of security.
Outside the narrow window of her boarding room, snow drifted sideways between the buildings of Pine Hollow, Colorado. It was only October, but the mountains did not care what the calendar said. White had already settled over the roofs and wagon tracks, and the wind coming down from the high country had teeth.
Cora sat on the edge of her narrow bed and listened to the cooper hammering barrels downstairs.
Every strike seemed to say the same thing.
Leave.
Leave.
Leave.
Yesterday, Pine Hollow's one-room schoolhouse had burned nearly to the foundation.
The fire had started sometime before dawn. By the time anyone noticed smoke, flames had swallowed the roof. Cora had arrived barefoot beneath her borrowed coat and watched seven years of slates, primers, maps, and handwritten lessons disappear.
Her position should have survived.
It hadn't.
That morning, three members of the town council had summoned her to the mercantile office.
Without a schoolhouse, they explained, Pine Hollow had no immediate need for a teacher.
Without tax money for rebuilding until spring, there would be no salary.
They had thanked her for her service.
Then they had dismissed her.
Her landlord had been less polite.
No salary meant no rent.
She could stay until Saturday.
It was Thursday.
Cora closed her fist around the nickels.
She could purchase a heel of bread.
Perhaps enough oats for two meals.
After that?
Nothing.
She had no family nearby. Her parents were dead, and the only aunt who might have received her lived somewhere in Missouri and had not answered Cora's last two letters.
The thought of asking the church for charity made her stomach knot.
The thought of freezing made it knot harder.
A heavy knock sounded at the door.
Cora stiffened.
"If that's you, Mr. Fletcher, I told you I'll be downstairs before supper."
No answer.
Another knock.
Cora crossed the room and opened the door.
The man standing on the other side nearly filled the frame.
She had seen Wyatt Mercer before.
Everyone in Pine Hollow had.
You could hardly miss him.
He stood well over six feet, broad through the shoulders and chest from years of cutting timber, mending fences, wrestling livestock, and surviving winters that drove more sensible men toward Denver. His dark hair reached the collar of a weathered coat, and his beard looked as though he trimmed it whenever it became inconvenient rather than fashionable.
He smelled of cold air, pine pitch, wet leather, and horse.
There was snow on his shoulders.
His expression revealed nothing.
"Cora Whitfield?"
"You know it is."
"I do."
"Then why ask?"
One corner of his mouth moved, though not enough to qualify as a smile.
"Making sure."
"Of what?"
"That I'm proposing to the correct woman."
Cora stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
Wyatt removed his hat.
"I've got two boys."
Cora waited.
"Congratulations."
"Caleb's ten. Seth's seven."
"I know who your children are."
Most of Pine Hollow knew.
Wyatt's sons had been blamed for broken windows, missing apples, a chicken mysteriously discovered in the church vestibule, and an incident involving a mule and the mayor's laundry that had become local legend.
"Their mother died four years ago," Wyatt said.
The humor drained from Cora's expression.
That part she knew too.
Mary Mercer had died of fever during one particularly brutal winter.
"I'm sorry."
Wyatt nodded once.
"They're turning feral."
Cora blinked.
"Your sons?"
"Yes."
"You came here to tell me your children are feral?"
"I came here because you're a teacher."
"I was a teacher."
"You still know how to teach."
"My school burned down."
"Knowledge didn't burn with it."
That silenced her for half a second.
Wyatt continued.
"They need reading, writing, numbers. Caleb can barely spell his own last name because he won't sit still for me. Seth thinks a book is something to prop open the chicken shed."
Despite herself, Cora almost smiled.
Then Wyatt said, "They need a mother."
Her expression hardened.
"And you came to town to buy one?"
"I came to make you an offer."
"Women aren't cattle, Mr. Mercer."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"That's why I'm asking instead of telling."
Cora folded her arms.
Wyatt glanced once at the nearly empty room.
His gaze landed on her packed trunk.
Then on the two nickels still trapped in her palm.
He did not look pleased by what he saw.
That was somehow worse than pity.
"I heard the council let you go."
"News travels quickly."
"Up here it travels faster than disease."
"And you've decided my bad fortune is convenient for you."
"I decided we might solve each other's problems."
Cora laughed once.
It had no humor in it.
"What an irresistible proposal."
"I wasn't trying to make it romantic."
"Thank heaven for that."
Wyatt remained serious.
"I've got a stone-and-timber house on three thousand acres. A good roof. Full woodshed. Two milk cows. Chickens. Horses. Enough stores to make it through winter. You would have your own room."
"My own room?"
"Yes."
Cora studied him.
He seemed almost uncomfortable now.
"I won't expect husband privileges."
Understanding came slowly.
Then color rose into Cora's cheeks.
Wyatt looked toward the wall rather than her.
"Not unless you ever decide you want that."
"You've rehearsed this."
"No."
"Clearly."
"I practiced saying it once to my horse."
Despite everything, Cora gave a short laugh.
Wyatt finally glanced back.
"The horse wasn't impressed either."
Cora sobered.
"You expect me to marry a stranger, move into the mountains, and raise two boys who apparently belong in a wolf pack."
"That's about the size of it."
"And in exchange I get food."
"Food, shelter, wages if you want them, your own room, and the right to leave when winter breaks if you decide you hate us."
Something in the last sentence caught her.
"You'd let me leave?"
"I'm asking for help, Miss Whitfield. I'm not buying a prisoner."
Her stomach chose that moment to growl.
Loudly.
Cora's face burned.
Wyatt did not smile.
He did not glance at her stomach.
He simply reached into his coat, removed a paper sack, and set it on the little table.
"What's that?"
"Sandwich."
"I don't need charity."
"No."
He put his hat back on.
"You need lunch."
She hated him for being correct.
He walked toward the door.
"Wait."
Wyatt turned.
Cora looked at the snow outside.
Then at the paper bag.
Then at her battered trunk.
"You really expect an answer now?"
"Storm's moving in tonight."
"That's not an answer."
"No."
He nodded toward the window.
"But it's something you should consider."
Cora had spent years teaching children to distinguish courage from recklessness.
She wasn't sure which one she chose.
"All right."
Wyatt's brow furrowed.
"All right what?"
"I'll marry you."
For the first time, the mountain man looked genuinely startled.
Less than an hour later, Cora was standing in Reverend Albright's parlor with a borrowed shawl around her shoulders.
There were no flowers.
No wedding guests.
No white dress.
The minister's wife served as witness while Wyatt stood beside Cora in a clean shirt he apparently carried rolled inside his saddlebag for precisely this possibility.
Cora wondered what sane woman married a man before learning his favorite meal.
Then she reminded herself that sane women with warm families and money did not have to choose between marriage and a Colorado winter.
When Reverend Albright pronounced them husband and wife, Wyatt did not kiss her.
He simply offered his hand.
"Ready?"
"No."
He nodded.
"Me neither."
That made her feel marginally better.
By late afternoon they were climbing into the mountains.
Pine Hollow disappeared behind them.
The wagon followed a narrow road bordered by towering pines and steep slopes buried in snow.
Wyatt spoke little.
Cora tried not to imagine all the possible ways she had destroyed her life.
As sunset turned the snow pink, the forest opened.
She saw the Mercer property.
It wasn't the crude shack she had imagined.
A large house stood against the mountainside, built from thick logs and gray stone, with a broad porch and several chimneys sending smoke into the evening.
A barn stood beyond it.
Corrals stretched toward the trees.
Cora stared.
"You said house."
"It is."
"You neglected to mention it could fit half of Pine Hollow."
"Didn't seem important."
Before she could answer, movement flickered between the trees.
Two boys emerged.
Both wore coats.
Neither wore hats.
Both were filthy.
The older boy, Caleb, had dark hair, serious gray eyes, and an expression that made it clear he had already rejected Cora without hearing her name.
The younger, Seth, had mud on one cheek and a tear in one sleeve.
Wyatt climbed from the wagon.
"Boys."
They stared at Cora.
"This is Cora."
Silence.
"My wife."
Longer silence.
Seth looked at his brother.
Caleb's jaw tightened.
"You got married?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Wyatt looked toward Cora.
Cora silently warned him not to answer honestly.
He apparently understood.
"Because I chose to."
Caleb's eyes narrowed.
Seth stepped forward.
For one hopeful second, Cora thought the child might introduce himself.
Instead, he deliberately spat into the frozen dirt directly in front of her boots.
Cora stared down.
Wyatt closed his eyes briefly.
"Seth."
"What?"
"You know what."
The boy shrugged.
Cora looked at her new husband.
Then at Caleb.
Then at Seth.
She had spent seven years teaching difficult children.
She had survived measles outbreaks, fistfights, ink thrown across walls, one unfortunate incident involving a frog and a minister's daughter, and a nine-year-old who had somehow climbed onto the schoolhouse roof during arithmetic.
She lifted her trunk.
"Which room is mine?"
Seth frowned.
Caleb looked disappointed she hadn't cried.
Wyatt took the trunk from her hand.
"Upstairs. Last door."
Cora walked toward the house.
Behind her, she heard Seth whisper, "She's fat."
Caleb whispered back, "She's temporary."
Cora stopped.
She turned around.
Both boys froze.
She smiled sweetly.
"Excellent hearing, boys."
Their eyes widened.
"And tomorrow morning, I'll discover whether yours is equally good when lessons begin."
Caleb looked horrified.
Seth looked betrayed.
Wyatt coughed into his fist.
Cora suspected he was hiding a smile.
For the first time since the schoolhouse burned, something warm stirred inside her.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But perhaps determination.
She crossed the threshold.
She did not know that three weeks later she would run barefoot into a snowstorm because one of those hostile little boys screamed her name.
She did not know she would kneel in bloodstained snow believing she might lose him.
And she certainly did not know that the loveless bargain she had made for shelter was about to become the first real home she had ever known.