The stranger held Wyatt’s gaze longer than was comfortable. And yet he seemed satisfied that his answer held true. The rider’s gloved hands slid like shadows across the reins to regain control of them and he eased back in the saddle ready to pull away. Wyatt offered a parting wave and turned to make his way back indoors. It was only then that he noticed blood as black as molasses dripping on to the bridge. The stranger lowered his hand to the side of the saddle, teasing strands of fine red hair through his spindle fingers. But the hair wasn’t being drawn up from inside some satchel, but a severed head.

Wyatt recognized the frozen features of that beautiful face hanging by its hair from the saddle, staring back at him. He recognized the woman’s freckles, dainty as the speckle of an egg across those porcelain cheeks. He recognized her lips. But it was no longer his Daisy. The eyes staring back at him now were as dead as a doll’s.

A terrible sound tore its way out of Wyatt. A wail. A cry. One that should never come out of a man. But he didn’t have time to give in to it. He dropped the meat. He turned. He ran back across the bridge, carried on by the scream for his daughter, and straight into the cabin. But he never made it to her.

The stranger’s boots struck the timber boards. Wyatt heard the steady stride across the bridge towards him. His eyes scanned the cabin. Furiously. There was a knife beside the sink. A poker by the fire. There came a gurgle from the bedroom and Wyatt froze. But it was too late. The front door creaked open behind him, then shut, bringing with it only silence and resolution. There was snow at the window. There was heat from the fire. Then there was nothing.

1

Peter kicked the cabin door down. Well, he didn’t exactly kick it down, more made it click open with his boot. But this was certainly more dramatic than if he’d done it by hand and some of the wood around the frame exploded into splinters, which was way more than he’d thought himself capable of managing only a short while ago. But then, so much had changed this past month. And now here he was with a pistol pointed at his face and two angry eyes staring from behind, all in the name of a daring rescue mission.

The girl they’d barged in on swivelled the cylinder to lock in a bullet and shrugged the pigtail from her shoulder. “Take another step and it’ll be your last.”

“I won’t,” said Peter raising both hands. “I promise. But we’re not here to hurt you.”