Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.

At the foot of a mountain in the high Sierras, there stands a covered bridge. Its roof keeps the worst of the inclement weather from the deck, although I've always wondered why the sides are left open to be battered by the elements. If a traveller was to cross this bridge and follow the forest trail that winds its way up the side of the mountain, they would, within hours, find themselves in the high country. Homesteads are few as it takes a special breed to endure what the mountain can throw at them. To live there means a never-ending battle against the ever-encroaching forest, winters that last half a year, and isolation. It's the remoteness that has driven more than one homesteader to pack up his buckboard and hightail it down to the lowlands, and the company of people. One has to be a fighter to live there, and I like to think that is exactly what I was.

After half a day on the trail, climbing ever higher, the traveller will see a path branching off in a north-westerly direction; the diversion marked by a White Fir which grows alone amongst a forest of Jeffrey Pine. After the death of my husband, I had stood at the foot of that tree many times taking comfort in its hardiness. It is but one of its species, but it survives apart from its fellows. As did I.

Half an hour up this narrower path and the traveller will see a clearing open out before him, with a cabin on the opposing side. This was my home. I lived here alone in this cabin in the woods surrounded on all sides by pine trees. My single companion was an aged mare called Demelza, and my nearest neighbours were a good few hours' ride away.

I had chosen this life of solitude after sickness came to the mountain. Within a week of my husband appearing in our doorway nursing a slight cough, my reason for living had been torn from me. Half a year after Marcus died, and while still in a state of tearful desolation, I had taken up the dusty tome of Shakespeare plays he used to take such pleasure from, and happened upon a line in the tragedy of King Lear. "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport." That line stayed with me thereafter, so indicative did it seem of the unpredictability of life, of how we are at the whim and mercy of powers beyond our understanding. Experiencing one such incident in my life was enough, but it was not to be the last. For on a white-bright afternoon in mid-winter, my life took another unanticipated turn.

And it all started with a horse.

~0~

The day had started out no different from the lifetime of days already passed. On waking I had rubbed away the ice from my windows to see giant flakes of snow falling to earth from a leaden sky and several fresh inches blanketing the world outside. I built up the fire and broke my fast with pancakes. My churn of buttermilk was a quarter full, and I'd run out of eggs a week ago, so I decided tomorrow I would make the journey down the mountain to visit Marjorie McKinney. This day would be spent baking sourdough bread which I would trade for milk from Mrs. McKinney's milk cow, and perhaps a handful of eggs, if her hens were laying in this bitter climate.

So it was my thoughts were in another place and time as I mechanically kneaded dough at my kitchen table, when a loud clattering on my porch startled me from my reverie. To say I was alarmed would be to understate the truth of the matter. At the unexpected noise I took a step back, my heart pounding within my chest, and snatched up my rifle. I stared open-mouthed at the door, half expecting a gang of evil-minded ne'er-do-wells to burst in and do what they will with me. It was a common worry living so high in the mountains and away from anything remotely resembling civilisation.

When a dark form crossed my window and a large eye peered at me through the glass pane, I hefted my rifle higher. But there was no invasion and silence soon settled over my small home once more. I approached the window with caution and saw a riderless horse had climbed the three steps to my decking. As it caught a glimpse of me approaching, rifle in hand, it had the audacity to rock its head up and down as though impatient at my hesitation.

The last thing I wanted to do was to leave the security of my cabin and investigate, but there was nothing for it. I grabbed my heavy woollen coat from where it stayed warm in front of the ever-burning fire and donned my scarf and gloves. Freezing temperatures overnight had frozen the door into its frame and, this being my first venture outside—even my night bucket remained covered in a corner—I had to pull the door open with a violent tug. I was hit with a blast of cold air which took my breath away and I could feel my body heat turn inward in shock. I hefted the rifle stock under my arm and letting the barrel point the way, stepped gingerly onto the icy porch. The horse pawed the wooden decking and every outtake of air produced a cloud of steamy breath. I placed my hand on the animal's rump and edged my way down its side, murmuring soft asides under my breath as I went. The horse swung his head around to meet me. I took a step back, not being used to such an imposing and powerful creature.

"Woah, boy. You are a boy, ain't you?" A quick peep confirmed he was. "Where's your master, huh? You didn't get here all by yourself."

I ran my fingers over the intricately embossed leatherwork of the saddle and bridle; they spoke of quality and wealth. It was with a frown I looked out across the expanse Marcus had cleared with his own bare hands all those years before. A silent shield of pine trees ringed my homestead with boughs so laden with snow they curved down towards the earth. Large white flakes drifted at leisure from an overburdened sky and I knew this blizzard would not pass any time soon. I scanned my eyes around the immediate area, observing an occasional clump of snow slide off a branch and thump to the ground. Otherwise there was no sound, no movement, and no apparent sign of life. It was too quiet and I found myself raising my rifle from where I had let it droop in my grip.

I glanced back at the horse. He was a fine looking animal. Tall, unquestionably spirited, with a white blaze from his forehead down to his nostrils. I stroked my palm down that white streak. "Someone's gonna be looking for you, ain't they? Unless…" My words tailed off. No rider ever let his horse get away from him. Unless… There was that word again. I refused to think about what I didn't want to imagine, and it was only an impatient horse snorting into my palm and pawing at the decking which broke into my unease.

"Hold yer horses, will ya," I said, and took hold of his bridle. I paused and shook my head at my choice of words for this was no time for levity, and then pushed at the horse to make him back up. He complied without any fuss and I concluded he was well trained too. I led him off my porch to a small corral at the side of my cabin. There, in an open-sided shelter that abutted my small home, he was introduced to Demelza, my old mare, who interrupted her feed to eye the newcomer. She nickered and was greeted with a nicker in return. "That's good, you two are already becoming friends," I muttered, and hauled the saddle off the newcomer's back, relieving him of his blanket and bridle. I lugged them to my barn and on my return looked at the two animals standing side by side. The strange horse towered over my Demelza but they seemed happy enough together. "There's plenty of hay, so help yourself," I called out, and left them in the shelter.

I turned my attentions back to the tree line. With my rifle back in both hands, I trudged across the clearing, following the tracks the horse had left and which were already covered in fresh snowfall. I knew this patch of land like I knew the increasing number of lines on my face. I could see nothing untoward or different as I crunched through the foot of new snow that had fallen over the last two days. I approached the tree line with trepidation. The silence was starting to unnerve me. The only noise was the snow squeaking with every plunging footstep I took. I stopped where the clearing met the trees, my eyes sweeping across the terrain for any sign of life. It was still. The forest was frozen. No pine needle twisted in the wind, no bird scratched to find the life encased in the frozen earth. I realised I was holding my breath, and as I released a cloud of vapour into the air, a movement caught my eye. About seven or eight yards down the track which led to my cabin, a red fox darted into view. It halted when it saw me, all movement suspended, its ears swivelled in my direction. With a bold eye the creature stared at me, and I returned its gaze with a tilt of my head. A blink, and it was gone.

I frowned at where the fox had stood. There was something there. The snow had started to fall with increased momentum and I had to squint through the curtain of heavy flakes to see. I'm ashamed to say, but I cursed under my breath. What I could make out could only be one thing. Holding my rifle at chest height, I raised my knees high to plough through the drift. When I reached a long white shape, I paused for a moment staring down at it, but then dropped to my knees. I swept the snow away until my gloves were soaked and my fingers tingled, and revealed the body of a man. He was lying on his front with one gloved hand tucked beneath his cheek and the other curled under his chest. Was it divine providence or plain old luck which had kept his hat balanced across his face thereby lessening his skin's exposure to the icy weather? I heaved him onto his back and pulled away the scarf which covered the lower part of his face. His skin was unnaturally pale; perhaps his black hair made it look whiter than it was, and his head lolled to one side.

I pulled my gloves from my hands and slapped his cheek. God, he was cold. "Hey!" My voice sounded loud in the silence. "Hey, can you hear me?" I slapped him again but there was no response. How long had he been lying out here? I guessed as long as the horse had been on my property and that had been, what, ten minutes? I felt around his neck, trying to find any sign of blood pumping through his veins and was rewarded with a faint throb in his throat. "Well, thank God, you're alive." I muttered. "Wake up, would ya," I shouted in his ear. I grabbed his coat collar and shook him. "Wake up! I need to get you inside or you're gonna freeze to death." There was a faint groan, but his eyes stayed closed. I let him go and sat back on my heels. My head spun towards the barn. There was but one option open to me and before long I was running as fast as I could through the snow to the barn, where I grabbed a bridle before heading to the corral.

"Sorry old girl," I said to Demelza as I slipped the bridle over her head. "I know you'd rather be under the shelter, eating your hay and making new friends, but there's work to be done." I led her into the barn where Marcus' old sleigh sat against the wall with a tarpaulin flung over it. "I know it's been a while, but you remember how it's done, don't ya." I worked fast, slipping the collar around her neck and tightening the girth around her thickset body. I led her into the doorway and after throwing the tarpaulin to the ground, tugged on the sleigh to move it away from the wall. It was covered in dust and strands of hay but, such was the quality of Marcus' workmanship, it still slid easily on its runners. Before long Demelza was secured between the shafts and I had taken my place on the wooden contraption. A click of my tongue and we were on the move.

It had been years since I had used the sleigh yet it seemed like yesterday. And it appeared Demelza had not forgotten either as she willingly pulled me across the snow. I was assailed with memories. Of sitting next to Marcus, wrapped warmly in a blanket, laughing into the wind as cold air whipped my cheeks; of the trees merging into a blur as we flew through the forest; of Marcus' bold profile as he concentrated on steering Demelza along the forest path. But there was no time for further reminiscences; within less than a minute we had arrived in the forest, next to my unconscious guest.

I turned Demelza so she was facing the cabin and backed her up to where the injured man lay, a new covering of snow on his body. How on earth was I going to get him on the blessed thing? Thankfully the body of the sleigh sat low on its runners, so I took a big breath—my throat burning from the iciness of the air—grasped the man under his arms and heaved. Why, oh why, couldn't he have been trim and slight in build? No, this fella was well-built and heavy. And it didn't help that his clothes were waterlogged with snow. As I tugged on the dead weight of his body, I lost my balance and slipped backward. I cursed as he fell on top of me with a light groan. As I picked myself up I noticed a pink trail in the snow, and with alarm I realised he was not merely sick from cold, but injured too. There was no time to waste. I manoeuvred him into a seated position, his head rolling forward as I climbed to my feet, and with a burst of strength born of fear and slight panic, heaved him to his feet. I tried to be gentle but my weariness and the stranger's lethargy dictated my actions, and we both fell in an ungainly fashion into the floor of the sleigh. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I murmured, extracting myself from where I was lying across him. We might have missed the seat, but at least his body was on the vehicle, and so I folded his legs beneath him, ran to Demelza's head, and pulled her and the sleigh towards my cabin.

I came to an abrupt halt at the porch steps. "If only you'd wake up," I pleaded as I looked down at the crumpled figure and up at what looked to be an insurmountable obstacle. But dilly-dallying was not going to get this man inside. And after what seemed like an age of tugging and pulling which left me breathless and sweating, I had him up the steps, across the porch and on the floor of my cabin. I left him there whilst I ran outside and unhitched Demelza from the sleigh and whacked her on her rump. "Sorry, old girl, but you know where home is," I cried, as I ran back into the warm interior.

The stranger had not moved from where he lay on the floor. My shawl went flying in one direction and I went in the other as I threw several logs on the fire and stabbed at it with the poker to bring it to roaring life. My own bed—the one Marcus had proudly transported a thousand miles across the country—was too far from the fire, and too heavy to drag, so a folded cot not used in several years was pulled from where it had been shoved out of sight beneath the bed and snapped into position in front of the hearth. The thin mattress smelled damp and stale, and refused to lay flat, but I tucked a clean sheet around it which kept it in place. One last bout of dragging and lifting and, at last, I had the stranger on the cot.

He was so cold. Far colder than someone should be who had only been lying in the snow for a short time. And it seemed the moment he landed on the cot, he began to shiver violently. I pulled off his gloves and heavy yellow jacket and dropped them on the floor where the melting snow left an expanding puddle of water. A dark suede vest followed, and then his boots and socks. Thankfully his feet had stayed dry but his toes were pink from the cold, and icy, oh so icy. I rubbed them between my hands for a few moments to try and warm them before unbuckling his gun belt and placing it on the floor beneath the cot.

I hadn't seen a man undressed since Marcus, but I knew all this man's sodden clothes had to come off, so I ignored my embarrassment and blushing cheeks. The material stuck to his damp clammy skin and I had to peel the pants from his shaking legs. I threw a warm towel across his middle and yanked his drenched underdrawers down his legs with my head turned so far around I was looking over my shoulder. Last to be removed was a wet black shirt, which soon went the way of his coat and pants.

It was then I saw the wound in his side. My fingers hovered over the bloody hole above his hip, and my mouth dropped open in despair. I had never seen a gunshot wound up close before, but I guessed this is what I was looking at. And there was no denying, this is what had felled him. I shifted his weight onto his side and peered at his lower back. There was a matching hole. Once I had rolled him back down to the mattress, I sat back on my heels. I had no idea how to treat a bullet wound, but surely it was better for the bullet to have passed through him, rather than remain lodged within. It wasn't bleeding and for that I was thankful; for now my priority was to warm him up, so I laid all the towels I had draped in front of the fire over him and began to rub him down.

I put all my effort into it. I could see the tell-tale signs of early frostbite on his toes and fingers and the pinkness was evident on the exposed skin of his face. I towelled the water out of his hair, and pulled him forward into my arms to dry his back, rubbing briskly all the while to warm his flesh. His head lolled over my shoulder and I could hear his teeth chattering in my ear. But then his shivering abruptly stopped and I felt his breath on my neck as he started to mumble words and names I couldn't make out. I paused mid-action, straining to understand what he was saying. When he began to repeat 'pa' over and over, I felt a rush of pity; he seemed so vulnerable and I pressed my palms against his back, hoping somehow my touch would reassure him. His flesh was cold beneath my hands, yet the feel of his solid body in my arms reminded me of how long it had been since anyone had held me. I hadn't realised until that moment that I had missed such close physical connection with another human being. I closed my eyes for a brief second.

With a gasp I realised what I was doing; clutching a stranger against my body, and a half-naked one at that. I laid him back against the mattress as gently, and quickly, as I could and rose to my feet, taking a step back towards the fire. A stab of guilt tore through me and I turned to the mantelpiece where a small leather-framed oil painting of Marcus and me was placed. The portrait had been an impulsive act by two young adventurers resting up in Fort Hall before the next leg of our journey. We had let the artist lure us back to his wagon where he displayed examples of his work, and a happy afternoon was spent giggling and trying unsuccessfully to maintain a serious face for the portrait. The look of amusement teasing Marcus's lips had been caught for all eternity. But now it was his eyes that gazed out at me. I expected them to reprove, or condemn or express shock, but of course they did nothing of the sort. Why would they? His was a kind soul, always willing to help a fellow traveller, a neighbour, an enemy. And he had a forgiving heart. I hoped he would understand, and forgive, my momentary desire for physical intimacy. Taking a deep breath, I resumed care of my patient.