Snow Angel

By Peyton Reese

Winter was no hardship for Ethan Beck. Plenty of firewood to heat his cabin, oats and hay for his horse, Zephyr, for Rebecca’s dapple-gray pony, Starlight, and for Moo, his Jersey cow. What's hard was losing his wife and son to the fever two years ago. So when the skies turned an ominous dark purple, and the sun went down, and the wind picked up, and any animal with any sense took shelter from the coming storm ...

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Ethan stepped up onto the porch. He checked the latches on one set of shutters and then the other. Satisfied, he turned toward the door.

An unfamiliar sound blew to him on the gale – a high-pitched wail, barely audible above the howling of the wind – not the steady whistle of wind through a crevice, but the varying pitch of ... what? A cat? A wounded dog? Something – some poor creature – in distress.

He stepped to the edge of the porch and held his lantern to the side so it would not blind him. Nothing. Nothing but snow rushing at him. Then he heard it again! A wild animal? No, a human voice! Calling for help.

He stepped forward, out of the safety of the porch, into the storm. He lifted the lantern high, but could see nothing beyond the driving snow. He shifted the lantern to his other hand and held it low, but still he could see nothing but a few feet of snow-covered ground before him.

Ten paces now, he thought. This is madness, to leave the safety of the cabin to get lost in a storm. But there came the wail again, and he imagined he could hear his own name, Beck!

A ghost? Or a siren, calling him, the way the sirens called Ulysses’ men to their doom? He lifted the lantern high again, hoping to see the source, to see anything but snow.

“Please, Mr. Beck!”

The ghost, the siren, formed itself into the figure of a human, reaching out of the snow, reaching for him. And then it fell into him, onto him, against him, clutching at his coat and at his knees. The ghost had turned solid in the form of a young woman, shivering from cold, crying, “Please help me!”

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Snow Angel is a novella-length love story set in 1870's Colorado Territory.

22 chapters, approximately 37,700 words

Content Advisory: Due to some coarse language and mature subject matter, this book is recommended for ages 16 and older.

Keywords: western, homestead, settlers, love, mild relationship content, rescue, winter, cabin, farm, ranch, cowboy, settlers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peyton Reese
• Release date: Oct 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370863389

Peyton Reese

Peyton Reese writes Science Fiction, Present-day, and Historical fiction. Each story includes a strong romantic element.For more information, visit the author's web site at www.PeytonReese.comPeyton is also co-author (with Jessica Willowby) of the Marguerite series of historical love stories. You can learn more about the Marguerite Series at the official web site, www.JessicaWillowby.com

Book preview

Snow Angel

On the Wings of a Storm

A love story set in Colorado Territory

by Peyton Reese

Copyright © 2016, Peyton Reese

All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, copied, modified or adapted, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder except for the use of brief quotations in a literary review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover images:

Foreground © PeriodImages.com

Background: Paul Itkin, Unsplash, CC0 license

Editorial review by Annette Saarinen

Table of Contents at end

Snow

The Beck homestead, Coleman County, Colorado Territory, February 1876

The winter gale’s fury rattled the shutters of Ethan’s barn. Wind whistled through every gap in the rough pine siding and drove snow through the knotholes. Extra blanket tonight, thought Ethan as he scooped a dinner of oats for his black-and-white Paint, Zephyr, and for Rebecca’s dapple-gray pony, Starlight. He forked more hay for Moo, his Jersey cow, then patted her round, brown flank. He’d brought extra hay bales out to the cattle shelters that afternoon, so his herd ought to be warm enough huddled together, if they weren’t so stupid as to go wandering off in search of who knows what.

Stepping around Moo, he picked up a soft brush and swept Zephyr’s flanks lightly, just to ease any concern the horse may have had about the storm. As he did the same for Starlight, he thought of Rebecca, how she would have worried about the livestock on a night like this. He felt that worry now, a slight tearing of his heart, or perhaps he felt only the pain of losing her two years ago.

A brighter image of her, smiling at him as she rode Starlight, cleared these mournful thoughts from his mind. On a night like this, she would have told him, Hurry back to the cabin, Ethan, and we will keep each other warm.

Good night, Zephyr, Starlight, Moo. See you tomorrow.

Ethan unhooked the lantern from the nail in the post, walked to the man-door, and took a firm grip on its handle as he eased it open. The wind did its best to rip it out of his hand, but he got around the door and threw his weight against it and turned the latch, then jammed a piece of fence post into the snow and propped it into a nook of the door’s Z bracing.

He turned and stood with his back to the barn, and with one hand clasping his sheepskin cap to his head, looked at a slight rightward angle. The cabin ought to be there, he thought, only forty paces away, but with the clouds and snow obscuring all moonlight, he could see no farther than the end of his arm, and he figured there was a real chance of losing his way between here and there.

He bent low and swept the lantern in front of himself. His footprints from a quarter of an hour ago had drifted full of snow, but their outline was still faintly visible. Still holding his hat against the wind, he began to follow them back to the cabin.

Thirty-six, thirty-seven, ah! There it is!

Ethan stepped up onto the porch. He checked the latches on one set of shutters and then the other. Satisfied, he turned toward the door.

An unfamiliar sound blew to him on the gale – a high-pitched wail, barely audible above the howling of the wind – not the steady whistle of wind through a crevice, but the varying pitch of … what? A cat? A wounded dog? Something – some poor creature – in distress.

He stepped to the edge of the porch and held his lantern to the side so it would not blind him. Nothing ... Nothing but snow rushing at him. Then he heard it again! A wild animal? No, a human voice! Calling for help.

He stepped forward, out of the safety of the porch, into the storm. He lifted the lantern high, but could see nothing beyond the driving snow. He shifted the lantern to his other hand and held it low, but still he could see nothing but a few feet of snow-covered ground before him.

Ten paces now, he thought. This is madness, to leave the safety of the cabin to get lost in a storm. But there came the wail again, and he imagined he could hear his own name, Beck!

A ghost? Or a siren, calling him, the way the sirens called Ulysses’ men to their doom? He lifted the lantern high again, hoping to see the source, to see anything but snow.

Please, Mr. Beck!

The ghost, the siren, formed itself into the figure of a human, reaching out of the snow, reached for him. And then it fell into him, onto him, against him, clutching at his coat and at his knees. The ghost had turned solid in the form of a young woman, shivering from cold, crying, Please help me!

He reached down, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. She tried to stand, but fell against him. He hooked his arm under hers, turned in the direction of his cabin – of safety – and pulled. He retraced his footprints and found the porch. A few more steps brought them to the door. He pulled it open and she bolted through. He followed, pushed the door shut, and dropped the oak bar into place from side to side.

He turned to see what the storm had blown to him, at the same time pulling off his cap and gloves. The siren – the girl – had fallen to her hands and knees at the edge of his rug. He began to unbutton his coat as he knelt beside her. A red scarf was wrapped around her neck, its knitting packed tight with snow. No – a red and white striped scarf, like the one Mrs. Stampp had knitted a few years ago. Virginia Stampp? Back from the dead?

He asked, Virginia?

The frozen form kneeling before him answered, Mr. Beck, it is I, Anna Mae!

Anna Mae Stampp, Virginia’s daughter!

Ethan scooped up Anna Mae and guided her to the fireplace. Anna Mae, what are you doing out on a night like this?

Oh, Mr. Beck, I am so cold!

He sat her on his hearth, then began to pry her scarf away from her frostbitten face. He worked carefully, as the scarf had iced over from her own moisture-laden breath. She reached up to help him, but he saw her fingers were useless, frozen as they were.

He eased the loop of the scarf over and off her head, then reached for the buttons on the front of her coat. Do not touch her clothing, warned a stern voice of propriety. No, I must, he replied. She is freezing.

Anna Mae, how did you get so frozen?

S-s-slipped in creek, she answered, her body beginning to shake. You ... nearest!

Ethan knew the path she would have taken to cross the creek. The wide, flat rocks provide a nice, dry crossing during warm weather. On a sunny summer day, a traveler can sit and soak his feet in the cold stream. But those same rocks become treacherously icy during the winter.

As he pushed another button through its buttonhole, she managed to say, Bless you, Mr. Beck, for taking me in! I am froze nearly through!

She rose enough to let him slip the coat off of her, then turned to kneel on the hearth facing the fire. She reached her hands forward, almost to the fireplace screen.

Here, let’s get that out of your way. He slid the screen aside. But you watch for cinders.

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

He glanced down to her ice-covered shoes. Anna, are your feet cold?

She turned to look up at him. I don’t know. I can’t feel ’em.

We’ll need to get those shoes off. Here, you sit and lift up your feet.

He brushed packed snow from around her laces. These are go-to-town shoes, he thought. Not the sh—, uh, dirt-kickers that farm folk wear every day. Anna, have you been to town?

She nodded. As he peeled the shoes slowly off of her, she told him the story.

Pa and me went to town for supplies, and when we come back, I asked if I could go visit Eugenia Weppe, and he said yes, if I would be back home by suppertime to fix his dinner, but Eugenia wasn’t home, so I walked, and the storm picked up and I slipped on a’ icy stone in the creek, and fell in half way, and your home was closest, and I come up your drive, an’ I thought I was gonna die, and then I saw your light, your lantern, and I called to you an’ you came and you saved me!

Anna Mae’s voice had risen in pitch and fervor as she told this. Now she let out several great sobs, as if trying to cry away her near-deathly ordeal. Ethan, who had managed to peel Anna’s stockings off her toes, turned her feet gently onto the hearth. We’re gonna have to thaw your feet out, Anna Mae. You sit here while I heat some water.

He heard her say Thank you, sir as he crossed the room to fetch the kettle. He filled it with water from the pump and hung it at the other corner of the fire. He fetched the scrub pan and poured a few inches of water into it. Then, when he guessed the kettle was good and warm, he poured the hot into the cold and tested it with his fingers and then tested it on his wrist, just as he had done with heated milk for his son Aaron when the boy was a baby.

He set the pot on the floor. "Now Anna, this is not hot, but it’s gonna feel hot on account of your feet being frozen. You dip, and if it’s too hot, you pull out and try again in a bit."

She turned toward the pot. Yes, sir. I been froze before, and Billy too, and my momma done the same for him and me then.

Ethan watched Anna Mae touch her feet, one at a time, to the water. He fetched a towel to catch the drips, and remembered back to when he’d seen little Billy playing at the Stampp house. So full of energy – his father’s pride and joy. Orrin sure took it hard when Virginia and Billy died of the fever.

Ethan’s thoughts returned to the here and now. Anna Mae kept dipping one foot at a time into the water, a little deeper each time. He tested the water again, then added some more hot. Anna Mae, do you think you can walk? We got to get you out of those wet clothes or you’ll catch your death. You can wear some of Rebecca’s clothes, but we got to get you to the bedroom to change.

Anna lifted both feet out of the pot, set them on the towel, and reached to Ethan for a hand up. Carefully she rose until she was almost upright, then he swept an arm under hers and another under her knees and picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. He couldn’t reach the door latch, so he