Love is the feeling that eats your insides
when you’re not with the girl. And mine were as cold as the driving
wind around me.
The world crippled my sight with brilliant white. I wanted to turn back to the warmth of the barn, the horses, my dog Trevor—but the thought of the missing boys drove me deeper into the storm. If it were any colder, I would need to move to Antarctica to warm up.
Bitter winds pelted snow against my cheeks. Every breath shot ice shards into my lungs, freezing my core from the inside out. A feeling like missing Anna.
Yeah, an expedition across Antarctica instead of the Dakota Territory sounded more pleasant.
A fence ran along each side of my lane, and I found the top few inches of wooden rail, the rest buried in swirling snow. I couldn’t see far enough to spot the other side of the road.
The men who’d just left my barn said this morning had been forty degrees. Jackets! The boys from the Hutterite camp had worn jackets to school. No one would have guessed the temperature now as they made their way home would be forty below zero.
I wore long underwear, knitted socks, thick pants, a heavy felt shirt, a jacket, coveralls, my duster, a fur-lined cap, a handkerchief over my face, and gloves. Yet the roaring wind still froze my skin. The boys wore jackets.
The thought drove me deeper into the late afternoon.
I would do anything to save their lives.
The men from the camp told me their names, but I only remembered one—Jake—whom they said was a smart boy. He would find a fence and follow it, knowing the poles led to a shelter or house.
White drifts nearly covered my fence.
I cupped my hand around my mouth. “Jake!” The name was instantly lost in the thundering wind. I wouldn’t stop, though. “Jake!” Every intake of breath shot cold air into my core.
Black tugged at the edges of my mind.
My legs sunk into the snow, my knees buried. My feet felt heavy, as if I wore enormous horseshoes instead of boots.
The thought of telling the men I found dead bodies in the spring thaw sent a new shiver that had nothing to do with the cold down my spine. “Jake!”
God, please!
A mantel flashed into my thoughts.
No, not now. Not a vision. I will die out here.
“Jake!” My voice drifted with the snow.
The mantel again.
My childhood home.
No, I can’t get lost in my visions.
Atop the mantel, large black-and-white photos of family. My father’s fine face, firm jaw, a touch of Spanish Moors heritage in his dark skin, and black hair that I’d inherited. There was no sign of his cruel manner in the dark eyes.
Please no, not the memories. Not now.
My mother’s picture stood next to his. A beautiful, compassionate smile, high forehead, dark hair, all like mine. Her long, athletic frame was her gift to me as well. Despite the black-and-white image, her eyes shone, eyes that passersby stopped to notice. My eyes, which I hated. Eyes like an animal. Eyes so different, my Sioux friend called me Prairie Wolf.
Both Mother and Father died within view of Devil’s Tower. I had escaped with my life.
For so long, I believed my father a model of perfection, an observation born from youth. Those who knew them told me otherwise. My mother had been the toast of Washington. My father was a cruel businessman.
The vision grew stronger.
Beside my mother’s photo, my uncle John Maxwell. I’d had a run-in with him in Deadwood and learned only then he was my uncle, awakening new memories of my past. He was hung on Deadwood’s gallows for unspeakable crimes.
Next to his photo was an older man in a fine suit, a bowler and cane by his side. My grandfather. I’d not thought of my grandfather in quite some time. He died before my parents and I left for the Dakota Territory.
A picture of me as a baby in a white gown anchored the five photos.
Those four were all the family I could remember. Four pictures on the mantel.
Perhaps I should have understood my troubled life long before. Families stand together in photographs. Not individual photos.
The past held me completely in its grasp, drawing me back to a time when I had been just as cold.
A warming fire, crisp and cheering. A hot drink thawing my frozen fingers. Sharp tingles on my skin. Drops of melted snow sliding down my eight-year-old skin.
I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth, the roar calming to crackling flames. Burning pine mixed with the aroma of warm tea. I tasted the creamy warmth. My mother’s face beamed down at me. “Feeling better, Philip?”
I licked my lips. Father liked his coffee black and chided me for drinking tea with cream or milk, but I preferred the taste. And Mother made the drink perfectly.
She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. “You were out there too long, silly. Sit by the fire for a bit, and you’ll warm up.” She gave me a squeeze, and I leaned my head against her shoulder and sighed. Her bun tickled my nose, and her earring pressed against my neck.
Mother stiffened, and she stood. Her bright eyes hardened as she looked past the couch, squinting as she always did when angry. Or protecting something. My heart sunk. A fight would ensue. A fight usually did with that look.
My father’s voice came from behind. “It’s done.”
I threw my blanket off and jumped from the couch. “Father!” I bumped the short brass table beside the fire and almost spilled my tea. A few steps over the rug and I jumped.
He caught me and wrapped strong arms around me. “Whew, you smell like you played outside all day.”
“Yup.”
He held me at arm’s length. “I’ve news for you.”
“What is it?”
He set me down and rubbed his chin. “How would you like to go out West?”
My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Henry Anderson, not in front of Philip.”
“Why not? It’s done.” My father removed his hat and tossed it toward the stand. The brim smacked the side and the hat fell to the floor. “Your father will be here in a moment to sign the papers.”
My small, eight-year-old body suddenly turned cold, then grew to a twenty-one-year-old man trudging through the snowstorm.
No, please no. Not this memory. Hadn’t I suffered enough?
But I was back by the roaring fire, resting on the couch. I saw my father through the framed doorway, leaning over a table.
My grandfather, wearing the same suit as in the photograph, silver hair and well-trimmed goatee sharp in the lamplight, stood beside my father, pointing to a piece of paper. My father’s voice drifted into the room, “Just sign here, Carl.”
“Have you told John and Jacob what you’re doing?” My grandfather’s voice—the British accent that sounded so much like my mother’s—was firm. He was a gentleman of the highest order, and at times I duplicated his accent instead of my normal West Virginian clip.
“There’s no need.”
“John is my son. At least tell him. He has a right to—”
“If you must, then you tell him. But I will not.” My father held out a pen. “Sign the deed for the house. The place will be yours, a fine investment.”
“And what of Jacob? He paid a heavy price for the map.”
Father growled, not unlike a dog. “Let me handle him.”
“And the map? You’ll destroy it?”
“No. No, now that I have it—”
Grandfather pounded the table with a fist. “You promised, Henry.”
“But now that we know it’s real, we must use it.”
Grandfather was shorter than Father but looked just as powerful as he pointed a finger in Father’s face. “You promised. Tell John.”
Father stormed into the parlor where I lay on the couch. As he reached for the family’s wooden box on the mantel, the red of the fire cast a crimson glow against his skin. I drew back under the blanket. His eyes shone like a demon’s.
The box snapped shut and as Father turned, Grandfather stepped close.
Father held up a yellowed piece of paper, curled his hands around both sides, and split it evenly with a soft tearing sound. “Here you are, Harry. Half of the map.”
“And what is this for?”
“Half the secret.”
Grandfather held out a shaking hand and grasped the page. “You . . . you would do this?”
“Tell John, if you like. Or Jacob. I don’t care. But I’m going to find it.”
“But Jacob is still out of the country.”
“What do you want of me? Leave it with the monk who had the map. He seemed trustworthy.”
They left the room.
I’d fallen asleep when my mother woke me. The fire had died to orange embers, lighting sorrow in her eyes.
Eyes so like mine.
“Philip, I’ve news, and not good news.”
I rubbed my face.
“Dear . . .” Her voice caught. “Grandfather died tonight. His heart . . .”
The vision swirled into a mist, then a white fog that turned to snow.
My duster flapped in the wind, snapping violently behind me. With gloved fingers, I managed to fasten enough buttons to keep it from blowing off. The cloth whipped against my calves.
The visions had been worse of late. They corresponded with the physical world, drawing me back to a moment in time where my senses registered a similar sight, touch, or sound and brought me to a violently emotional memory.
I hadn’t thought of my grandfather for quite some time.
He had been tied to the map. I hadn’t known.
I couldn’t think about having a portion of the map. I had to find those boys.
“Jake!”
I’d reached the end of the fence.
Just beyond, I knew the road rose out of my ravine, where the winds undoubtedly would be worse.
Weariness sapped my strength. What if they were already dead? What if I could save their lives by taking a few steps to the right?
Please, God!
“Jake!”
The echoing voice was distant, as if from miles away.
“Jake!”
Was that a voice on the wind? Maybe someone was calling out from downwind, across the lane.
I broke from my fervent hold on the fence and crossed.
Beside a mound of snow stood a dark figure. “Jake!”
The shadow waved.
I stumbled forward, perhaps ten feet. As I drew near, I made out the figure of a boy.
“Jake?” I yelled.
He wore a thin covering over his crossed arms, no hat, his dark hair blowing in the wind.
He nodded.
“We’ve got to get you inside. My place is that way.” I pointed then started taking off my gloves. “Where are the other boys?”
“We made a cave.” He took a step toward the mound then reached out to take the gloves I offered.
“Are you all able to make it to my barn? It isn’t far.”
“If we don’t, we’re going to freeze tonight.” His voice was weak and high-pitched.
I followed Jake around the mound and saw a partial hollow carved in the drift. Four boys lay huddled in the small shelter.
I finished unbuttoning my duster as I dropped to a knee in front of the shivering bodies. I tossed my coat over them.
“I know it’s cold, but you’ve got to get up. We’re going to my barn.”
None of them moved.
Jake leaned in beside me and moved the coat to one side. “Here you go, Andrew.” He helped the smallest of the boys with a glove, tucking both the lad’s hands into the leather.
All the boys shivered violently except Andrew. I moved closer to brush the snow from his pale face, and his head dropped to the side then jerked up. His eyelids sunk.
I looked at Jake and the rest of the boys. “Up, now!” I barked. “Let’s go.”
My fingers were nearly frozen as I snatched the duster off the others, wrapped Andrew in the cocoon, and lifted him into a tight embrace. I turned to see two of the boys struggling to their feet while Jake helped the third.
“Follow me! Stay close. We’re not far, so give this walk all the strength you can.”
I glanced behind me as we started for the barn. The wind nearly knocked them over. Regaining their balance, they trailed me through the snow.
My tracks were gone already and the fence was nearly covered now, but I kept my eyes focused on the half inch of rail that rose above the four feet of snow. Panic propelled me forward so that I barely noticed the winds that tore through my clothes.
One foot in front of the other. Then check behind. The boys followed, their arms clasped around their bodies, Jake following behind the rest. Another two steps.
Andrew’s breath came in shallow gasps.
When were we going to get there?
“Hey, sir!”
I turned to see Jake on his knees beside a fallen boy.
Backtracking a few steps, I touched the boy’s lips. My fingers were too frozen to feel his breath.
I looked into Jake’s eyes, seeing a drowsy fear in the depths. “Walk along the fence line. Straight ahead. It runs to my barn. I’ll come back for you.”
He groaned but gave a single nod.
With Andrew tucked under my left arm, I scooped up the other boy with my right, then piled them like logs close to my chest.
I sprinted toward the barn, leaving the three behind in the cold.
My legs felt like I ran upriver in deep water.
I gulped for air, the cold wind pouring into my lungs. The pain didn’t matter. These boys were dying.
What would I tell their parents, that their child was dead because I stopped to rest?
I almost plowed into the barn door. I dumped the boys in the snow and wrenched open the door. The wind knocked it shut, but I tugged it open again, braced my back against it, and pulled both boys by their ankles into the dark stillness.
Trevor barked and lunged toward the boys, his black-and-white fur matted with flecks of ice.
I gasped in a relatively warm breath, and the taste of manure and hay filled my senses. I patted his head. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll be back.”
With all my strength, I pushed the door open into the wind. The violent, blowing gust almost sapped the rest of my strength.
My tracks were gone.
Jake had his arms under the other two boys’ shoulders as they struggled along. Each one’s head reached as high as my chest, but I picked up two and trotted back, so tired I nearly collapsed before reaching the barn. I dropped them in the snow.
While I held the door open against the wind, the three crawled in.
I let the door slam and slid the heavy bar to lock the doors closed.
Trevor stood beside the boys, his tail wagging. His nose lifted as he sniffed.
My breath came in heaving gasps as I stepped over the boys and grabbed a shovel. The fire in my blacksmith furnace was filled with orange embers from pine logs, but we needed more warmth. I crossed the barn to a stall near the door, thrust the shovel into a small pile of coal, and hefted the handle.
I rushed to the fire and tossed in the black chunks. I flung the shovel aside and lay down several horse blankets.
Jake pulled Andrew closer to the fire.
“Take your coats off.” I grabbed the boy I’d carried first and lifted his lifeless body. His clothes were too thin, useless against the cold. I tugged off his jacket as I laid him beside the furnace.
I’d rescued the blacksmith forge from rust and decay years ago. A mobile Civil War piece, no one had use of it now. I prayed it would warm these boys. During the summer it produced incredible amounts of heat. But my barn was huge—two stories and eight stalls—with the hayloft filled with hay. And I had never felt this cold before.
The wind outside rattled the wood planks. The howl covered the sound of the horses in their stalls.
I stripped off the boy’s boots and socks and flung them to the side. Trevor bounced toward them and sniffed.
One of the other boys was taking his jacket off as he tried to stand, but his shaking fingers wouldn’t work. My hands, trembling as well, weren’t quite as frozen, and soon he gave up and lay by the fire. I started on his shoes. His laces were frozen solid, and I snatched a knife and cut his boots.
“If you can, stand.”
“I’m so sleepy,” one muttered. His tongue sounded thick.
“Stay awake!” I snarled so loud Trevor turned and tucked his tail. “Don’t sleep.” None could stand.
Soon all five boys lay close to furnace as fire licked their skin, all wearing only pants and shirt. Jake rested on his knees close to Andrew, who hadn’t stirred. I felt the small boy’s chest. The heartbeat was faint, and his breaths were shallow and distant.
Please, God.
I had a lot on my conscience. This I didn’t need to haunt me.
“Will he survive?”
I looked down into Jake’s eyes, reflecting the yellow flames. His sandy hair was matted against his skin, and freckles stood out against pale, frostbitten cheeks. Despite his youth, his muscles under the thin cotton shirt were firm. “I think so.”
One of the boys stirred.
I reached for a stack of horse blankets and wrapped them around each of their shoulders or lay them on their shivering bodies.
I brushed the melting snow from the stirring boy’s dark hair. “What’s your name?”
He opened his eyes. “John.”
I looked at the boy beside him, who did his best to stay awake. “And your name?”
He’d been leaning on his elbow but now sat up. “Paul.”
“And you?” The other lay with the blanket covering his torso. He sobbed. “Joseph.”
“Boys, you’re going to be okay.” I set a pot of coffee on top of the furnace and settled beside them. “You’re going to be okay.” I was trying to convince myself. I sat next to Andrew again and watched his short breaths.
Trevor curled up at my feet, and I ran my fingers through his warm fur. My skin tingled.
I rubbed my hands together. In seconds, pain ripped through my bones.
How frozen had my fingers been?
Jake wrapped his arms across his body and tucked his hands in his armpits. His eyes closed and he leaned forward and groaned.
Joseph sniffed then coughed. “My hands hurt. Bad.”
“It’s going to. But that’s a good sign.”
Please God, let it be a good sign.
“Oh. Ow!” Paul sat up. Maybe the pain was exactly what they needed.
Over the next few minutes, the boys’ groaning turned to sharp cries. Joseph rolled in front of the furnace, curled in a ball. I leaned over and set my hand on his back. He shivered as he rocked in pain.
Sobs and screams filled my barn as agony racked the boys’ bodies.
And I was helpless to do a blessed thing.
“Hold on. Hold on.” What else could be said? “It’ll be better soon.”
Three of the boys wailed, while Andrew lay unmoving. Jake stared at the fire, tears streaming down his face. His arms were still curled around his chest, his breath puffing out his cheeks as he let out the air slowly.
Through a crack in the door, time seemed to stand still, but as the snow continued to pile up outside darkness overtook day.
Their cries quieted into whimpers. Soon, as the fire roared, all five rested under their blankets. We lay in a semicircle around the fire, Jake and Andrew to my right, Paul, Joseph, and John to my left.
I sighed. “In the morning, if the snow stops, we’ll get you home.”
Joseph’s voice was weak and sounded as if he spoke a foreign language.
Jake lifted his head and spoke past me. Then said in English, “He left his bag in the snow. I told him our parents will understand.” He laid his head on the blanket. “I’m sorry. It’s rude to speak in a language you don’t understand.”
The barn shook from the wind.
“Was the cave your idea, Jake?”
“Yes.”
“You probably saved your friends’ lives.” I couldn’t help constantly checking Andrew’s torso. His chest rose, stronger this time.
The coffee was boiling, and I poured a cup and handed it to Jake. Joseph took one as well. “Anyone else?”
They shook their heads.
I sat down and stared into the flames.
After a sip Jake said, “You’re him.”
“Who?”
“Philip Anderson.”
The boys sat up, all except Andrew.
“I can tell by your eyes.” Jake set his cup down beside him. “They say they’re wolf eyes.”
“That’s what they say.” How old was this boy? Thirteen?
He kept talking. “They say you killed four men in the Badlands.”
“Yeah.”
“You outdueled John Maxwell. And fought off Jacob Wilkes in a swordfight.”
“I did.”
“And you’re a deputy marshal.”
“I’d forgotten about that, but yeah. I have a badge.”
By now all the boys were leaning on their elbows, looking at me. All but Andrew.
“Is Raven in her stall?”
I glanced into the darkness, beyond the light cast by the fire. “She is.”
“I saw her once,” Joseph said from my left. “You were riding into town.”
Paul moved to sit up. “I’ve never seen her.”
“Stay by the fire,” I said. “You’ll see the horses in the morning.”
No one spoke for some time, and Paul lay back down.
Jake finally said, “I read in the papers that the government wants to talk with you.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my forehead and kept my hand over my eyes, as if hiding. “In Deadwood after the Maxwell Gang was broken up, the Senate wanted to hear about what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because they make laws where they’re needed after certain events, I think. They don’t like gangs within their borders, and maybe they want to find a way to stop them.” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “They didn’t need to talk to me then but changed their minds.”
“But the paper said you didn’t go to Washington.”
I’d decided to just stay put. I wasn’t about to leave my land. “No. I didn’t go.”
“Can you get in trouble for that?”
“What are they going to do? They have all they need to understand what happened.” I remembered these were just kids, and although they read the paper, they didn’t need to know more than that. “It’s okay. I’ve worked it all out.” Which wasn’t entirely true. I just hoped the whole situation would go away.
Jake took a sip of his coffee. “They say Jacob Wilkes is still roaming out there.”
I grimaced as the idea rushed into the forefront of my mind. “Yeah, he is.”
“You going to have to kill him?”
If I were a kid I suppose I’d ask the same question. I thought back on when I was that young. I probably peppered the man who trained me to shoot a gun with a barrage of incessant requests for information about glorified violence.
The question was honest and deserved an honest answer.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”