“The wind in 1882 Montana did not blow. It hunted. It came screaming down from the northern mountains like a living thing with teeth, swallowing the sky and burying the earth under a white rage. The plains disappeared. The trees bent low like they were begging for mercy. It was the kind of storm that erased men without leaving a mark behind. Luke Callahan had lived in Montana long enough to know the difference between a hard winter and a killing one. This was a killing one. The snow lashed against his face like sandpaper as he pushed Bess forward through drifts that reached her chest. Then Bess stopped first. Her ears snapped back. She refused to move. Luke squinted through the storm. At first, he saw nothing. Then a shape — a dark shadow buried in the drift. He found her face down, almost covered by the snow. Dark hair frozen to her cheek. Fine wool coat torn open. She looked like she belonged in a ballroom, not dying in a Montana blizzard.”
“The wind in 1882 Montana did not blow. It hunted. It came screaming down from the northern mountains like a living thing with teeth, swallowing the sky and burying the earth under a white rage. The plains disappeared. The trees bent low like they were begging for mercy. It was the kind of storm that…
