When June’s father discovered she was pregnant, he didn’t ask who she was. He just dragged her out into the wilderness and handed her over like cattle. But the man he handed her over to was what anyone would expect. He didn’t say much, just pointed at the cabin door, and then walked back to the shed as if she were no different from the sack of feed her father had left for her.

June stood there, her wrists still red from the rope burn, her eyes swollen from the slap she hadn’t seen coming. Her father hadn’t said a last word to her, only a grunt. Then he’d ridden off down the mountain trail without a backward glance. Barely 17, barefoot in the snow, her belly beginning to swell, and now she was marooned in the middle of nowhere with a man twice her size who hadn’t said a word. The cabin door creaked open. A warm sensation hit her face.
Firelight danced from the grate across the wooden floor. A cot in the corner, a rough table, a washbasin, hooks on the wall with furs, a shotgun on the mantelpiece. Then she turned. He was gone. June crept in slowly; the door closed behind her by the wind, not his. She slumped down by the fire, hugging her waist. Her father hadn’t asked her who her father was. He hadn’t asked her anything. He’d simply walked into her room, pulled her by the hair, and put her in the wagon. “It’s your shame,” he snarled. “You will live with her or die with her. I will not allow your sin to rot this house.” And then the journey, hours, no food, no stopping, just snow and silence, and the sound of her own heart breaking in her ears.

Now the only thing breaking was the wood in the fireplace. Then the sound of heavy boots coming up the porch. She didn’t move. He opened the door with a heave of his shoulder, taller than she remembered. Broad shoulders under a wolfskin, a thick beard, dark eyes. He looked at her once, just once, then walked over to the fire, threw in two rabbits, and began skinning them without a word. She stared at him. He didn’t look back. Finally, his voice broke.
“What’s your name?” He didn’t look up. I said, “Rook.” Just that, a dry word. Then the silence again, thick and awkward. Her fingers trembled in her lap. “What do you want from me?” she asked, staring at him. Still no eye contact. He gutted one of the rabbits. “I didn’t ask about you,” he murmured. The words were like a slap.

June felt the pang in her chest, but she suppressed it. She’d cried enough that morning. He wouldn’t allow her to cry now. She lay on the floor by the fire that night. He hadn’t offered her the cot, and she didn’t dare take it. Her hands closed around her belly. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but she already felt it.
The small flutter inside her that didn’t come from hunger or fear. The life growing in her. The only thing she had left. The next few days passed in silence. Rurk left before dawn, returned after dark, always with meat, firewood, or both. She never saw where he went, only heard the sound of the axe hitting a tree, the gunshots in the woods, the birds scattering.
He never touched her, never asked questions, never even looked at her for long. June cleaned because… She didn’t know what else to do. She cooked what little she could, though her hands were clumsy from lack of practice. Her father hadn’t let her near the hearth; he said that was her mother’s job until the day she died. It was on the fifth morning that she saw the blood. It stained the front of her dress when she woke up. Her scream brought him in from outside, snow on his shoulders, axe in hand. “I’m bleeding,” she whispered sharply. “It’s too early. I can’t. I don’t know.” He moved quickly, threw down the axe, walked over to her, looked at her once, picked her up, and carried her to the crib without asking her permission.
She lay there trembling, whispering over and over, “Please don’t let it be the baby. Please don’t let it be the baby. Please don’t let it be the baby.” Rurk didn’t speak, just built up the fire, then boiled water and brought all the furs from the cabin to cover her. He saw her hands tremble once, just once, as he wrapped her legs and controlled the bleeding. Hours passed. The blood slowed. The cramps stopped. She didn’t lose control. That night, he sat beside her on the floor, his back to the wall, watching the fire with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “You cared,” she whispered. He didn’t blink. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But his voice broke as he said it. She said nothing more.

She heard only the crackling of the firewood and the soft, steady breathing of the man who hadn’t smiled once since her arrival, but who had carried her like something fragile. By the second week, she began to notice things. A second bowl next to hers at dinner, even though he didn’t offer it. A blanket folded near the fireplace, new, clean, untouched, but left there for her. His boots sewn at the sole, mended without her asking. He wasn’t cruel.
Nor was he kind. He was something else, something unreadable. Then the storm came. It roared down from the mountains like a beast, trapping them in darkness. “What do you want from me?” she asked. Bram looked from one to the other. “Just to warn you and tell you something else. Your brother, the youngest, has people whispering about how he told the whole town what your father did. People are listening.” June blinked. “Seth, he’s not a boy anymore, ma’am. Fight like a man.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
Pride and fear tangled in her chest. The town might come for you, Bram said finally. Or it might not, but if it does, I suppose you should be prepared. Then he took off his hat, turned, and walked away without another word. The silence that followed was louder than anything. That night, they didn’t talk much.
Rurk lingered by the door longer than usual, one hand on the frame, the other near his rifle. June sat hopefully, holding her tighter than before. Seth stood close, his gaze sharper than a child’s should be. Do you think they’ll come? June asked. Ror didn’t lie. Maybe.

And if they do, he looked at her, and the weight in his eyes made her stomach churn. They won’t go through me, he said. Two nights later, it started. Seth saw them first. Three men in the tree line, moving silently, thinking they hadn’t been seen. June pushed Hope into a crib, whispering soft prayers, while Rurk grabbed the rifle from the ledge. “They won’t stop at talking,” he said. June looked at him. “We don’t have to stay. We can run.” “No,” he said. “They need to know you’re not prey anymore.” She stared at him, her hands shaking. “Then I’m with you.” He nodded once. “Get Seth inside. Keep the baby close.” But Seth wouldn’t leave. The boy stood in the doorway holding a long stick like a gun, his eyes fierce. “I’m not hiding,” he said. Rurk looked at him, knelt, and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re brave,” he said. But brave men know when to protect those who can’t fight. Your sister needs you. That baby needs you. Seth bit his lip, nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. The first shot was low, scattering snow.

Rurk returned fire, kneeling and aiming with calm precision. June crouched behind the porch beams, her heart pounding, her fingers gripping the pistol Rurk had pressed into her palm weeks ago. A man broke free. Rurk brought him down with a shot to the leg. The others fell back, confused. They didn’t expect resistance. They didn’t expect Rurk. Then another figure emerged, older, taller—the preacher.
June’s breath caught in her throat. “I just came to talk,” the man shouted. Rurk didn’t lower his rifle. “You brought guns to talk with. You brought shame to our people,” the preacher snapped. “You led your daughter into sin. I didn’t take her anywhere.” Rurk snarled. “She got out because you tried to bury her.” The preacher stood up. “Forward.
That little girl carries your filth.” Rurk didn’t flinch. “Then why are you the one covered in mud?” The preacher’s face contorted, fury burning in his cheeks. You’ll regret protecting her. But before he could say more, a second voice echoed through the trees. Leave them alone. It was Seth. The boy had slipped out the back, climbed a tree, and was now standing tall on a low branch, his voice steady, echoing through the woods.

She’s my sister, that baby’s family. If you want them, you come through me too. The preacher hesitated. His men looked at him uneasily. And then a second voice joined Bram’s. The marshal, rifle raised, rode behind the retreating men. This ends here, Bram said. Or it ends with a rope.
The preacher froze, then turned and disappeared into the woods. Later, when the fire was out and the house was safe again, June sat beside Ror, her hand over his. Stay, she said. I told you. I would. And when she looked at him, she knew. He wasn’t just the man who saved her. He was the one who would never let her fall again. The woods were breathing again.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Bram looked at them both. “Just to warn you and tell you something else. Your brother, the youngest, has people whispering about how he told the whole town what your father did. People are listening.” June blinked. “Seth, he’s not a boy anymore, ma’am. Fight like a man.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
Pride and fear tangled in her chest. “The town might come for you,” Bram said finally. “Or it might not, but if it does, I guess you should be ready.” Then he took off his hat, turned, and walked away without another word. The silence that followed was louder than anything. That night, they didn’t speak much.

Rurk lingered by the door longer than usual, one hand on the frame, the other near his rifle. June sat hopefully, holding her tighter than before. Seth stayed close, his gaze sharper than a child’s should have been. Do you think they’ll come? June asked. Ror didn’t lie. Maybe.
And if they do, he looked at her, and the weight in his eyes made her stomach churn. They won’t run through me, he said. Two nights later, it started. Seth saw them first. Three men in the tree line, moving silently, believing they hadn’t been seen. June pushed Hope into a crib, whispering soft prayers, while Rurk grabbed the rifle from the ledge. “They won’t stop at talking,” he said. June looked up at him. “We don’t have to stay. We can run.” “No,” he said. “They need to know you’re not prey anymore.” She stared at him, her hands shaking. “Then I’m with you.” She nodded once. “Get Seth inside. Keep the baby close.” But Seth wouldn’t leave. The boy stood in the doorway holding a long stick like a gun, his eyes fierce. “I’m not hiding,” he said. Rurk looked at him, knelt down, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re brave,” he said. But brave men know when to protect those who can’t fight. Your sister needs you. That baby needs you. Seth bit his lip, nodded, went in, and closed the door behind him. The first shot was low, scattering snow.

Rurk returned fire, kneeling and aiming with calm precision. June crouched behind the porch beams, her heart pounding, her fingers gripping the pistol Rurk had pressed into her palm weeks ago. A man broke free. Rurk brought him down with a shot to the leg. The others fell back, confused. They didn’t expect resistance. They didn’t expect Rurk. Then another figure emerged, older, taller—the preacher.
June’s breath caught in her throat. “I just came to talk,” the man shouted. Rurk didn’t lower his rifle. “You brought guns to talk with. You brought shame to our people,” the preacher snapped. “You led your daughter into sin. I didn’t take her anywhere.” Rurk snarled. “She got out because you tried to bury her.” The preacher stood up. “Forward.
That little girl carries your filth.” Rurk didn’t flinch. “Then why are you the one covered in mud?” The preacher’s face contorted, fury burning in his cheeks. You’ll regret protecting her. But before he could say more, a second voice echoed through the trees. Leave them alone. It was Seth. The boy had slipped out the back, climbed a tree, and was now standing tall on a low branch, his voice steady, echoing through the woods.

She’s my sister, that baby’s family. If you want them, you come through me too. The preacher hesitated. His men looked at him uneasily. And then a second voice joined Bram’s. The marshal, rifle raised, rode behind the retreating men. This ends here, Bram said. Or it ends with a rope.
The preacher froze, then turned and disappeared into the woods. Later, when the fire was out and the house was safe again, June sat beside Ror, her hand over his. Stay, she said. I told you. I would. And when she looked at him, she knew. He wasn’t just the man who saved her. He was the one who would never let her fall again. The woods were breathing again.