Chapter 6
For the first time since he had laid his wife and son into the frozen earth under the cottonwood tree, a tear slipped down Emmett’s own cheek.
“I know, little one,” he murmured against her soft hair. “I know.”
By morning, the blizzard had broken.
The Montana sky stretched out in a brilliant, piercing canopy of sapphire blue, and the snow lay over the rolling hills like fresh, untrodden velvet, sparkling in the crisp winter sun.
Emmett saddled his gelding and rigged the light cutter sled. He wrapped Ruthie in three layers of quilts, placed a heated brick wrapped in burlap at her feet, and set off for Bitter Creek.
When they arrived in town, word of the night's events had already reached the settlement. Sheriff Vance had intercepted Silas Finch and his companion three miles south of town, bleeding and half-frozen, attempting to break into a line shack. Finch had confessed to murdering Vernon Prather after an argument over the Brennan estate, and both men were already locked securely behind iron bars awaiting the circuit judge.
Mrs. Daly, the station keeper’s wife, stood on the porch of the way station, her apron fluttering in the cold wind, her hand to her mouth as Emmett guided the sled to a stop.
“Emmett Cade!” she called out, hurrying down the wooden steps. “Thank the Lord you two are all right! We heard what Finch did out at Prather’s farm. The county magistrate arrived on the morning stage from Bozeman. He’s inside right now, writing up the papers to take Ruthie to the state orphanage in Helena.”
Ruthie’s fingers instantly knotted into Emmett’s coat sleeve. Her face went pale as milk.
Emmett looked down at her. He placed his large, warm hand over hers and squeezed gently.
“Wait here with Mrs. Daly for just a minute, Ruthie,” he said softly.
“Mister Cade…” her voice was a terrified whisper.
“Remember what I told you last night?” Emmett asked, his eyes steady and unwavering. “I keep my promises.”
She swallowed hard, searching his face, and slowly nodded.
Emmett stepped inside the station office. The room smelled of chicory coffee, wet wool, and pipe tobacco. Behind the scarred pine desk sat Magistrate Holbrook, a thin, spectacled man in a woolen suit, busy stamping official county documents.
“Ah, Cade,” Holbrook said, adjusting his glasses. “Vance briefed me on the situation. Extraordinary business. It seems this Brennan child is quite an heiress. The Gallatin deed and the bank draft will be placed into a state trust until she comes of age. In the meantime, the Saint Joseph’s Home for Children in Helena has an opening. I’ll be escorting her on the noon coach.”