When June’s father found out she was pregnant, he didn’t ask who she was. He simply dragged her out into the wilderness and handed her over like cattle. But the man he handed her over to was exactly what anyone would have expected. He didn’t say much, just pointed to the cabin door, then walked back to the shed as if she were no different from the sack of feed her father had left 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, just a snarl. Then he rode off up the mountain trail without looking back. Barely 17, barefoot in the snow, her belly just beginning to swell, and now she was abandoned 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 chimney onto 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 walked in slowly; the door closed behind her, driven by the wind, not by him. She sank down by the fire, clutching her waist. Her father hadn’t asked her who the father was. He hadn’t asked her anything. He’d simply come into her room, dragged her by the hair, and put her in the wagon. “She’s your shame,” he’d snarled. “You’ll live with her or die with her. I won’t let your sin 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 climbing the porch. She didn’t move. He pushed open the door with his shoulder, louder than she remembered. Broad shoulders beneath a wolf pelt, a thick beard, dark eyes. He glanced at her once, just once, then walked to the fire, tossed in two rabbits, and began skinning them without a word. She stared at him. He didn’t look back. Finally, her voice cracked.
“What’s your name?” She didn’t look up. “Tower.” Just that, a dry word. Then, silence again, thick and uncomfortable. 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 had cried enough that morning. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry now. She lay on the ground 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 could feel it now.
The tiny fluttering inside her that didn’t come from hunger or fear. The life growing inside her. The only thing she had left. The next few days passed in silence. Rurk left before dawn, returned after nightfall, always with meat, firewood, or both. She never saw where he went, only heard the sound of an axe striking a tree, gunshots in the woods, 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 allowed her near the fireplace, saying 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 bodice 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, came to her, looked at her once, picked her up, and carried her to the crib without asking permission.
She lay there trembling, whispering over and over, “Please, let it not be the baby. Please, let it not be the baby. Please, let it not be the baby.” Rurk didn’t speak, only stoked the fire, then boiled water and brought all the furs from the cabin to cover her. He saw his hands tremble once, just once, as he wrapped them around her legs and stemmed 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 get your hopes up.” 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, yet 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 hadn’t offered it. A folded blanket near the fireplace, new, clean, untouched, but left there for her. His boots stitched at the soles, mended without her asking. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t
kind either. 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 at them both. “Just to warn you and tell you something else. Your younger brother has people whispering about what he told the whole village about what your father did. People are listening.” June blinked. “Seth, he’s not a boy anymore, ma’am. He fights like a man.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
Pride and fear twisted in her chest. “The town might come after you,” Bram said finally. “Or they might not, but if they do, I suppose you should be ready.” Then he took off his hat, turned, and left without another word. The silence that followed was louder than anything else. That night, they didn’t talk much.
Rurk stood by the door longer than usual, one hand on the frame and the other near his rifle. June sat hopefully, holding her tighter than before. Seth stayed close, his eyes 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 her eyes made his stomach churn. They won’t get through me, he said. Two nights later, it began. 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 prayers under her breath, while Rurk grabbed the rifle from the mantelpiece. “They won’t stop to talk,” 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 wasn’t leaving. The boy was 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 inside, and closed the door behind him. The first shot was low, scattering snow.

Rurk returned fire, kneeling and taking aim with serene precision. June ducked behind the porch rafters, her heart pounding, her fingers gripping the pistol Rurk had placed in her palm weeks before. A man broke free. Rurk shot him in the leg. The others stepped back, confused. They hadn’t expected resistance. They hadn’t expected Rurk. Then another figure emerged, older, taller—the preacher.
June’s breath caught in her throat. “I only came to talk,” the man shouted. Rurk didn’t lower his rifle. “You brought guns to talk. You brought shame to our people,” the preacher spat. “You led your daughter into sin.” “I didn’t lead her anywhere.” Rurk snarled. “She came out because you tried to bury her.” The preacher stood. “Come on.
That child carries your filth.” Rurk remained unmoved. “Then why are you the one covered in mud?” The preacher’s face twisted, 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 crept out the back, climbed a tree, and now stood upright on a low branch, his firm voice 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. The marshal, rifle raised, mounted 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 died down and the house was safe again, June sat beside Ror, her hand on 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 breathed again.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Bram looked at them both. “Just to warn you and tell you something else. Your younger brother has people whispering about what he told the whole town about what your father did. People are listening.” June blinked. “Seth, he’s not a boy anymore, ma’am. He fights like a man.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
Pride and fear twisted in her chest. “The town might come after you,” Bram said finally. “Or they might not, but if they do, I suppose 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 else. That night, they didn’t talk much.

Rurk stood by the door longer than usual, one hand on the frame and the other near his rifle. June sat hopefully, holding her tighter than before. Seth stayed close, his gaze sharper than a child’s should be. “Do you think they’ll come?” June asked. Rurk 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 get through me,” he said. Two nights later, it began. Seth saw them first. Three men in the tree line, moving silently, believing they hadn’t been spotted. June pushed Hope into a crib, whispering prayers, while Rurk grabbed the rifle from the mantelpiece. “They won’t stop to talk,” 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 trembling. “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 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 inside, and closed the door behind him. The first shot was low, scattering snow.

Rurk returned fire, kneeling and taking aim with serene precision. June ducked behind the porch rafters, her heart pounding, her fingers gripping the pistol Rurk had placed in her palm weeks before. A man broke free. Rurk shot him in the leg. The others stepped back, confused. They hadn’t expected resistance. They hadn’t expected Rurk. Then another figure emerged, older, taller—the preacher.
June’s breath caught in her throat. “I only came to talk,” the man shouted. Rurk didn’t lower his rifle. “You brought guns to talk. You brought shame to our people,” the preacher spat. “You led your daughter into sin.” “I didn’t lead her anywhere.” Rurk snarled. “She came out because you tried to bury her.” The preacher stood. “Come on.
That child carries your filth.” Rurk remained unmoved. “Then why are you the one covered in mud?” The preacher’s face twisted, 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 crept out the back, climbed a tree, and now stood upright on a low branch, his firm voice 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. The marshal, rifle raised, mounted 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 died down and the house was safe again, June sat beside Ror, her hand on 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 breathed again.