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Or fall?”
    Matthew looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. “The gate rider had told us he’d found proof that someone was tamperin’ with the water gates, takin’ more water than they’d a right to and leaving too little for downstream to town. The rider let your husband know he was goin’ to file a report. Then the next day . . . that’s when we found him.”
    Kathryn shook her head, shaken by the news but even more puzzled as to why Larson had never shared it with her. “Do you know who was taking the water?”
    “Never did find out. Two other ranches have rights to the water in this creek, plus it runs on through to Willow Springs, so the townsfolk have a claim too. But your husband has first rights, so his portions should be guaranteed.” He glanced away. “But with the drought the last few years, some don’t quite see it that way anymore.”
    “Do you think we’ll have more trouble this spring?”
    A spark of disbelief, as though she should have already known the answer, flashed in Matthew Taylor’s topaz brown eyes before he blinked it away. He nodded, and a shiver of warning passed through her.

    Larson fought to open his eyes but felt something pressing them closed. Darkness companioned the pain wracking his body—pain so intense he wanted to cry out. But with every fettered breath he drew, his lungs burned like liquid fire and the muscles in his chest spasmed in protest.
    He tried to lie still, thinking that might offer reprieve, but relief escaped him. He writhed as his flesh felt like it was being stripped from his body. Why would God not let him die?
    Blurred images swayed and jerked before his shuttered view. His mind grasped at one as though lunging for a lifeline.
    Kathryn. Her eyes the color of cream-laced coffee. Her skin like velvet beneath his hands. If only he could— Jagged pain ripped through his right thigh. The image of Kathryn vanished.
    A cry twisting up from his chest strangled in the parched lining of his throat, and he struggled to remember his last lucid thought before this nightmare began.
    Instinct kicked in again, and he was prey—a wounded field mouse cowering in muted terror as talons sank deep into his tender flesh. His heart pounded out a chaotic rhythm against his ribs as a fresh wave of pain tore through him. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was in hell.
    But as the thought occurred, something cool touched his lips. Wetness slid down his throat, burning a trail to his belly. Then a sensation he craved swept through him.
    Liquid sleep.
    He waited for it. Yearned for it. It didn’t matter where it came from, only that it came. He floated on waves of painlessness, far above the suffering that he knew still existed. And would soon return.

    With scant minutes of daylight left, Kathryn fought the familiar swell of panic that tightened her chest with every nightfall. She pulled on her coat and gloves and, forcing one foot in front of the other, plodded through the fresh fallen snow for more firewood.
    Used to the warmth of the cabin, she winced as the cold air bit her cheeks. Her eyes watered. She took a deep breath and felt the frigid air all the way down to her toes. February’s temperatures had plummeted, and their descent brought twice the amount of snowfall as January. With her arms loaded down each time, Kathryn made five trips and turned to make one more.
    Her steps slowed as she let her gaze trail upward to the tip of the snow-flocked blue spruce towering beside their cabin. Seeing it almost brought a smile. At her request, Larson had planted the once twig of a tree ten summers ago, shortly after building the cabin.
    “I want it to grow closer to my kitchen window, Larson,” she’d told him, slowly dragging the evergreen with its balled root toward the desired spot.
    “If you plant it there, it’ll grow through your kitchen window.” The smirk on his handsome face told her he knew this was a game. “This spruce is going to grow a mite bigger than