“Are you with me?” the man on the mountain said to the young woman, beaten by her cruel husband for giving birth to three girls. December bit into the Mountain with ice cubes. The wind descended the slopes like a hungry wolf and the snow covered the forgotten paths with a thick silence. It was no land for solitary travelers.

 

 

That path among the dead feet had no name and no tracks, only two leaning posts. Those who searched for it did so because they were lost. Wyatt Holt rode slowly. He was not in a hurry. His ewe, exhausted from the long journey, moved forward at the pace he wanted.

He only held the reins with one hand and with the other he caressed the butt of the rifle strapped to his back. He had not spoken for three days, either for lack of words or for lack of necessity, until he heard it. A weak, broken sound, barely echoing among the trees. It was like the cry of something small or someone. He stopped the mare, closed his eyes.

Soyous again, then more acute sadness. Wyatt climbed down cautiously, left the animal tied to a frosted sage bush, and advanced along the path. The smell was pungent, like rust and wet wood. He passed a broken fence and then saw her. A woman stood by a splintered post with already frozen hemp ropes.

Her head was down, her hair loose and covering her face. Her dress was torn, her shoulders exposed to the cold. The skin on her wrists was raw. At her feet, wrapped in a threadbare, dirty mess, three little bundles were trembling. They were babies, triplets.

The three of them cried without force, with that moan that wasn’t a complaint, but rather resisted. One looked for something to suck, another barely opened her eyes. The woman raised her face. She was young, but her eyes seemed like those of someone who was no longer expecting anything. She had dried blood on her face, her split lip, and the broken expression of someone who had been condemned without judgment. Her cracked lips moved.

Don’t let him take my daughters. Wayatt replied to the state, took one step, then another. He took out his sharp, clean household knife and slid it against the ropes from one end to the other. The woman fainted when he let go, but he held her before she fell. She was light, and she just sighed in his arms.

Wayat settled her carefully on the ground and looked at the babies. Snow was beginning to cover the blanket. One of them coughed. He knelt, rolled the blanket up better, adjusted the edges, and then looked at the woman, whose breathing was shallow as a mouse. “You’re with me,” he said in a low voice, firm as a promise. She didn’t answer, but a tear rolled down her icy cheek.

Wayad acted decisively, took the bag with the babies, adjusted it to his chest and then lifted the woman with one arm under her knees and the other on her back. His boots cracked the snow as the horse returned. The wind attacked. The snow fell cold. He remained careful, held the woman in front of him, held her against his chest and secured the bag with the babies between them.

He grabbed the reins and without looking back turned around along the path back to the port. Thus began the most important journey of his life. A man of few words, a woman on the verge of death and three creatures who still didn’t know how to cry aloud. Nothing belonged to the way that left them stranded on that mountain, but together they faced the storm.

That day, Wyatt Holt didn’t just save his mother; he saved something quieter, more fragile: the right to live without being anyone’s property. And with each step his daughter took, the ice creaked beneath her swift fate. The horse struggled through the deep snow. Wyatt didn’t speak; he just held the woman to his chest with one firm arm, while the other guided the reins.

The wind cut like knives. The girls, wrapped in the bag, moaned from time to time, but the heat of his body kept them still. When they finally reached the cabin, a humble structure of dark wood lost among pine trees and fog, Wayat carefully removed it. First he lowered the bag with the babies, then the woman. With his foot he opened the door.

Inside, the air smelled of sleeping ash. The hearth had been empty for days. He placed her on the cot next to the bedstead. Then he went for firewood. Then the flames began to lick the iron, and the heat filled the room with breaths of life. He took out the thick wood, covered the woman, and then, kneeling next to the fire, he poured rainwater into the old pot.

With caring hands he cleaned her wounded wrists. The reddened hoof marks were torn off her face. He sighed, but she did not open her eyes. Then he rubbed her cold-pale hands and feet with a warm cloth. He did not speak, he did not ask questions, he just worked. Then he went to the babies, made them milk with the last of the goat’s milk he had saved in the jar, heated it, mixed it with water, and poured it into three small flasks.

He fed them by the bottle, holding them gently as if they were made of glass. He squeezed the girls tightly, as if he thought someone wanted him to live. The woman woke up with the third bottle. Not completely, she only opened her eyes a little, just enough to see the fire, her fed daughters, and the man who hadn’t left. She tried to speak, but only muttering came out.

“I’m Lidia Hay,” she said, confused, as if trying to be a man was harder than walking. Wyop didn’t stop feeding the baby in his arms, just nodded, and said, “What?” She looked at him. Her eyes were empty of hope, but full of her question. She said nothing more. She closed her eyes as if she could finally sleep without fear.

Wyatt placed the three girls in the box of cornflakes he had brought with him with old fabrics. Then he sat back down by the fire without taking his eyes off Lidia. For a moment he asked what happened to her. He didn’t ask for explanations, he didn’t demand names, he just listened. For hours all that could be heard was the creaking of the stove and the sighs of sleeping babies. Outside, the storm raged.

Inside, the silence was no longer solitude, it was protection. Lidia stirred as the fire crackled louder, opened her eyes, looked at her daughters, and reached for the man still sitting there like a mountain awake, his voice weak but clear, and he cried, “You didn’t leave us.” Wyatt looked up, didn’t answer with words, only added fuel to the fire.

The snow continued to fall, but the fire inside the cabin hid the darkness outside. The girls slept together, their arms tangled like roots seeking warmth. Lidia was sitting in the chair next to the stove, her head over her shoulders, her hair loose, her gaze fixed on the invisible spot in the shadows, as if she still saw the post where her body was left to die.

Wyatt was making maize tea without making a fuss. He moved as he did everything, with precision, with silence, like someone who knows that peace is fragile. He offered her the cup without words. Lidia took it, but didn’t drink. She just held it in her hands, letting the warmth tremble through her icy fingers.

“Why are you asking?” she said suddenly, without looking at him. Wyatt remained still, but did not answer. “Everyone is asking,” Lidia said. “Everyone wants to know why the woman is, why the mother appears in the middle of the snow with three girls crying and the rope marked on her skin.” Wyatt stood in front of her. He did not speak, he only waited, as if he knew that words are not demanded, they are offered.

Lidia looked down. Her fingers trembled over the cup. The steam covered her face like a veil, as if protecting her from her own story. My husband, she said, and her voice broke, but she didn’t cry. He said I was defective, that a woman who only gives birth to daughters is good for nothing, that the name of her family would be lost.

He called me Wyatt. He lightly frown, but it didn’t shake. His look was that of a man who listens, not with his ears, but with his whole body. He made me work like a slave, cleaning stables, chopping wood, carrying sacks heavier than I was. He said it was better than being a slave.

Every time his daughter spoke, he made a long face as if swallowing spies. He said the universe laughed in his face. He took breath and his voice became lower, more deafening. He wanted to cut my hair when Clara did. He said I was a witch for only having women. One day he raised his axe and his voice lowered to such a gasp that it froze the air and he told me that if he couldn’t give a man, then he didn’t need hands either. Wat squeezed the blade.

Her eyes, still calm, darkened like a lake that loses its reflection of the sky. They said it wasn’t worth the effort to feed me. They said the girls didn’t bring a dowry. Lidia’s voice trembled, but not from fear. They tied me to the post so I could die there, so the snow could do the work, so that if it weren’t even worth a bullet.

For a moment, silence fell over the cabin. A silence that seemed to have no form. The crackling of the fire was the only sound, and even then it seemed to be asking permission to exist. Wyatt lowered his head. His eyes reddened with cold, but his body remained motionless, as if he were afraid to break something by even moving. Then he slowly moved closer.

He didn’t say anything, he just extended his hand and gently took Lidia’s. The hand was thick, rough from years of work, from the earth, the wood, the metal, but the gesture was as delicate as the brush of a falling leaf. She looked at him. For the first time, there was no judgment in the other’s eyes.

Not even pity, just a peaceful, abiding peace like that of old trees that have survived every storm. He recognized it silently, as if he too knew what it was like to be saved, yet remain standing. Wayat squeezed her hand, which was once light, then murmured in a deep, firm voice. You’re safe here. Lidia blinked. Her lower lip trembled. She didn’t reply, but squeezed his hand in response.

The warmth was real, not just on her skin, but in her soul. For the first time in so long, she felt nothing but broken, just alive. And that night, as the wind pounded the wooden walls and the snow continued to fall in the mountains, the fire not only warmed the cabin, it also began to heal the wound that had waited too long.

The sun was just peeking behind the mountains when the creaking of a cart brought the forest to a halt. Lidia was hanging up the girls’ clothes when she saw the hooded figure of an older woman approaching. She walked steadily, leaning on a wooden cane, wrapped in a shawl embroidered with red threads. Her face was as stern as winter, but her eyes held something more than judgment.

“Elièpe Parish,” Lidia murmured with a mixture of surprise and fear. “Lidia, hey,” the woman said, “May I come in?” Lidia nodded suspiciously. Wyatt came out of the barn with his bundles of firewood and, seeing the visitor, frowned. He didn’t say anything, but stood closer. Inside the cabin, Evely sat waiting for the invitation. She watched the girls sleep in the makeshift bed and then stared at Lidia.

“I don’t have time for beating around the bush,” he said. “Your brother-in-law and three other men are looking for you. They left town two days ago. They say you stole, that you took the girls illegally, that you’re a fugitive.” Lidia clutched the bag in her lap. “I didn’t steal anything, I just ran away.” Evely raised her eyebrow. “That’s what you say, but they have papers, stamps.”

I want you to come back, or at least give them to the girls. You have your blood, they said. Wyatt stood against the wall. Moving. His eyes were ice. “How will it get there?” he asked in a deep voice. If it wasn’t stopped by the storm before the night fell. Silence. “Thanks for letting us know,” Lidia said with her throat in her throat.

Evely looked at her for a moment longer, then stood up and before leaving she left, she left, leaving a jar of jam on the table. “I don’t trust men like them, but people seldom listen to women like you.” She said and left without waiting for an answer. Wyatt began to move as the door closed. Without saying a word, he reinforced the bolts, nailed additional boards to the wood grain, prepared some hot water, then took his thicker jacket, hung the shotgun on the nail without touching it and left. He spent the rest of the day hunting.

He returned with two hares, dried mushrooms, and roots. He also chopped more firewood than usual. Lidia watched him, unsure what to say. Her silence wasn’t fear, it was confusion. “Aren’t you going to prepare weapons?” she asked the other. Wyatt shook his head. “I’m not looking for war, but I won’t say anything either. The night came like a dark tide.

The wind was colder than usual, and with it the hooves of four horses. Lidiy approached the road. Four silhouettes descended from their horses. They wore long coats, low hats, and shouldered rifles. One of them in front was his brother-in-law, Ala Hargrove.

He admitted his arrogant behavior, even in the shadows. Wyatt opened the door and came out unarmed. He stood in front of them, unafraid. “We’re looking for Lidia,” Ala said. “Nonsense. She’s my deceased brother’s wife, she’s family property, and those girls are ours too.” Wyatt didn’t reply. “We have documents sealed by the judge.”

We can take them by force if necessary. Silence fell like snow. Then Way took a step forward. His voice was low, but firm as a mountain. If you come any closer, you’ll discover that I have nothing to lose. Ala looked at him with disdain. Do you think you’re going to stop us with words? One of the men raised his rifle, but Ala stopped him with a gesture.

“It’s not worth the pain. Not today. Gruffalo, spit on the floor. They promised to come back. This isn’t over, old man,” he said before leaving. Wyatt didn’t move until the sound of the horses faded into the wind. As he entered the cabin, Lidia was waiting for him in the shadows. She didn’t say anything, just offered him a warm cup. He accepted it.

Fire had crossed her eyes. But Lidia saw only a thing, a man who had braved the darkness unarmed for them. Winter remained firm in the heights, but in the log cabin the fire was fading. Each morning Wyatt left early with his rifle slung over his shoulder, his boots leaving deep marks in the still-fresh snow.

When I returned, the coffee smoke was already coming out of the small spit on the roof and Lidia’s voice, soft as a thread, was singing melodies for the girls. Lidia took care of breakfasts and household repairs, while the girls slept on her breast, she sewed blankets with recycled fabrics, and embroidered small flowers on the edges, as if beauty could protect.

Sometimes he would stop and watch Wayet from the sidewalk, cleaning furs, hanging clothes on the porch hangers, repairing his shoe with the same care he used to boil water. The girls Amelia, Clara, and Sara grew pink, sleepy, and healthy. Lidia gave them goat’s milk mixed with sweet herbs.

Wyattido lay under the veil where the midday sun was bathed, covering them with thick leaves. One day, without saying a word, Wayat placed three small objects on the table. Lidia looked at them. They were three pillows made of pale bark, stuffed with dry musk and old cloth, soft to the touch, light as feather.

Each one had a flower carved into it on a different corner, a daisy, a lily, a piebald apple. “For your necks,” he said, looking at her while he was asleep. Lidia took the piece in her hands, pressed it to her chest, and didn’t cry, but her eyes shone with something stronger than gratitude. She looked up and saw him still, standing, waiting, offering everything.

It was the first time that she showed such confidence without words. She sat quietly, as if she recognized someone, not by what they say, but by what they do. The days passed without surprises. Wayat fixed the roof with branches. He leaned close to the back to catch the chickens he hoped to get.

Lidia cooked bread with cetea and roots. She caught cacioas atigas while she braided the girls’ hair. No one spoke of the brother-in-law, no one tied the boy to the papers. The silence was not cowardly, it was a pact, a truce between fear and hope. One afternoon, when the light was golden and the smoke of the firewood floated like a veil, Lidia was by the stove.

She wore an embroidered apron she had sewn herself. The girls slept in a row. Wyat was driving the stakes outside. Lidia was stirring the pot slowly, the steam covering her face. Repeatedly, without thinking about it, she said, “Wat.” The voice was loud, but enough. He stopped, turned slowly.

Her name in his mouth sounded different, not like a call, not like a recognition, not like a question, not like a cry. He nodded, just that. And in that brief but firm gesture there was something more than a response. There was a promise. The icy air hit the walls like fists of snow. A storm swirled frost all over the clearing. Lidia was changing Clara’s diaper when Ghayat entered suddenly, his eyes wide with warning.

“He’s found us,” she said in a Thessalian voice. Lydia stiffened fearfully. Outside, the dry, repeated sound of hooves pushing through branches, cloaks sweeping up snow. Looking down the sidewalk, she saw three riders in gray cloaks that shone in the snow. Beside them, undressed, was Alaa Hargrove, his brother-in-law, dressed in black, his face pinched, and another man with fossils crossed over his chest, blocking the path to the snitch. Watt stopped the state.

It wasn’t just armed men, they were coming to claim Lidia and the girls. Alap had the expression of a swindler. He believed that the right of blood gave him the power to take them away with violence. The other two backed him up with the law in their mouths and a set of papers in their pockets. He claimed that Lidia had lied, stolen her dowry, kidnapped her own daughters.

Their argument was to redeem their honor and reclaim what they believed was their family right. Wyatt didn’t allow himself the luxury of delaying the matter. He took Lidia to his side and said in a firm voice, “Take the girls. Go along the path right to the creek. Look for the old man’s tooth. It will be waiting for you there.” The police gave him a coonskin hat lined with wool.

He stuffed a bag of dried food and a small knife into Lidia’s jacket. He looked at her with a steady gaze. “I’m staying. Don’t come back if you don’t hear sirens.” If nothing else, Lidia grabbed two girls, tied the rear one inside her backpack, and slipped through the back door toward the barn. Her silhouette disappeared into the snow with a hesitant, trembling step.

Wyatt closed the door, quickly placed the lantern on the side of the window, and emitted a small signal so that it looked south, simulating movement. Then he adjusted his tattered coat on the head of the old horse leaning against the wall and placed his hat on its head. It was a crude illusion, but it would be enough to distract. The storm was on.

The gusts pushed the lantern light like waves push the beach. He abandoned the idea of ​​​​deceiving the men of the Hargrove clapper. For the moment he thought it would work, but soon he saw that Lydia’s royal swords were turning south. He went to the side through the covered ditch. He turned, murmured between them, wet his lips, redirected their advance and surrounded the cabin.

Alap banged on the door, Watt opened it in haste, in anger, in anger, and he turned to look at the rifle. It was unarmed, but his look was a sign that it wouldn’t break. Behind him hung the rifle on a nail, untouched, but he didn’t touch it. “Give me your nails, Wyatt,” Alap growled. “She belongs to me, always has.” Wyatt looked at him in silence.

His breath was cold exhaled and his face pale. Then he opened his arms in a wide gesture as if defying any hunger. A man bent down and tried to draw his rifle. Wyatt was precise. He swung the axe handle up and brought it down on the attacker’s wrist. The shot didn’t go off, the weapon fell, but the bullet hit the man with a brutal thrust that slammed compressed snow into Wyatt’s heart. Wyatt jumped, but didn’t fall.

He brought a desperate punch. The fourth man raised his weapon, but that static scream cut through the air. Distant sirens that the storm was crossing. Tranma in the mountains. Lidia had reached the bottom of the hut and had found help. She had found a man and two helpers from the Algarve, who broke through the wind with flickering lights.

He shouted at the gunmen, “Put down your weapons! You’re under arrest for kidnapping and assault.” The riders hesitated. Alapa took a deep breath, eager to regain her authority. Lidia emerged from the dark pit of the tree, her arms covered in snow, her face red but firm. “Tell them what you did to me.”

“His voice echoed like a rock in a storm. “Or I will.” The sheriff read the papers he was carrying, warrants for his arrest, both for Lidia’s escape and for the girls’ kidnapping. But there was no clarity about the abuses or the threats. Lidia stepped forward and looked coldly at those present. He hit me, cut my hair, said I was no longer useful, and chained me to the post to die. I only ran for my daughters.

The storm raged, but the authorities heard it. They ordered Ala and his men to be handcuffed. As Lidia approached Wyatt, he was leaning against the doorframe. His clothes were soaked with snow, his shoulder scarlet, his lips trembled, but not from the cold. She knelt in front of him, placed her hand on his chest, felt his heartbeat steady and erratic. He did not cry, but his voice was sincere.

I can’t leave you alone because you’re the first one who’s broken down on me. Wayat looked at her, didn’t speak, just raised his head slightly and gasped. I knew you’d come back. And in his eyes, under the snow, there was something that would never freeze. Dawn was still clear, as if the sky had swept away all traces of a storm during the evening. The sun filtered through the frozen trees.

The edge of the roof was tinged with gold. Lidia opened the door of the cabin and took a deep breath. The air was cold, but not hostile. Wyatt appeared at her side and silently, and together they observed the white pattern that surrounded them. Now there was no threat, only a promise. That same day they would begin to gather.

Wad reinforced the walls of the hut with old logs. Lidia collected dry branches and flat stones for the fire. They made furrows in the hard earth and turned it over patiently. Despite the frozen soil, they planted bananas, corn, radishes, and hung strips of dried banana inside for the next winter. Every bit of it became useful. Every action had a purpose.

A week later, while walking along a path near Trade Pass, Wyatt pointed to a clearing protected by fir trees. He said here. And without another word, he began to lift the simple wooden structure. It was a small dining room with a single communal table and pale pine bowls. Lydia gave him a man, fort Herth.

It was a kitchen, yes, but it was also a home for those like them who had endured. [Music] Lidia cooked corn porridge with cashews, wild garlic beef soup, and ceteo bread in a stone oven. Wat hunted pheasants, gathered mushrooms, and cleaned the yard so that traders and travelers could arrive easily.

In no time, the place became a mountain retreat. The fire was always there. The aroma of broth floated in the air, and visitors didn’t just find food, they cooked it. One day, after serving the elderly couple who had come down from the valley, Wyatt came into the cabin with something in the gray.

Lidia turned over with a girl in her arms and another sleeping girl on her back. He tied the package to her. She carefully untied it. It was a thick, hand-woven handkerchief, soft as a blanket. Three names were embroidered on the corner in blue thread: Amelia, Clara, and Sara. And the scepter had a single strong word. Lidia stroked it with her fingers. Then she looked up at Wayat, who remained silent.

Her eyes, however, said more than 1,000 words. She smiled with treacherous confidence, because what is not asked is imposed. You chose to stay when you could have left, she said. He lowered his head slightly. He didn’t need to confirm. The truth was between them, settled like deep roots. That night, witnesses to the celebrations, next to the fire that sparked between burning stones, Wyatt took something from the inside pocket of his coat.

It was a small ring made of a worn piece of silver. He gave it to Livia without saying a word. She took it and, with moist eyes, nodded. Then he took out three more rings, made of the same metal, harder and smaller. He gave them to Lidia’s open hand. She took them carefully. That night, with each of the sleeping girls, he placed the small ring, which shone faintly like the fire’s light, on her finger.

There were no spoken promises or vows, only the sound of the wind among the chirping birds, the crackling of the firewood and the warmth of this family woven not by blood or by custom, but by choice. Spring arrived slowly, as if it did not want to terrify. The last dustings of snow were retreating from the ground and wild flowers were now sprouting among the stones.

The bees buzzed back after a long winter, and the streams ran through the grasses again as if waking from sleep. On the hillside where there had once been only bare trees and icy wind, now stood the small wooden shop with the hand-carved sign, Fort Hearth. Every morning, freshly baked bread smoke floated down the chimney and slid through the pine trees.

The aroma of beef and sweetcorn stew mingled with the chirping of blackbirds and the crunch of gravel beneath the wagon wheels. Merchants, travelers, and families from nearby villages stopped by to rest. Some came out of curiosity, others on recommendation, but all stayed longer than they expected.

The children scampered around under the old tree, hiding among their rotten roots, while their mothers drank hot coffee under the porch eaves, talking in low voices with tremulous eyes. Inside, Lidia moved like the soul of the place. Wearing her white apron and her hair tied back in a tight braid, she greeted each person with a tremulous smile, the kind that can only be appreciated, if only, by having survived.

Sometimes she sat with the children, teaching them how to write their names with colored chalk on the improvised blackboard. Other times she would kiss Clara softly or stroke Amelia and Sara on the heads, as they took their first steps between the tables as if the world belonged to them. In the garden behind the restaurant, Wayat worked without rest, but without hurry. He grew carrots, tomatoes, onions and kept them from a small greenhouse that he had built himself from old vetch.

He repaired tools, chopped firewood, and watered the fields at dusk when the sun bathed the whole place. He never talked much, but he was always there. If something broke, he fixed it. If someone fell, he offered his help. If Lidia turned around, he was already there.

No one spoke of winter, no one mentioned the past, not because it was hidden, but because it was not necessary. The silence between them was no longer a barrier, but a shared presence. The memory was still there, yes, like a scar under the skin, but without pain, only recollection, only learning, only the soft echo of what was and the firm certainty of what would most be. On Sunday afternoons, when the sun gilded the roof of the cabin and the noise was mellow, Lidia and Wyat would sit together on the wooden steps she had built herself. From there, they could see everything.

The dirt road through which the horses arrived, the smoke of the distant chimneys, the girls running around in light dresses and hair ties, and the open sky that seemed to promise them that everything would be all right. Lidia rested her hand on Wayat’s, firm, silent. He intertwined his fingers with hers, without taking his eyes off the horizon.

Sometimes he would talk about the crops, about the land that would know better how to eat its yeast, or about the hens that escaped from the farmyard, but most of the time he would just stay there listening to the wind, the creaking of the earth that was being remade, and the heartbeat of peace as simple as goose. One of those afternoons, Lidia said, “This fire has gone out.

” Gaiyat nodded leniently, as if her bones knew him before her mouth. Now it’s our home. And amid the games of the girls, the murmur of the leaves, and the lost promise of that fire that had just laughed, she finally was where she should have been. And so ends this story of snow, scars, and resentment. Because sometimes the strongest fire burns not in the stove, but in the heart of who is ready to reread. If this story touched your soul.