She Fell to Her Death in the Snow After Her Mate’s Rejection – A Enigmatic Black Wolf Curled Protectively Around Her

The Arrival of Aunt Harriet

The storm came back that night, worse than before. Clara lay in her bed listening to the wind scream around the house, feeling the walls shudder with each gust.

She should have been afraid. This was the kind of storm that killed people, that buried houses, that erased roads and landmarks and hope.

But she wasn’t afraid. For the first time in years, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Tomorrow would bring more work, more challenges, more of Ruth’s suspicious stares. There would be setbacks and struggles and moments when Clara would wonder if she’d made the right choice.

But tonight she was warm, she was fed, she was wanted. And outside her door, five girls were sleeping safely in a house that finally felt like home.

Clara closed her eyes and let the storm sing her to sleep. She didn’t know that morning would bring visitors—a wagon from town carrying news that would threaten everything she’d started to build.

She didn’t know that Ruth’s walls were about to crack, revealing a secret the girl had kept for three long years. She didn’t know that Nathaniel Dawson was already starting to look at her differently, with something more than gratitude in his winter sky eyes.

All she knew was this moment, this peace, this impossible second chance. And she held on to it with both hands.

The wagon came at dawn. Clara heard it before she saw it—the crunch of wheels through frozen snow, the whinny of horses that weren’t Nate’s.

She was already in the kitchen stoking the fire for breakfast when the sound reached her. She wiped her hands and moved to the window.

Two figures sat on the wagon seat: a man she didn’t recognize and a woman wrapped in black wool, her back straight as a Bible spine. Something cold that had nothing to do with winter settled in Clara’s chest.

Nate appeared from the barn, crossing the yard with long strides. He stopped at the wagon and Clara watched his shoulders tighten.

Watched him remove his hat, then put it back on. Watched his hand curl into a fist at his side.

The woman in black climbed down without assistance.

“Nathaniel,” her voice carried through the glass, sharp and clear.

“Harriet,” Nate’s voice was flat.

“Didn’t expect you till spring.”

“I received a letter from Ruth.”

Clara’s heart stuttered. Ruth had written—about what? About her?

The back door opened and Ruth appeared, still in her nightgown, her face pale. She’d heard the wagon too.

“She’s here,” Ruth said. It wasn’t a question.

“Who is she?”

Ruth’s jaw tightened.

“My mother’s sister. Aunt Harriet.”

Before Clara could respond, Nate’s voice rang out across the yard.

“Clara, come out here please.”

The call was new; it made her nervous. Clara straightened her apron, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and walked out into the cold.

Aunt Harriet was already looking at her. The woman’s eyes swept Clara from head to toe, taking in her size, her plain dress, her rough hands.

The assessment lasted less than 3 seconds, but Clara felt stripped bare.

“This is the woman?” Harriet’s voice dripped with disbelief.

“This is Clara Jean Holloway,” Nate said.

“She’s helping with the house and the girls.”

“Helping?” Harriet’s lips curled.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Clara stepped forward.

“Ma’am, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“We haven’t, and I’m not sure we need to be.”

Harriet turned to Nate.

“I’ll be staying through Christmas. We have matters to discuss. Family matters.”

Nate’s jaw worked.

“The girls are exactly why I’m here,” Harriet’s gaze flicked to Clara again.

“Though it seems I’m not the only one interested in their welfare.”

She swept past Clara toward the house without another word. The man on the wagon, a hired driver Clara realized, began unloading trunks.

Nate stood very still, watching his sister-in-law disappear through the front door.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t know she was coming.”

“Ruth wrote her.”

He turned sharply.

“What?”

“Ruth told me just now.”

Something painful crossed Nate’s face. He looked toward the house, toward the window where Ruth’s pale face had appeared moments ago, now empty.

“I need to talk to my daughter.”

Clara caught his arm before he could move.

“Not like this. Not angry.”

“I’m not—” he stopped, took a breath.

“I’m not angry at Ruth. I’m angry at Harriet for putting her in the middle.”

“Ruth put herself there. Question is why.”

Nate met her eyes. The winter sky in them had turned to storm clouds.

“Because she doesn’t trust me,” he said.

“Because I couldn’t keep her mother here and she thinks I can’t keep anyone.”

Clara let go of his arm.

“Then prove her wrong.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then he nodded once and walked toward the house.

A Battle of Biscuits and Wills

Clara stayed in the yard, the cold biting through her dress, watching her breath form clouds in the morning air. Two weeks of progress, two weeks of small victories and careful bridges—and now this.

Breakfast was a battlefield. Harriet sat at the table like a queen holding court, her black dress immaculate, her hair pinned without a strand out of place.

She’d already rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, straightened the napkins, and commented twice on the dust in the corners. The girls sat in silence.

Even Molly, usually bubbling with chatter, kept her eyes on her plate. Clara served the food without comment—eggs, bacon, biscuits with honey.

The same breakfast she’d made every morning since she arrived. Harriet took one bite of biscuit and set it down.

“Too much salt.”

Clara’s hands stilled on the coffee pot.

“I’m sorry it’s not to your taste, ma’am.”

“My sister, God rest her soul, made the lightest biscuits in three counties. These are heavy.”

“Margaret wasn’t much for baking,” Nate said quietly.

“You know that, Harriet.”

Harriet’s eyes narrowed.

“I know what my sister was capable of. Perhaps better than you did.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Clara set the coffee pot down with more force than necessary.

“Mr. Dawson, I’ll be starting on the laundry after breakfast. Girls, your rooms need tidying. Ruth, I could use help with the mending if you have time.”

Ruth’s head snapped up. She glanced at Harriet, then at Clara.

“I’ll help,” she said slowly.

Harriet’s painted eyebrows rose.

“Ruth, I thought we might spend the morning together. I’ve brought you a new dress from Helena.”

“I have chores.”

“Chores can wait. Family cannot.”

Ruth’s hands curled into fists under the table. Clara saw it, even if Harriet didn’t.

“Ruth,” Clara said gently.

“Why don’t you visit with your aunt this morning? The mending can wait till afternoon.”

Ruth’s eyes met Clara’s. Something passed between them—not quite gratitude, but close.

“Fine,” Ruth said.

After breakfast, Harriet smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

The morning passed in intense silence. Clara threw herself into work—scrubbing floors, beating rugs, washing windows that hadn’t been touched in months.

Physical labor helped; it always had. When her hands were busy, her mind could rest.

But she couldn’t escape the sounds drifting from the parlor. Harriet’s voice, low and insistent. Ruth’s responses, shorter and shorter as the hours wore on.

Around noon, Ruth appeared in the kitchen. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with suppressed tears.

“She wants to take me back to Helena.”

Clara stopped scrubbing.

“What for?”

“To ‘polish my education,'” Ruth spat the words like poison.

“She says this place isn’t fit for young ladies. Says Papa can’t raise us properly without a mother.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I’d rather freeze to death than live in Helena.”

Despite everything, Clara almost smiled.

“That’s a strong statement.”

“It’s true.”

Ruth sank into a chair, suddenly looking much younger than sixteen.

“I hate her. I hate that she looks like Mama and sounds like Mama and makes me remember…” She stopped. Her hands were shaking.

The Secret in the Note

Clara dried her own hands on her apron and sat across from Ruth. She didn’t reach out—Ruth wasn’t ready for that—but she sat close.

“What do you remember?”

Ruth was quiet for a long moment. The fire popped and crackled, outside the wind moaned against the walls.

“I remember her crying,” Ruth said finally.

“Every night after Papa was asleep, I’d hear her through the wall. She’d cry for hours, and in the morning she’d pretend everything was fine.”

Clara listened without interrupting.

“I remember the last winter she was here. Molly was four, Grace was six, Sarah had just stopped wetting the bed.”

Ruth’s voice cracked.

“Mama stopped eating, stopped talking. She’d just sit by the window staring at nothing. Papa tried everything—doctors, tonics, prayers. Nothing worked. And then she left.”

“She left in the middle of the night, didn’t even wake us to say goodbye.”

Ruth’s hands twisted in her lap.

“I found her note in the morning. It said… it said she was sorry, that she loved us, but she couldn’t stay. That we’d be better off without her.”

Clara’s chest ached.

“Ruth…”

“I burned it!” Ruth’s voice was fierce now.

“I burned it before Papa could see, before the girls could know. I let them think she just left, that she didn’t care enough to explain why.”

“Because it was easier for them to be angry at her than to know she was—” Ruth stopped, swallowed hard.

“To know she was broken. And that I couldn’t fix her.”

Clara reached out then, slowly, giving Ruth time to pull away. When she didn’t, Clara took her hand.

“That wasn’t your job,” Clara said quietly.

“Fixing your mother. You were 13 years old.”

“I was the oldest. I should have—”

“You were a child. You’re still a child. And what happened to your mother wasn’t your fault or your responsibility.”

Ruth’s tears finally fell. She didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound, just let the tears run down her cheeks in silent streams.

“She wrote me,” Ruth whispered.

“Last summer. A letter from San Francisco. She said she was getting better. Said she might come back someday.”

Clara went very still.

“Have you told your father?”

“No. Ruth, I can’t.”

Ruth pulled her hand away, wiping her face with her sleeve.

“I can’t give him hope. Not again. It would break him.”

The kitchen door opened and Harriet’s voice sliced through the moment.

“Ruth, dear, I—oh.”

She stopped, taking in the scene. Ruth’s tear-stained face, Clara’s proximity.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, ma’am,” Clara stood.

“Ruth was helping me with the mending. We were just taking a break.”

Harriet’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Ruth, then at Clara, and something calculating entered her expression.

“I see. Ruth, I need to speak with your father. Please join us in the parlor.”

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

Harriet hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but she just nodded and swept out. Ruth stood, wiping the last of her tears.

She looked at Clara with something new in her eyes. Not trust, not yet, but the beginning of it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For listening.”

“Anytime.”

Ruth started toward the door then paused.

“Clara, don’t tell Papa about the letter. Please.”

Clara’s heart twisted. It wasn’t her secret to keep or to tell.

“That’s your decision,” she said finally.

“But secrets have a way of coming out. Better it comes from you than from somewhere else.”

Ruth nodded slowly, then she was gone.

Confrontation at the Table

Clara stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of soap and the weight of a secret that wasn’t hers. She had a feeling things were about to get much worse before they got better.

She was right. The confrontation happened at dinner.

Clara had outdone herself. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans she’d canned herself back in Helena before everything fell apart.

The table was set with the good china Nate’s mother had left behind. None of it mattered.

Harriet waited until everyone was seated, until the girls had filled their plates, until Nate had said grace. Then she struck.

“Nathaniel, I’ve been thinking.”

Nate didn’t look up from his plate.

“That’s dangerous.”

“The girls need stability, structure, a proper education.”

“They have a school 8 miles down the road.”

“A one-room schoolhouse taught by a woman who barely finished 8th grade herself,” Harriet’s voice dripped contempt.

“Ruth especially needs more. She’s nearly a woman. She needs finishing, polish, society.”

“Ruth doesn’t want to go to Helena,” Nate said flatly.

“She made that clear.”

“Ruth is a child. Children don’t always know what’s best for them.”

Clara watched Ruth’s face go white, watched her fork freeze halfway to her mouth.

“Besides,” Harriet continued,

“It’s not just about education. It’s about this.”

She gestured at the table, at Clara.

“This arrangement. It’s inappropriate. A single man living with an unmarried woman. People will talk.”

“People always talk.”

“And you don’t care about your daughters’ reputations? About what society will think of them?”

Nate set down his fork very carefully.

“My daughters’ reputations are their own to build, not yours to protect.”

Harriet’s smile was sharp as a blade.

“And what about Miss Holloway’s reputation? A woman thrown out of her position in Helena for theft, living under your roof, caring for your children? If anyone were to learn the truth…”

“The truth is that Clara was falsely accused,” Nate said, his voice rising.

“The truth is that she’s been more help in 3 weeks than you’ve been in 3 years. The truth is that my girls are happier, healthier, and better fed than they’ve been since…”

He stopped. The words hung in the air, unfinished but understood. Since Margaret left.

Harriet’s face went pale, then flushed with anger.

“You dare compare me to—”

“I’m not comparing anyone to anyone.”

Nate pushed back from the table.

“I’m telling you what I see. Clara stays. The girls stay. And if you can’t accept that, maybe you should be the one leaving.”

The silence was absolute. Molly had started to cry—soft whimpers she was trying to hide behind her napkin.

Grace had her arm around her. Sarah’s jaw was set, her eyes blazing. Naomi stared at her plate like she wished she could disappear into it.

And Ruth. Ruth was looking at her father with an expression Clara couldn’t read—hope, fear, some mixture of both.

Harriet stood slowly.

“I came here out of love for my sister’s children, out of duty to her memory. But I see I’m not wanted.”

“Harriet—”

“No. You’ve made your choice, Nathaniel. You’ve chosen a stranger over family.”

She looked at Clara, and her eyes were full of venom.

“I hope she’s worth it.”

She swept from the room, her footsteps sharp on the wooden floor. The front door slammed moments later.