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

A Proper Proposal

Through it all, Clara and Nate grew closer. It happened in small moments.

A brush of hands when passing in the hallway. A shared look across the dinner table.

The way he started waiting for her on the porch each evening, two cups of coffee already poured. They didn’t talk about it, not directly.

There was too much else to worry about, too many threats pressing in from all sides. But the connection was there, growing stronger every day, impossible to ignore.

One night, about a week after the Marshall’s visit, Clara found Nate in the barn. The mare had recovered enough to stand, and Nate was brushing her coat with slow, careful strokes.

The lantern cast long shadows across the stalls.

“She’s looking better,” Clara said.

“She’s strong.”

Nate didn’t turn around.

“Stronger than I gave her credit for.”

Clara moved closer, leaning against the stall door.

“You talking about the horse or yourself?”

That earned her a small smile.

“Maybe both.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a while. The mare knickered softly, nuzzling Nate’s hand.

“Clara?”

“Yes?”

“After this is over, after Wade is dealt with, I need to tell you something.”

Her heart skipped.

“You can tell me now.”

“No.” He finally turned to face her.

“I want to do it right. When there’s no danger hanging over us. When I can offer you something besides worry and fear.”

“Nate, please…”

He reached out, took her hand.

“Let me do this properly. You deserve that much.”

Clara wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that she didn’t need proper, didn’t need perfect, just needed him.

But she saw the determination in his eyes, the hope mixed with fear, and she understood.

“All right,” she said.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Just once, just briefly, but it was enough.

The Fire and the Siege

The attack came three nights later. Clara woke to the smell of smoke.

She was out of bed before she was fully conscious. Her feet hitting the cold floor, her hands reaching for the shawl she kept by the bedside.

The smell was stronger now—acrid, bitter, unmistakable. Fire.

She ran to the window. The barn was ablaze, flames shooting from the roof, smoke billowing into the night sky.

“Nate!” she was screaming as she ran down the stairs.

“Nate!”

He was already at the door pulling on his boots, his face lit orange by the flames outside.

“Get the girls! Get them to the cellar! Now!”

“But—”

“Now, Clara!”

She ran. Ruth was already awake, herding her sisters toward the stairs.

Sarah had Grace by the hand. Naomi carried Molly, who was crying, her face pressed against her sister’s shoulder.

“This way,” Clara said, her voice steady despite her pounding heart.

“Through the kitchen. The cellar door is in the pantry.”

They moved as a unit—six bodies flowing through the dark house, guided by memory and desperation. Clara brought up the rear, checking behind them, making sure no one was left behind.

The pantry door was open. The cellar stairs yawned below.

“Down!” Clara ordered.

“All the way to the back! Don’t make a sound!”

Ruth hesitated.

“What about Papa?”

“Your father can take care of himself. You need to take care of your sisters.”

Ruth’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. She led the way down, the younger girls following like ducklings.

Clara started to follow, then stopped. She couldn’t leave Nate alone.

Couldn’t hide in a cellar while he faced Wade’s men. Couldn’t…

A hand grabbed her arm.

“Going somewhere?”

The voice was unfamiliar. The grip was iron-strong.

Clara spun, but the man was faster. He caught her other arm, pinning her against the pantry shelves.

She could see his face now—rough, scarred, with eyes that held no mercy.

“Wade’s been looking for you,” the man said.

“You’re the reason Dawson’s been so stubborn. Take you out and he’ll fold.”

Clara’s mind raced. The girls were in the cellar; if she screamed, he might find them.

If she stayed quiet… she didn’t get to finish the thought.

Ruth exploded from the cellar stairs. The girl moved like lightning, a kitchen knife in her hand, her face twisted with fury.

She slammed into the man from behind, knocking him off balance, driving the knife into his shoulder. He screamed and released Clara.

“Run!” Ruth shouted.

“Get Papa!”

Forged in Gold

Clara ran. Outside was chaos.

The barn was fully engulfed now, flames reaching toward the sky like desperate hands. She could see figures moving in the firelight.

Nate struggling with two men near the well. Old Jake swinging a shovel at a third.

And standing apart from it all, watching like a king surveying his conquest, was Cornelius Wade. Clara didn’t think, didn’t plan.

She picked up a rock from the garden border and threw it with all her strength. It caught Wade on the temple.

He staggered, hand flying to his head, blood running between his fingers.

“You!” his voice was pure venom.

He started toward her, drawing a pistol from his belt.

“You stupid, interfering—”

The shot came from behind Clara. Wade’s pistol flew from his hand.

He howled in pain, clutching his wrist. Marshall Rebecca Cole stepped out of the shadows, rifle raised, badge glinting in the firelight.

“Cornelius Wade,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos.

“You’re under arrest for arson, attempted murder, and about a dozen other charges I’ll enjoy listing for you later.”

Wade’s men froze. The fight drained out of them as more figures emerged from the darkness.

Deputies, Clara realized. At least half a dozen of them.

It was over. It was finally over.

Clara found Nate by the well. He was bruised, bloodied, his shirt torn and his knuckles scraped raw, but he was standing.

He was alive.

“Clara!”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tight she could barely breathe.

“The girls safe? In the cellar?”

“Ruth…” Clara laughed, a slightly hysterical sound.

“Ruth stabbed one of Wade’s men. She’s fiercer than all of us combined.”

Nate’s arms tightened around her.

“I thought when I saw you weren’t with them, I thought…”

“I’m here.”

Clara pulled back enough to see his face.

“I’m right here.”

Around them, the deputies were rounding up Wade’s men. The Marshall was reading Wade his rights, her voice calm and professional despite the chaos.

Old Jake was already organizing a bucket line to save what remained of the barn. But for this moment, there was only Clara and Nate, holding each other in the firelight, alive against all odds.

“Clara,” Nate’s voice was rough.

“I said I wanted to wait to do this properly.”

“Nate, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away soot and tears she hadn’t realized she was crying.

“I love you. I’ve loved you since you walked into that kitchen and made the best damn biscuits I’ve ever tasted.”

“I loved you when you stood up to Harriet. When you held my girls while they cried. When you refused to run even when running would have been smart.”

Clara’s heart was so full it hurt.

“Nate—”

“Let me finish.”

He took a breath.

“I know I’m not much. A widower with five daughters and a ranch that’s half burned down. I know you could do better. But I’m asking anyway.”

“Clara Jean Holloway, will you stay? Not as a housekeeper, not as a hired hand. As family. As…” he swallowed hard.

“As my wife, if you’ll have me.”

Clara looked at this man—this stubborn, proud, broken, beautiful man who had pulled her out of a snowdrift and given her a home.

“Yes,” she said.

The word came out small, barely audible over the crackle of flames and the shouts of men.

“Yes,” she said again, louder this time.

Nate’s face transformed. The exhaustion, the fear, the pain—all of it fell away, replaced by a joy so pure it took her breath away.

He kissed her. Not gently, not carefully—he kissed her like a man who had almost lost everything and found it again.

Like a man who had been alone for too long and finally, finally wasn’t anymore.

A Promise for Forever

Someone wolf-whistled—Old Jake, probably. Clara didn’t care.

For the first time in her life, she was exactly where she belonged. They found the girls still in the cellar, huddled together in the dark.

When Clara opened the door, Molly launched herself upward, wrapping her arms around Clara’s neck.

“I was so scared! There was shouting and fire and Ruth had a knife!”

“It’s over, sweetheart.”

Clara stroked the child’s hair.

“It’s all over.”

Ruth emerged last, her hands still shaking, the knife still clutched in her fist. She looked at Clara, then at her father, then back at Clara.

“You came back,” Ruth said.

“You could have run, but you came back.”

“Of course I did.”

Ruth’s face crumpled. For the first time since Clara had known her, the girl looked exactly her age—16 years old and terrified and desperate for someone to tell her everything would be okay.

Clara held out her arm. Ruth stepped into the embrace.

“We’re family,” Clara whispered.

“Family doesn’t run.”

Dawn broke gray and cold over the Dawson ranch. The barn was gone, nothing but smoking timbers and ash.

But the house still stood. The animals they’d managed to save huddled in the far paddock.

And six figures sat on the porch wrapped in blankets watching the sunrise. Nate’s arm was around Clara’s shoulders.

Molly was curled in Clara’s lap. Ruth sat on her father’s other side, Sarah and Grace bracketing her.

Naomi was sketching again—the sunrise this time, all gold and pink and promise.

“What happens now?” Grace asked.

Nate looked at Clara. Clara looked back.

“Now,” Nate said,

“We rebuild.”