Blizzard: Colorado, 1886
“I hate Hadyn Sinclair!”
Maggie listened to the echo that came back across the meadow. There was patchy snow beneath her feet. Overhead, the dawn-gray sky was free of storm clouds—for the moment at least. Her father always said March weather in the Rockies was as unpredictable as a temperamental mule.
Rusty nosed at Maggie’s shoulder and she shook her head, wondering if the tall red mule could read her mind. “Papa never meant you,” she told...