Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical) by Jillian Hart

And he knew what the Hamilton brothers would do if they figured out the truth.
    That made him responsible for her death, too. Sickened, he let the storm’s fury batter him. He’d failed. It had been a long time since he’d failed someone. He put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. I didn’t want this. Grief left him as cold as the blizzard. As the vicious winds rocked him, he vowed to take care of her now. The past couldn’t be changed.
    Life once lost could not be brought back. And he couldn’t think of how he’d go on, knowing he’d failed to protect her. Knowing that his suspicions had been right.
    The big Clydesdale nickered, nudging his mistresswith his nose, an affectionate gesture. His head hung low and stayed there, his sadness palpable.
    I can’t leave her here. Joshua gathered his strength. He’d take care of her from here on out. Too late, his conscience mocked him, as he leaned over her and caught sight of her face in profile, her skin nearly translucent, lying as still as an angel. With her dark lashes long and curled and the ethereal cut of her fine cheekbones and chin, she could have been a snow angel taken form. She’d been such a sweet thing, he thought, though he’d hardly known her.
    Maybe it was just his wishful thinking that somewhere in this world there could be a kind and gentle woman, instead of one out for her own gain. Maybe it was how vulnerable she’d been that night he’d come to her aid and how small she seemed now as he gathered her into his arms.
    Her lifeless body was still supple and as he adjusted her against his chest, he swore he felt a soft exhale of breath against the underside of his jaw, where his muffler had fallen away. But no, that had to be the feathery snow, for the sensation was cold, not warm.
    He just couldn’t believe she was gone, that he was clinging to false hope. The Clydesdale lumbered at his side, his nostrils wide and sniffing over his mistress. An eerie trumpet of a neigh sounded from the big boy’s throat—one of pure sorrow.
    General stood at attention, the good horse he was, and he did not balk or sidestep at the scent of blood and death. Joshua supposed some men would think it prudent to strap her body to the back of her horse, but he couldn’t bear it.
    She’d died alone. She felt as cold as the wind against him, and seemed to seep a deeper cold into him, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. Hell, he was sick with regrets and grief. He hefted her onto General’s back—she didn’t weigh more than a hundred-pound grain sack, and it saddened him as he climbed up behind her.
    He gathered her into his arms, her weight falling softly against his chest. He fought a powerful thrust of emotion. His heart felt as desolate as the frozen plains as he turned General and struggled to find their tracks in the wild haze of falling snow.
    General’s hoofprints were nearly swept clean. After a few yards, they were gone completely. He was alone with a dead woman and three horses, and no idea which way to safety or the open prairie.
    He wasn’t a praying man. He’d lost faith in most things long ago. But a little help wouldn’t be unappreciated, he thought, as he tried to gauge if the wind had a direction—if it was coming from the mountains, west, then he could keep the wind straight at his back and he’d eventually come upon homesteads and, finally, town.
    But no, fate wasn’t about to lend him a hand. The wind was twisting and swirling as the blizzard hit its momentum. A clap of thunder echoed overhead—a sure sign the storm was worsening. Even if he could find the road, the temperature was dropping. Well below zero, Joshua figured. He couldn’t sustain his body temperature long enough to reach town.
    As for a homestead, there weren’t many on this desolate part of the Montana plains for this very reason. The winters