Living through thirty-two Montana winters had given Annie plenty of experience in bitter temperatures—early mornings when she had to chop through six inches of ice in the water troughs so the stock could drink, when her gloves would stick to any surface they touched, when the air was so clear and so frigid that every sound seemed to carry for miles. But she had never been as bone-deep cold as she was right now. Every breath was torture, as if her lungs were caught in a vice lined with razor blades that sliced tighter with each inhalation. Her wet hair had frozen solid now they were out of the water and she could hear it crackle when she turned her head, which she didn’t do much since even the slightest movement sent stinging pain cutting through every nerve ending. She clung to the saddle with fingers that had long ago lost sensation, afraid that if she let go she would fall to the ground and shatter into a million tiny, jagged shards of ice. Just when she wasn’t sure she could make it another step, the small line shack appeared through the trees.
