THEY CALLED HIM THE GIANT COWBOY BUT THE WIDOW’S BABY SLEPT PEACEFULLY ON HIS CHEST
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The first time Sarah Quinn saw him, he was carrying a fence post over one shoulder like it weighed no more than a broom handle.
Juniper Ridge was the kind of Wyoming town that seemed built from refusal: refusal of softness, refusal of strangers, refusal of winter itself. The road in was half frozen mud and rutted snow, and the wind came down from the hills with the blunt honesty of a verdict.
Sarah’s boots sank with every step. Her coat, once a good wool piece Joseph had saved for, had stiffened into a cracked shell from the river crossing. She held her baby, Silas, tight against her chest. The boy’s fever made him burn and shiver at once, like a coal dropped into snow. His cries were no longer loud. They’d gone thin and sharp, the way a candle flame looks when it’s starving.
