Angry winds battered the Wilson cabin, scattering yesterday's snow. Visibility was limited to brief impressions of the barn as she stood at a leeward pane, squinting through the ground blizzard.

Hateful Wyoming wind! Her grandfather called it bean sidhe, or wailing banshee. In Gaelic folklore, shrieking winds warned of a love one's death, and Grandpa was out there. Somewhere.

"If he dies, Uncle Jim Bob's to blame." A tear slid past her trembling lips.

"Hush," her grandmother said. "I won't listen to that kind of talk."

"If Uncle hadn't written those letters, we'd still be home in 'Bama."

"This is home now, Andy. We can't rob Grandpa of his dream."

"But why weren't we warned of these awful ground blizzards?"

Her grandmother sighed, her pale eyes trained on the quilt she was mending. A spot of blood from her pricked finger had stained a quilt square red.

Andrea stubbornly kept her window vigil until daylight had dimmed. It was then she noticed what she hoped was a wagon bouncing over the rise.

"He's coming," she cried.

Gramma dropped the quilt. "Are you sure?"

"It must be him."

With her grandmother beside her, she pointed to the ridge, but as they squinted to identify the wagon, the mass divided by four. Halting near the barn, a single rider dismounted. Head down against the wind, he made his way toward the cabin.

Anticipating her question, Gramma shook her head. "I don't know them, Andy, and you'll hide under the bed until I do."

"But Gramma--"

"Hurry!" Gripping her granddaughter's arm, she pulled her away from the window to a wide brass bed. Although nearly a head taller and in late adolescence, Andrea offered little resistance. Gathering the long wool skirt about her, she pushed a braided rug beneath the bed and eased herself onto it. She then pulled the heavy quilt to within an inch of the floor.

She wasn't a child to be hidden away, Andrea thought resentfully, but Gramma's worried face had frightened her. She hoped the stranger was bringing news of her grandfather. The door latch rattled before a knock sounded, loud and insistent, sending ice prickling through Andrea's body. Trembling, she watched her grandmother's heels move away as the hems of her layered dresses swept across the planked floor.

With her cheek against the rug, she watched as the heavy crossbar was lifted from its casings. The door blocked her view, but she heard a baritone voice, pitched lower than the wind.

"The name's Roberts," she heard him say. "We're trailing outlaws. Lost 'em along the crick's south fork when this blasted wind came up, Miz...?"

"Wilson," her grandmother said. "Jettie Wilson. I've seen nothing all day but blowing snow."

Andrea watched her pull the wool shawl higher to protect her from the wind.

"You here alone, ma'am?"

"My husband's gone to Casper, and he's long overdue."

"This place was deserted the last time we were through here. Old man Conley ran a herd of shorthorns 'til a blizzard killed 'em off."

"We've not been here long," she said. "Our sheep are being trailed in from--"

"Sheep?" He spat the word as though it were a bad gulp of water.

Andrea watched the door swing wide and heard the heavy ring of boot heels on the wood floor. Her grandmother gasped as she backed away from him.

"We need grub and a place to spend the night out a the storm."

"You're welcome to rest your horses in the barn," she said, "and stay for supper."

"Obliged, ma'am. The boys'll be in soon as the hosses are taken care of." His boots swiveled and left the cabin, the door banging closed behind them.

Gramma's small, black, high buttoned shoes hurried to the front wall, which framed the cabin's only window. In a moment they were moving again in Andrea's direction. The quilt was lifted and a pair of worried eyes stared down at her.

"Come out of there, Andy, and be quick about it."

Thomas "Peep" O'Day sat his horse carefully along the Continental Divide, afraid his extremities had succumbed to frost bite. Trusting his pinto's instincts, he dropped the reins to cross himself and tent his frozen fingers. Shivering, he squinted skyward.

"Lord, I know I ain't been law abidin' lately. But if'n you see fit to spare me, I'll do whatever's right. Quit drinkin' or even give up women." Tom stumbled over the words, but figured he wouldn't live long enough to regret them. Stiffly stroking Lightning's neck, he decided he'd better plead his case as well.

"Sorry I got you into this, old feller." The bandana muffled his voice, and Tom doubted he could be heard above the wind. Sitting a good horse was how he wanted to die, but if he was going to hell, he didn't want the devil roasting his pinto.

"Lightnin's the best hoss you ever made, Lord, and I'd be plumb grateful if you'd spare him from Hell's fire and damnation. You might even want me along to take care of 'im." Crossing himself a second time, he considered his recent horse thefts and rustled cattle drives. He feared he would die before a reward poster could advertise his banditry.

Life ain't fair was his last thought before darkness blanked his mind. Later, he couldn't remember falling from the saddle. Dragging himself from the snow, he reckoned he'd gone to sleep or been toppled by a limb, but thought to check himself for bullet holes. Throat constricting, he knew he was going to heave.

Lightning's steamy breath warmed the back of his neck, causing convulsive chills. Struggling, Tom reached to pet the gelding's muzzle. Lightning nudged him in return, urging him to stand.

Ain't no better hoss in Wyoming, he mused. Hell, in the whole damn world. The pinto nudged him and whickered reproachfully. Groping for a stirrup, Tom pulled his body upright and slapped haphazardly at his clothes. Before his boot could find the stirrup, an icy, northwest wind spattered the lanky man with snow. Life was hazardous along the Continental Divide. He had best remount before he became a permanent part of the landscape. His impulsive jaunt into Rock Springs to spend his rustle money had been his undoing. His friend Walt Punteney had warned him about unexpected storms, but the sky was as blue as a newborn's eyes when he left the ranch.

Walt's voice seemed to reverberate between his ears: "You durn fool! I seen it snow in Casper on the fourth a July. You gotta be prepared in high country."

Tom was well aware of Wyoming's unpredictable weather, but had never seen the snow so deep in May. The Lord must be cleanin' house, he thought as he hunched over Lightning. When winds finally subsided, he was grateful to be alive, his repentance all but forgotten. As he descended into a draw, he recalled overhearing gang members discuss his questionable ability to survive as an outlaw. A skimpy education didn't mean he was stupid.

"Tom O'Day is wise in important matters," he told himself. "I know more about hosses and whiskey brewing than anybody." He had earned his nickname "Peep" by watching others, but had to admit his curiosity had gotten him into trouble. His old man whipped him good for sneaking in to sample his secret brew. If his mother had known, they would have both been roasted for life. Maggie O'Day was a good woman, but she didn't understand that a man needed something stronger than sarsaparilla to wet his whistle.

Lightning plowed through snowdrifts, chest deep at times, as Tom rehearsed his story of charming the painted ladies. Walt would be sorry he had neglected to come along. Swigging from his canteen, he swished water around in his mouth and decided not to swallow. He would quench his thirst in Lander.