Sarah had one chance to keep a roof over her daughter’s head—and Garrett Thorne had already warned her he wanted no children in his house

Silence fell over the buried pocket beneath the collapsed roof.

It was pitch black. The air was thick with the scent of pine dust, damp earth, and snow.

Sarah groaned softly, opening her eyes. She couldn't move her lower legs, but she wasn't crushed. Above her, hovering like a shield of pure steel and muscle, was Garrett.

A massive support beam rested heavily across his broad shoulders, holding up the weight of the collapsed roof inches above their heads. His face was inches from hers, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight as he bore the crushing weight.

"Garrett..." Sarah whispered, her heart dropping into her stomach. "Garrett, are you alright?"

"I'm... holding," Garrett grunted through his teeth, blood dripping from a small cut on his forehead onto her cheek. "Are you... hurt?"

"No," Sarah breathed, tears filling her eyes as she realized he had used his own body as an arch to protect her. "No, I'm fine. But you... you can't hold that beam forever!"

"Don't have much choice," Garrett gritted out, a small, painful smile touching his lips in the dark. "You're a heavy woman to protect, Mrs. Miller."

"Insolent man," Sarah sobbed, reaching up with her hand to wipe the blood from his brow.

They were trapped in a tiny air pocket, surrounded by snow and broken wood. The cold began to creep back in instantly, threatening to numb their limbs.

"Sam made it out," Garrett rasped, his arms shaking from the incredible strain. "He'll get the hands from the bunkhouse. They'll dig us out."

"It'll take them time through those drifts," Sarah said softly.

She shifted her arms, wrapping them tightly around Garrett's back, pulling his chest flush against hers to share their body heat in the freezing dark. Garrett let out a long, shuddering breath, resting his head against the crook of her neck.

For twenty minutes, they lay together in the dark pocket, listening to the muffled howl of the blizzard outside.

"I'm sorry," Garrett whispered suddenly, his voice raspy and broken in the quiet space.

Sarah stroked the back of his hair gently. "For what?"

"For screaming at your girl," Garrett confessed, a tear slipping from his eye and soaking into her collar. "For five years... I thought if I let anyone into that room, I'd forget his face. I thought if I let myself be happy again, it meant I didn't love my son."

"Oh, Garrett," Sarah murmured, her heart breaking for him. "Love isn't a museum, my dear. You don't honor the dead by freezing your own heart. William wouldn't want you to live in a dark house."

Garrett closed his eyes, pressing his face deeper into her neck, letting out a heavy sob that he had held inside for half a decade. "I miss them so much, Sarah. I miss having laughter in this house."

"There can be laughter again," Sarah whispered back, her lips brushing against his forehead. "If you let it in."

Above them, muffled shouts suddenly echoed through the snow.

"Mr. Thorne! Mrs. Miller! Can you hear us?!"

It was the ranch hands. Shovels began scraping frantically against the wood and snow above their heads.

Garrett looked down at Sarah in the dim light filtering through the small cracks. His grey eyes were no longer cold and dead; they were alive, soft, and filled with a fierce, quiet heat.