Vengeance in the Snow (Preview)

Chapter One

Virginia, 1863

The horse galloped at a thunderous pace. Its hooves pounded against the churned Virginia farmland, mud and blood mixing between broken fence rails and trampled wheat.

Each stride jarred the wagon behind it and sent violent tremors through wood and iron alike. 

“Come on… just a little farther,” the rider muttered hoarsely.

The rider pulled hard on the reins, urged the animal forward, and demanded even more speed from a creature already pushed beyond its limits. The horse, old and weary though he was, drew in a ragged breath and forced himself onward. Foam gathered at the bit, and sweat darkened his hide, yet he did not falter. 

Behind them, the wagon screamed in protest.

Its wooden planks groaned and splintered under the strain as he dragged it across the uneven ground. Inside, the powder charges clanged and knocked together with every jolt, foreboding as they crossed dangerously close to the artillery lines.

The rider, Vance Granger, swore under his breath when a bullet whizzed past his head. The sharp crack split the air, followed by the angry hiss of lead cutting through smoke.

“Too close… too close,” he muttered. Every instinct within him urged him to turn back, to flee in the opposite direction and escape the relentless storm of gunfire. His pulse pounded in his ears and nearly drowned out the havoc around him. Fear tightened its grip on his chest and whispered that survival lay elsewhere. 

The Confederate artillery teams were steadily closing in on their position, adjusting their aim with terrifying precision. Doubt flickered through his mind, but he crushed it as firmly as he would have crushed an ant beneath his boot.

Their only chance was to strike first. And to do that, they needed the gunpowder he carried.

The friendly artillery lines were roughly a hundred yards ahead, positioned on slightly higher ground overlooking the battlefield. The enemy lines were positioned nearly double that distance away, yet they were advancing swiftly and with grim determination. 

Smoke drifted in heavy sheets across the wheat field and low orchard beyond. It stung his eyes and coated his tongue with the bitter taste of sulfur. Errant bullets tore through the air around Vance’s head. They struck the dirt, ricocheted off metal rims, and sparked against cannon barrels. Some embedded themselves in wagon boards; others vanished into the haze. 

“Not today,” Vance breathed. “You don’t get me today.”

Unlike artillery shells, which exploded with devastating force and tore wide craters into the earth, these bullets were smaller and more unpredictable. They proved lethal to the unfortunate men they struck yet often bounced harmlessly off iron or disappeared into the smoke filled confusion of battle.

Still, each one carried death, and Vance rode straight through their deadly path without slowing.

Vance closed his eyes for the briefest moment when he saw a man fall only yards away from him. A bullet pierced the soldier’s heart, and he collapsed to the ground instantly, lifeless before he even struck the dirt. The sight threatened to root Vance in place.

The August heat pressed down heavy and unmoving, as it trapped powder smoke low over the fields. 

“Focus,” he told himself.

If he lost focus, even for a second, he would fail. And failure at a time like this meant death, not only for himself, but for the men depending on him. So he forced himself forward.

He fixed his gaze on the artillery forces he had to reach and blocked out the rest of the world. The nightmare around him blurred. The screams, the gunfire, the pounding hooves, all of it faded beneath the thunder of blood rushing through his ears. 

It all felt unreal, as though he moved through a nightmare instead of a battlefield.

One thought pounded relentlessly in his mind: 

If the Rebs broke through their infantry lines, then all of this would be for nothing. There would be nothing left for him to save. 

Sid. His brother’s face flashed in his mind somewhere below.

“Hold the line,” he whispered to himself.

As he reached the top of the hill, a sharp snap cut through the noise. 

Before he could fully register what had happened, he felt the wagon shift violently beneath him. It began to wobble, then tilt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wheel break free and roll away down the slope. 

“No,” he breathed.

The wagon lurched and skidded to a halt at an unnatural angle, one side collapsing into the churned earth. 

If he remained attached to it, the horse would suffer disastrous consequences. Acting on instinct, Vance made a split-second decision. He unhooked the horse and jumped clear just as the wagon ground to a halt.

The horse bolted at once and ran hard toward the Union line drawn along the ridge. Fear overtook it completely, and it ran as fast as it could behind Union lines. Vance pushed himself up from the dirt, ignored the sting in his palms, and gathered as much gunpowder as he could carry. Clutching the heavy charges against his chest, he raced up the hill toward his unit. 

Vance’s lungs burned, and each breath tore through him like fire. Still, he forced his legs to move. Behind the Union lines, the men worked frantically. They loaded cannons and adjusted their positions to inflict the most damage. 

“Hold the line, men!” Orders rang out over the roar of battle. 

Spit flew from strained mouths, and blood stained uniforms and hands alike. The tension hung thick in the air as the men fought not only for the field before them, but for the loved ones they had left behind. They were outnumbered, and the battle yielded no promise of victory.

Vance dropped the charges beside the nearest cannon.

“Powder!” he shouted, though he barely heard his own voice.

He ran back down the hill for more. On his second trip, the enemy screams sounded closer and tightened the knot in his chest. 

Sid.

He had to push through for his unit, for himself, and for Sid.

His third trip proved disastrous. Seconds after he reached the top of the hill and stepped near the nearest cannon, the crew, unable to see him near the barrel, fired.

A deafening blast erupted beside him. Instantly, a violent ringing consumed his hearing, accompanied by searing pain. Blood began to drip from his left ear, the one closest to the cannon when it discharged.

Vance clutched his ears and collapsed to his knees. He screamed in agony, but he could not hear his own voice, only the terrible, relentless ringing that swallowed everything else before it all went black and he lost consciousness completely.

Chapter Two

Sheriff Sid Granger sat outside the Rosewood Sheriff’s Office in his rickety old rocking chair, surveying the town he called home. The building behind him stood sturdy but weathered, paint chipped from years of sun and sand. Beyond the last row of buildings, the rolling breaks of Dakota Territory stretched into the distance, wind-carved ridges faded into the vast Western horizon. It was the winter of 1868, though snow hadn’t yet come to stay in this part of the badlands.

Too quiet, he thought. Quiet never lasted long in Rosewood.

Storefronts lined both sides of the dusty road, their wooden porches sagging slightly with age. The general store’s faded sign creaked lazily in the breeze; the hinges whined with every slow swing. Across the way, the saloon’s batwing doors swung open as a couple of ranchers stepped out. They tripped slightly over their own feet. Their laughter sounded rough and unrefined as they adjusted their hats against the wind. The distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed steadily down the street. 

“Same rhythm every night,” Sid muttered to himself.

Each metallic strike bounced off the buildings and rolled through the town like a heartbeat. Horses rode past at an easy pace. Their riders kicked up dust that hovered in the golden air before it settled in a fine layer over boots and hems alike.

Same dust, same noise, same town. And still it never stayed the same for long.

Sid watched as the locals busied themselves in the town center. Several men and women struggled to position a tall pine tree upright. They had hauled it in from the outskirts of town that morning, determined to bring a touch of festivity to Rosewood. They tied ropes around its middle. Three men argued over which direction it leaned while a cluster of women attempted to steady the base.

He laughed softly to himself as he considered the ridiculousness of the situation. Christmas in Rosewood meant pine trees planted stubbornly in the dry earth of the badlands, while young children sorted through ribbons and ornaments amid dust storms. 

“Madness,” he muttered under his breath, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth.

It was the kind of notion that would never have taken root if not for one particular woman.

He wasn’t at all surprised that Marjorie Brookes had been the instigator. She was a smart woman. Strong-willed, sharp-tongued when she needed to be, and possessed of an enthusiasm that could wear down even the most stubborn man. Her ideas often bordered on the impossible, but she always pulled them off with grace.

When she had first approached him with the proposal, magazine in hand, claiming she had found the idea in an issue her family received in Sioux Falls, he had almost refused her outright. The pages showed snow-covered towns with elegantly dressed citizens gathered around pine trees and garlands strung from every doorway.

Rosewood was no Sioux Falls. There was no snow, no polished storefront windows, and certainly no orchestra waiting to play carols.

Yet Marjorie’s enthusiasm had bubbled over like boiling syrup. She spoke so passionately of bringing light and warmth to the town, of giving the children something magical to remember, that he couldn’t bring himself to deny her. She sure was a fine woman, but her ideas ran wild most days, and she had a knack for roping others into her schemes before they had time to think them through. And Lord help the man who tried to tell her no.

He had known her for many years. Every year she declared a new idea to be her “best of the year,” and every year the town humored her. Most times he went along with it simply to keep her happy and quiet. She had a way of getting her way. It wasn’t manipulation exactly, more like persistence wrapped in freckles and determination.

Sid sat and watched them work as he smoked his afternoon cigar. The smoke curled lazily into the cool evening air between sips of rockgut whiskey. The preacher’s wife had given him the bottle as an early Christmas present, insisting he deserved “something to warm his bones.” The stuff could strip paint from a barn door, but it did the job.

He glanced toward the town clock mounted above the mercantile and saw that the hour had barely passed eight o’clock. The week had been long and hard, two brawls, one cattle dispute, and a drunken scuffle that had required him to drag three grown men to jail by their collars. Sid looked forward to indulging in his simple pleasures of drink and cigars while he enjoyed a peaceful night in his chair.

He should have known better. Peace in Rosewood always came at a price.

“Sheriff, how goes it?” 

The voice interrupted his leisure. Sid turned his head to the right as his deputy, Obie Sinclair, approached carrying what appeared to be a basket full of food. Obie was a young man, no more than twenty years of age, with eager eyes and a posture that tried too hard to appear confident.

“My ma sends her regards,” he said, lifting the basket slightly, “along with something for the next shift.”

Sid nodded approvingly. “Good woman. Send her my thanks.”

He eyed the basket and the contents within: cornbread wrapped in cloth, a jar of chili, what looked like sugared biscuits tucked into the corner. Obie’s mother always treated Sid well, and today was no exception.

Sid looked his deputy over and then cast a glance toward the tree being set up behind him. Many in town claimed he had no heart, unmarried, childless, with only his brother for family, but that was not the truth. He simply kept his heart guarded.

“No worries, Obie,” Sid said. “Head back to your family. I’ve got this shift covered tonight.”

Obie stiffened slightly. “Nah, Sheriff. I can’t do that. Duty comes first.”

Sid studied the young man’s face. There was honor there, and stubborn pride. He saw a version of himself many years ago.

“You’re a good sheriff in the making,” Sid told him evenly. “And don’t think this will become a regular thing. For tonight only, go spend the holiday with your family and send them my greetings.” He paused, then added, “Think of it as my Christmas gift to you. That’s an order.”

Obie hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you kindly.”

“Make sure you leave that basket here, son,” Sid added as Obie turned to go.

The basket looked far more appetizing than the bread and butter he had planned to eat later once the bottle was empty and hunger crept in. Obie left the basket and set off in the direction from which he had come. His boots kicked up small clouds of dust.

Sid settled back into his rocking chair and took another drink. The whiskey burned warmly down his throat. It wasn’t long before the peaceful rhythm of the evening shattered.

Thundering hoofbeats erupted from the far end of town as three riders tore down the main street at full speed. Dust sprayed into the faces of the locals still attempting to steady the Christmas tree. Women gasped and stepped back. One child nearly stumbled backward into the tree.

Sid shot to his feet. “Slow down!” he called sharply.

The riders ignored him and continued on, reckless and loud. Irritation flared in his chest as he recognized one of them: Larry Kendrick, the butcher’s son. The other two he didn’t know, but they were outsiders by the looks of them, rough men with slouched hats and careless posture. He made a mental note to speak with Larry’s father about his whereabouts and company. That boy had always flirted with trouble.

Sid considered pursuing them. He imagined mounting his horse, chasing them through the darkening streets, demanding respect and order. But by the time he caught up to them, if he caught them at all, the damage would already be done. And tonight, of all nights, he found himself reluctant to waste his energy.

He returned to his chair, though his mood had soured slightly, as the riders disappeared in a cloud of dust. 

Trouble never rode alone. It always circled back.

He heard a loud whistle and turned his head.

Marjorie was making her way toward him. He took a moment to discreetly look her up and down.

She was a beautiful woman and always had been, even when they had been children sitting in the same classroom almost twenty years ago. Her long, wavy brown hair fell well past her shoulders. It framed her green eyes and complemented her pear-shaped figure. Freckles dotted her cheeks and nose and gave her that girl-next-door innocence that Sid had quietly adored for years.

Her delicate features stood in striking contrast to Sid’s own rugged appearance. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. Years of hard living and fighting on the front lines long ago had left faint scars along his jaw and a permanent hardness in his gaze.

“Sheriff,” she called brightly and smiled wide, “looks like you’re having quite the evening. Don’t you want to replace the company of that bottle with the company of people who won’t bite back in the morning?”

Sid smirked slightly. “Nothing I can’t handle, Marjorie.”

She laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. “What has you out here so late? Shouldn’t you be with your brother for Christmas?”

“I could ask you the same,” Sid replied.

“The tree won’t put itself up,” she said cheekily.

He chuckled and glanced at the towering pine. “You’re making good progress, looks to me.”

“Right. We just need to adjust it a little and we’ll be done. We just don’t have enough muscle to get her straight.”

“Not to fret,” he said. He rose from his chair and clapped his hands together. “I’ll do the heavy lifting.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff. Come give it a go and let’s see what you’re made of. Afterward, you and your brother are welcome to come over to my place for some celebrations.”

He tipped his hat in thanks as they walked toward the tree. Sid helped them secure the trunk firmly into place. His strength remained steady and controlled as he adjusted the ropes and pushed until the tree stood upright and proud in the center of town. Cheers erupted from the small crowd. However, when Marjorie attempted to hand him a string of garland, he refused firmly.

“I’ll handle the heavy lifting,” he said. “You handle the ribbons.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled all the same.

Eventually, Sid returned to his rocking chair, bottle in hand, cigar between his fingers. The night grew colder, the town quieter. Laughter drifted faintly from distant houses as families gathered indoors.

At some point, between sips of whiskey and the gentle creak of his chair, Sid drifted off to sleep. The half-empty bottle rested loosely in his hand while the newly erected Christmas tree stood tall beneath the vast, star-studded sky of the Dakota badlands.

Chapter Three

“Sheriff… Sheriff…”

The voice seeped into Sid’s sleep like cold water through cracked stone, distant at first, then insistent, echoing down an endless tunnel of fog and regret. He groaned low in his throat, shifted in the worn rocking chair, and tried to burrow back into the numb black behind his eyelids. The last swallow of rockgut still sat heavy in his stomach, warm and sour. The world could wait another hour or forever, for all Sid cared.

But the voice would not relent. “Sid!”

A callused hand clamped onto his shoulder and shook him, hard, urgent and without mercy. Consciousness crashed over him like a bucket of ice water and Sid’s eyes flew open.

Old man Shea stood inches away, face gray and drawn beneath the shadow of his hat. Thin flakes of the season’s first snow drifted past the porch rail, catching in Jacob’s beard like ash from a dying fire. The old man’s breath came in ragged bursts; his words spilled out too fast, tangled and frantic.

Sid forced himself upright. Pain detonated behind his temples, the familiar price of last night’s indulgence of alcoholic beverages. The pale dawn light sliced into his vision and he squinted hard, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Snow continued to fall in lazy, silent spirals, dusting the boards at his feet and muting the usual morning sounds of Rosewood. No birds or wind, only the soft falling of flakes settling and the uneven rasp of Jacob’s breathing.

Irritation flared hot in Sid’s chest. “Slow down, Jacob,” he growled. “What in God’s name are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”

“Please, Sheriff, come quick to the Renfroe house.” Jacob’s voice broke on the name. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, holding a terror Sid had seen too many times before. It was the look of a man who had stumbled onto something that could never be forgotten.

Sid’s stomach knotted but he pushed to his feet. The porch tilted beneath him for a sickening second and he gripped the chair arm until his knuckles whitened. His headache pulsed in time with his heartbeat. “What happened there?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“Gunshots,” Jacob whispered, as though saying it louder might summon them again. “Before first light and the rooster’s crow. Woke me straight out of bed. There were three, maybe four shots. I know for sure that they came from the Renfroe place. I’m too old, Sheriff, and my legs are like lead so I knew I couldn’t help. I rode here fast as I could. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Sid drew a long, slow breath as the cold air burned his lungs. Snowflakes melted on his skin and left tiny pinpricks of chill. He glanced toward the town clock mounted above the mercantile: barely past six. Too early for blood. It was too early for anything but coffee and quiet.

Yet there it was.

He strode to the hitching post. His horse, old reliable Buck, stood with his head lowered, breath steaming in pale clouds. Jacob scrambled onto his own swaybacked mare. No more words passed between them as they mounted, kicked the horses into a trot, and left the sleeping town behind.

The road stretched ahead, rutted and unforgiving. Low sagebrush hunched along the road, its silver leaves already dusted white by the early snow. Tumbleweeds rolled in restless fits across the open stretches, driven by the first hard winds of winter. Beyond the road, the prairie grass lay flattened and brittle beneath the frost. Far off, the broken ridges of the badlands cut jagged lines against the pale morning sky.

Sid felt the old rush rise unbidden, the thunder of blood in his ears, the hammer of his heart against his ribs. Danger had always stirred something primal in him, a dark electricity he could never quite extinguish. In the war it had kept him alive; in Rosewood it sometimes kept him awake. Today, the thrill tasted bitter, edged with unease. 

Jacob rode beside him in grim silence, glancing back toward town every few minutes as though expecting pursuit.

The Renfroe house appeared at the end of the long track like a bruise on the landscape, a low, sagging structure of weathered clapboard and rusted tin. Paint peeled in long, curling ribbons from the walls, exposing gray wood beneath. The wraparound porch leaned forward wearily, as though exhausted by years of holding up against wind and sun. The windows stared blankly, curtains unmoving. No smoke rose from the chimney and no dogs barked. Only silence, thick and wrong.

A single figure sat on the top porch step, motionless, head bowed, shoulders curled inward.

Sid’s pulse spiked hard enough to make his vision flicker.

He swung down from the saddle and tossed the reins to Jacob. “Stay here,” he said quietly. “Keep the horses steady. Don’t come closer unless I call.”

Jacob nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. His hands trembled on the reins.

Sid approached the porch with deliberate steps. Each boot fall echoed on the warped boards. The air carried the faint, metallic tang of blood beneath the clean scent of snow. His right hand hovered near the butt of his revolver; the leather of the holster felt suddenly too tight, too cold.

“Sheriff Sid Granger,” he called with the flat authority of long habit. “Identify yourself.”

The figure lifted his head slowly.

Sid stopped breathing. 

It was Vance.

His younger brother sat there, hollow-eyed and still. Dried tears had carved pale channels through the dust on his cheeks. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as they clutched the edge of the step. His shirt and trousers were soaked through with blood, dark, stiff, crusted in uneven patches that spoke of hours, not minutes. The stains had spread across his chest, down one sleeve, onto his lap. Too much blood for one man to lose and still sit upright.

Sid’s mouth went dry. The world narrowed to a tunnel: the porch, the blood, Vance’s vacant stare.

“Vance…” The name escaped like a wound. Sid took another step forward, boots heavy. “What are you doing here? Whose blood is that? Are you hurt?”

Vance looked up, through Sid with an expression that was blank, distant, as though the words floated somewhere above his head and never quite reached. Then he dropped his gaze back to the boards between his boots. No answer or movement, just the faint tremor in his shoulders and the soft, relentless patter of snow on the tin roof.

Sid knew that look all too well. He had seen it after the artillery explosion years ago. The day the world went silent for Vance and the ringing in his ears became permanent. But this was different. This silence carried weight and horror.

The front door stood ajar behind Vance, a thin ribbon of shadow spilling out across the porch. No sound came from inside, no groan, no sob, no shuffle of feet. Only the creak of settling wood and the whisper of snow.

Sid’s hand drifted to his revolver and his thumb brushed the hammer. Every instinct screamed to draw it, to kick the door wide, to step into whatever waited in the dark.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Vance.

Not yet.

The snow continued to fall, covering the bloodstains on Vance’s clothes in a thin white shroud. Somewhere inside the house, a floorboard groaned once, softly, as though the building itself were shifting under the weight of what had happened.

Sid swallowed hard and the metallic taste of fear coated his tongue.

He took one more step forward and into the house.

Sid finally gave in to the instincts that kept him alive through worse days than this. His hand moved of its own accord. His fingers closed around the worn grips of the revolver. The metal felt colder than the snow outside. He drew the gun from the holster in one smooth motion. His thumb brushed the hammer back with a soft, metallic click that sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness.

He stepped across the threshold into the dim front room.

The air inside hit him first, thick, metallic, and warm despite the cold that seeped through the open door.

His blood turned to ice.

Blood pooled across the rough pine floorboards in dark lakes that reflected the weak daylight filtering through the curtains. Three bodies lay sprawled in grotesque disarray.

The butcher’s son, Larry Kendrick, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His mouth hung slack. A neat hole pierced the center of his chest. His shirt, which was once clean blue cotton, was now soaked crimson from collar to waist. Beside him lay the two outsiders Sid had glimpsed tearing through town the night before, slouched hats now crumpled beside them, faces slack in death. Each had taken a single shot to the heart, no wild spray. Their blood mingled on the floor and spread outward.

“Shot straight,” Sid breathed under his breath.

His gaze swept the room. Chairs lay overturned, one splintered leg snapped clean off. A small table had been upended, and a tin cup rolled lazily against the baseboard to leave a thin trail of coffee now mixed with red. Scuff marks scarred the floorboards where heels dragged and boots planted hard in a desperate scramble.

Behind an overturned chair, half-hidden in shadow, lay Walter Renfroe. The old man’s eyes were opened wide and fixed on nothing. A single gunshot tore through his chest, just left of center. His hands clutched the edge of his shirt as though he tried to press the wound closed in those last seconds. Blood soaked the front of his faded plaid shirt and puddled beneath him in a dark halo.

Sid stood frozen and the revolver felt impossibly heavy in his hand.

His mind refused to accept what his eyes reported. Vance couldn’t have done this. Not his little brother, the boy who once followed him everywhere, who laughed at Sid’s bad jokes even after the artillery blast stole half his hearing. Not Vance, who had come home broken but gentle, who still helped Marjorie string garlands and tipped his hat to old ladies on the street.

Yet the blood stayed real. The bodies stayed real.

Sid’s instinct warred with his sense of duty. Every fiber of him screamed to turn, to grab Vance by the arm, to haul him onto Buck and ride hard for the hill, to protect him, to hide him.

But fate had other plans.

A shout shattered the quiet. “Sheriff! Sheriff Granger!”

Jacob Shea burst through the doorway. His boots thudded on the boards. He stopped short when he saw the carnage. His face flushed; his eyes went wild. His breath caught in a sharp wheeze. Then his gaze locked on Vance, still sitting motionless on the porch steps.

“Did he do this?” Jacob jabbed a trembling finger toward Vance. 

Sid spun. “Jacob, stay back.”

But the old man pressed forward. His voice rose in pitch. “I heard the shots! I told you! And now he sits out there, covered in their blood, like it means nothing! You gonna let him walk away? After what he did to those people?”

Sid’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “I said stay back.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “You protectin’ him, Sheriff? Is that what this is? Family over justice?”

The words hit harder than any punch Sid had taken in his life.

He felt heat rise in his face as anger, shame and fear all twisted together. He stepped between Jacob and the doorway as the revolver stayed in his hand but pointed at the floor.

“Enough,” Sid said. His voice was low and dangerous. “We don’t know what happened here. Not yet.”

Jacob’s lip curled. “I know what I see. And I see a man soaked in blood sittin’ on a porch while good folks lie dead inside. You gonna do your job, or do I have to ride back to town and tell everybody the Granger boys think the law don’t apply to kin?”

Sid’s free hand flexed at his side and he turned slowly.