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The Montana winter had stripped the world to bone-white and iron-gray, the only color the stubborn red of Ruth's barn bleeding through the swirling snow. Inside, the air held the smell of hay, old leather, and cold metal—her prosthetic arm clicking softly as she worked, securing the last bale against the coming blow. The wind groaned outside, testing the old boards, and she paused, listening to a rhythm she knew in her bones. She wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a streak of dirt, and let out a slow breath that hung in the chill. The house waited, dark and still, the woodstove cold. She crossed the yard, boots crunching through the fresh powder, and shouldered the door open. Inside, she shed her coat, snow scattering on the floor, and moved to light the fire—striking a match, watc…