Wolf Winter — Patricia Lucas White

The pioneers had come West to find homes and riches, instead they found a vast and lonely land, a land fraught with danger, fearsome creatures, and tamahnous, the primal magic no man could tame. As unknowable as the tumtum wawas, the spirit voices of things, the winter winds howled and cried and mourned. Born of fire, crowned in ice, the silent, brooding mountains kept the land's dread secrets.

The nights were dark and long, and when the fires dwindled to ash and ember, the pioneers shivered, huddled close, and whispered tales of Lejube Rogue, the white Indian, who knew neither hearth nor home. Rogue, they said, roamed the trackless forests, listening to the spirit voices, seeking always seeking. Relentlessly, he sought the man he could never kill, the fleeing man who could lay claim to nothing but madness, the dead women who marked his passage across the savage land, and one lone woman who lived with grief, fear, and the memory of love.