Kathleen Duey’s works include the middle grade American Diaries and Survivors series, as well as the well-reviewed chapter book series The Unicorn’s Secret and its companion series, The Faeries’ Promise. She is also the National Book Award–nominated author of Skin Hunger. She lives in Fallbrook, California.

Karen A. Bale grew up in southern California and graduated from the University California Riverside. She has written seventeen historical romances, including the successful seven-book Sweet Medicine’s Prophecy series. She has done freelance work for several years, including helping to write two nonfiction books. Karen still resides in southern California, ten miles from the Pacific Ocean.

Klappentext

Kids survive unbelievable events in this spellbinding new series from the author of the "American Diaries" series. In the third volume, Maggie risks her own life to save her spoiled cousin Hadyn when he's lost in a sudden blizzard in Estes Park, Colorado, in 1886.

Zusammenfassung
A raging snow storm creates the coldest kind of danger for two kids in this riveting tale of historical fiction, part of the Survivor series.

Haydn Sinclair hates absolutely everything about his aunt and uncle’s primitive Rocky Mountain ranch. He’d much rather be in a great city than stuck on the countryside.

Haydn’s cousin Maggie hates the thought of having her rich and spoiled cousin visiting for four long months. She’d be happier if he wasn’t around.

When Maggie’s father is injured and she and Haydn are left alone, they argue, and Haydn sets off on foot for the train station miles away. The next day Maggie learns that Haydn never made it to town, and she must search for him despite the blizzard that is raging outside. But even if she can find him, will they be able to survive freezing nights, vicious winds, and the constant threat of snow slides?

Leseprobe
Blizzard: Colorado, 1886

Chapter One

“I hate Hadyn Sinclair!”

Maggie listened to the echo that came back across the meadow. There was patchy snow beneath her feet. Overhead, the dawn-gray sky was free of storm clouds—for the moment at least. Her father always said March weather in the Rockies was as unpredictable as a temperamental mule.

Rusty nosed at Maggie’s shoulder and she shook her head, wondering if the tall red mule could read her mind. “Papa never meant you,” she told Rusty without turning. Then she shouted again.

“I hate Hadyn Sinclair,” the echo announced a second time in its hollow, reedy voice.

Maggie faced Rusty. “Mother says Hadyn will be here four months, maybe five. His boarding school suspended him until next term. Uncle Thomas and Aunt Olivia must think it’s good for him to spend time with us.”

Rusty nuzzled her old blue coat. “What? What do you want? This?” She fished in her pocket for the last piece of carrot. “How am I going to stand Hadyn that long?” she asked as Rusty’s soft muzzle brushed the palm of her hand. He crunched the carrot appreciatively, closing his eyes. Maggie checked the cinches on the pack saddle, then led him forward again.

Maggie followed the trail around the enormous snow-covered boulder everyone called Indian Rock. It was shaped like a giant man sitting cross-legged, bent forward at the waist. The wind had dropped, but it was still cold. In the distance, Maggie saw the Simms’ ranch. They had built four new little visitors’ cabins. There was smoke coming from the main house chimney. Maybe they would be coming to Cleave’s store, too, today. She hoped so. They were good neighbors and nice people.

Maggie waded through a patch of deep snow, the new, clean fall from last night dusted over an old, sand-spattered drift. She heard a telltale scraping sound and paused. Down by the Fall River, a bull elk was rubbing his antlers against a rough-barked pine. The wispy breeze was moving toward her. The elk had not caught her scent. Suddenly, he looked up and saw her. In two bounding strides the elk disappeared into a stand of aspen trees.

For a second, Maggie just stood still. There were so few elk left now, she almost never saw one. Her father said that it was the tourists as much as the hunters. With people roaming the mountains all summer long, the bighorn sheep, bears, and deer were thinning out too.

The sun rose warm and bright. It was a fine day and Rusty moved along at a good pace. The road was rutted, but not too badly—it would get worse after spring thaw. It was almost warm, and Maggie enjoyed the long walk. She spotted two deer and thought she saw some bighorn sheep on an outcropping high above the road. Before she could be sure, they disappeared into the craggy rock. She squinted, shading her eyes against the glare, but couldn’t spot them again.

Crossing Black Canon Creek, Maggie let Rusty drink. Ice still laced the slow water along the banks. In the distance, Ypsilon Peak and Mummy Mountain were covered in snow.

Maggie patted Rusty’s shaggy neck as they started forward. “I sure wish I didn’t have to pick up the supplies today. Seeing Hadyn will be bad enough, but dealing with Mr. McAllister, too . . .”

Mr. McAllister loved to complain. Maggie was going to have to hear about every little thing that had gone wrong on the trip to the grocery store down in Lyons. Then on the way home, Hadyn would probably describe every muddy turn on the road. Maggie topped the last rise, and she could see Mr. Cleave’s place. He lived in the little building that served as store and post office. His wife and children lived in the house across the muddy road.

“The Cleaves aren’t arguing today, Rusty. At least, I don’t hear them yet.” She let Rusty set the pace down the snowy path. As they angled toward the buildings, she talked to Rusty over her shoulder. “Papa said last night we’ll have a real town someday because so many Easterners are summering here.”

McAllister’s team of dark bays was tethered at Cleave’s hitching rail. Up the Lyons road, Maggie saw a rig she didn’t recognize heading west. Maybe someone from the Elkhorn Lodge was driving a rented turnout.

As she passed into the blue shadows beneath some tall pines, Maggie saw distinct mountain lion tracks in the new snow. She shivered beneath the thick wool of her coat. They had been hearing the big cats at night, and her father had found tracks by the pond.

“. . . tell your mother she can’t have more butter,” Maggie heard Mr. Cleave shouting in his thick English accent as she got closer to the store. His children giggled as they ran out the door and back across the road to their house. A second later, Mr. McAllister came out.

“About time. I’ve been here near two hours.”

“My father thought this would be plenty early. I’m sorry you had to wait, Mr. McAllister.”

Frowning, Mr. McAllister crossed to his wagon. He untied the canvas cover and rolled it back. Without speaking, he hefted a fifty-pound sack of flour onto Rusty’s pack saddle. Rusty grunted at the weight, his ears lowering, but he stood steady.

“Road was as bad as I’ve seen this year.” Mr. McAllister turned back to the wagon. He moved several bags aside, then pulled one free. “Got you a hundred pounds of red beans. Storekeep in Lyons didn’t have black beans.”

Maggie kept her face entirely blank so when he looked over at her, there would be nothing in her expression to set him off. He shook his head and started talking anyway.

“I don’t mind being the one to go down to the valley, but folks are just going to ha…