The storm slammed against the Rockies like a living beast the night four-year-old Eli Parker pressed his face to a frost-bitten window and whispered into the dark, “I just want someone to love me.” Wind clawed at the old cabin perched on the mountainside. Inside, the fire had died hours ago, leaving only biting cold and the memory of Deborah Whitlock’s voice—sharp, cruel, and echoing through the walls like a curse. Eli had known pain before he even understood the word. Born in spring to a mother who died when he was two, he’d spent the rest of his tiny…