“Are you okay?” Emma asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been crying again. What’s wrong?”
“Well, I guess I’m just worried about your dad. He’s not home yet, so I worry. It’s what moms do.”
Emma looked at her mother and smiled. “I think he’ll be fine. Grandma always tells me that I can pray about stuff, and God will take care of things. Every night I pray for dad to get home, and I think God’s going to hear me.”
Jennifer gave Emma a hug. “You’re sounding better. I think maybe I need to start asking, too, just so God knows I want your dad home as much as you do.”
“Grandma said you don’t like to pray too much, so I need to do it for the family.”
“When did she tell you that?” Jennifer asked, taken aback.
“When she was here at Easter and took me to church. She said you hated to go to church and do all that stuff. But I liked it. It felt good.”
“Well that was nice of grandma to be talking behind my back like that.”
Emma giggled. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Jennifer stammered, “but it’s not like I hate God or anything like that.”
“Then why don’t we ever go?”
Jennifer shrugged uncomfortably. “I went a lot when I was your age, but none of my friends did, and it always seemed like they were having more fun than I was. We had this really ancient minister. He was as deaf as could be, and having to listen to him shout the sermon every Sunday in his squeaky, old voice wasn’t very exciting.” Jennifer’s eyes glistened again at the memory of Sundays with her mother and sister.
“Did you pray when you were my age?”
“I did when I remembered to, but I think I forgot to a lot. When grandma and grandpa decided not to be married anymore I prayed myself to sleep every night for a month…but God didn’t listen, at least that’s what I thought then.” Jennifer found herself caught up in her memories. “I think that’s when I decided that I really didn’t like church anymore.”
Emma gave Jennifer an innocent smile and snuggled in closer to her. “After breakfast can I go out and make a snowman? I’ll take Spencer with me.”
“I suppose, but I’m going to need your help. We’re going to collect as much snow as we can today, and you and David will need to help. We’ll fill the bathtubs, the sinks, and all the buckets I can find so we don’t have to keep carrying water from the river, or from Mr. Patel’s; he’s really low on gas. Maybe the snow will help us get by for awhile.”
“Okay, Mom. But first I want to make the snowman.”
North Central Wyoming
Rose Duncan leaned forward in her recliner to once again check the unconscious man on the floor. He’d been in rough shape when she dragged him into the house the night before, and she hadn’t been entirely sure that he was going to make it. The man had lain for hours without moving, then finally, a little before sunrise, he’d started to show some signs of life. Now that he was moving more, Rose got up from her chair and went into the kitchen. She retrieved a bucket of honey from the pantry, scooped three spoonfuls into a small pan, then added water. Returning to the living room, she placed the pan on the woodstove that warmed the room.
The man moved again, and she turned to watch him. His foot slipped out from under the mound of blankets that covered him, and she noticed that, although his toes were still pale white, his skin was starting to regain a healthier tint. Carefully, she leaned down and placed a hand on his forehead, noting that his temperature had risen since she had last checked. She pulled the blanket back and put a hand on his chest. It felt warmer as well.
Gradually the man became more animated, until she noticed his eyes open just a crack. “Good morning,” Rose said. “How are you feeling?”
Kyle slowly drifted into consciousness. His body ached and his head throbbed, like someone had mercilessly beaten him with a club. He wanted to open his eyes, but the bright light in the room hurt too much. There was a voice saying words that his mind couldn’t process, and he had a vague notion to sit up, but his body declined the request. He tipped his head to the side and forced his eyes open, squinting to take in his surroundings. The room came into focus and Kyle saw gray sky through a picture window and someone sitting nearby with a large dog curled lazily on the floor beside them. Kyle closed his eyes and let his head slump back down. He tried to piece things together in his mind, but the thick mental fog wouldn’t clear. Soon he was drifting back to sleep.
Rose watched as the man came to and could tell that he was disoriented and confused. He hadn’t responded to her greeting but did at least seem to recognize that she was there and that she had spoken to him before he had drifted off to sleep again. His mind seemed to be in another place, reminding her of how confused she had felt a few years back when her horse had thrown her and she’d come to with her panicked son kneeling over her.
Rose was relieved that the man was coming around and hoped the steady progress meant he was returning to normal. She knew in cases of hypothermia that brain injuries were a possibility, and the thought of rescuing someone who wouldn’t fully recover had been worrying her for the fourteen hours since she’d pulled him into her home.
Tired and anxious, Rose walked over to the window and looked outside. The storm had mostly blown over during the night and left the area blanketed in a deep layer of snow. The trees behind the house were bent low, struggling under the heavy load of snow, and several branches had broken and were hanging to the ground. The light snow that was still falling was being carried by the wind, blowing around the fences, across the sidewalk, and behind the house, adding to drifts that were already over two feet high. Before closing the blinds to darken the room, Rose checked the outside thermometer and noticed that the temperature had climbed a couple of degrees, resting just below the 25º mark.
Rose found the book she’d been reading, opened it up to her bookmark, and stretched out on the couch with a favorite quilt pulled over her. It had been a long, fitful night with very little sleep, and after a few minutes of trying to read in the dimmed light, she gave up the fight to keep her eyes open. Rolling onto her side, she set her book on the floor and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. From across the room, she watched the man on the floor, his chest rising with deep, steady breaths, his eyes shut to the world. She worried about him, this mystery man, as she too drifted off to sleep.
Rose had no idea how long she’d been asleep when a loud shout broke the silence and jolted her awake. Across the room, the man was still lying on the floor, but his eyes were open and panic stricken. She quickly crossed the room and knelt beside him, speaking in a soft, reassuring voice. “It’s alright. I’m Rose, and you’re in my home. You’re going to be okay. Just try and relax.”
Kyle looked at Rose and breathed deeply, but did not answer, his mind trying to figure out who this woman was and how he’d gotten inside her house. The last thing he remembered was standing in the back of a truck, trying to decide where to go. Now he was lying on the floor of a home he’d never seen, being tended by a woman he didn’t know. Dim sunlight filtered in around the blinds, illuminating the room and its contents. There was a couch, a recliner, a coffee table stacked with books, and pictures and statues of horses and cowboys. The woman looked down at him, her brow furrowed. After a pause, she went to the woodstove and returned with a mug.
“Here, drink this,” she said. “It’s warm honey water. You need to get some warm liquids inside you.”