“You can forget sledding!” He took another deep breath, schooled his voice again. “Do you know what could have happened to you if Dawson and Keely hadn’t seen you?”
Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip. “I’d die. Like Mommy?”
And now, all the air seemed to leave the room too. Donald stiffened, and Keely lost her ability to breathe, and even the woman by the fire—Nance?—looked away, her arms wrapped around her body.
Donald picked up his daughter, held her tight, burying his face in her shoulder. “No, baby. Nothing is going to happen to you. Not with Daddy around.”
He carried her away from the hearth, and Keely still had nothing, her throat tight as she watched them go upstairs.
She sat, staring at the fire for a long time. Finally, Nance sighed.
“Ellen died four years ago,” Nance said quietly. “She was cutting wood, and the saw landed on her leg. She bled out. He was out hunting and had left them low on firewood, and ... well, he’s never forgiven himself.” She touched Keely’s arm. “You going to be okay?”
She nodded. But no. Not even a little. Nance walked away, and Keely, knees drawn up to herself, stared at the fire.
“I guess we’re even.” Male voice, a little husky. She turned to see Dawson walking toward her, his dark hair wet and curly on top, wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, probably borrowed from one of the community members. He smelled good, like cedarwood and pine, probably from the homemade soaps they made here.
He held a large mug of soup and a spoon.
“How’s that?”
“You dragged me out of the lake?”
“Not even close,” she said, her voice soft. “You half carried me for a mile and saved me from a blizzard. All I did was hold your hand.”
“That was enough.” He sat on a cushioned chair. “If you hadn’t gotten help...” He took a sip of soup. “Can’t believe I went into the ice. That orange thing—a hunting vest. Maybe it escaped from the machine shed.” He took another sip. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
She shook her head. “If you hadn’t gone out there, I wouldn’t have spotted Wren. She might have gone in the well, and we would have never found her.Rightplace,righttime.”
He considered her a moment.
They sat in silence. From the kitchen, the faintest sound ofsinging rose. A hymn. She leaned into it, caught the tune.Blessed assurance,Jesus is mine! Oh,what a foretaste of glory divine!
In a breath of time, she was standing next to her mother in church, raising her voice in worship.“Oh,Keely,you have such a beautiful voice.”
Her eyes burned, and she swallowed back the memory.
“You okay?”
She glanced at him. Probably the cop in him—he seemed to notice everything. “Yeah. Just ... the singing. Reminded me of my mom. She loved that hymn. Had it sung at her funeral.”
He seemed to listen, then.Heir of salvation,purchase of God,born of his Spirit,washed in hisblood.“What do you suppose that means—‘what a foretaste of glory divine.’”
“I suppose that maybe with Jesus we can taste on earth the peace and joy of heaven? I don’t know.”
He finished off his soup, set it on the hearth. “We attended church with my grandfather until Aven was murdered. Then my parents stopped going. But my grandfather still took me sometimes. I don’t think they had a hope of peace, or joy.”
“My father stopped going after my mother died too,” she said. “He was really lost for a while. Got remarried, though, so that helped. But I think that’s what my mom would say the song is about—having peace and joy because of the assurance of salvation.”
The fire crackled, the warmth casting over her, despite the fury of the wind outside. The sun hadn’t yet surrendered, still fighting to pour through the snow and wind, the sky a pewter gray.
“When I was a kid, we used to go to this cabin on the north shore of Lake Superior. Little town called Deep Haven. Population about a thousand, especially in the winter. We stayed at my grandpa’s vacation cabin, a little two-bedroom house right on the lake. Dad would fire up the woodstove, and we’d playgames and watch the waves crash against the ice shore. I loved it. Especially at night. Sometimes we’d bundle up in blankets and go outside and watch the stars—they’re so crisp and bright at night. We’d watch our breath in the air, how it vanished in the darkness, and yet the stars stayed. I felt so small, but sitting with my dad, I wasn’t scared.” She hated how the memory crept into her throat, bruised it.
“Sounds like you had a great dad.”
“He tried ... until my mom died.” She left off the rest.
Silence fell between them, and she didn’t hate it, sitting here with the warmth of the fire, safe.
