In short order, the sleds were empty and Whitney had the second team of dogs headed to a shelter. Chris watched the busyness around him and adjusted the rucksack he’d slung over his shoulder.
Whitney walked back toward him with quick strides. “I need to get you and the mail out to the gold camp before it gets too late.”
Even though it was still early in the afternoon, the sun would dip below the horizon all too soon. “You don’t need my help here first?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Well, that was that. At least for now. With a slight nod, he followed her to her sled.
He climbed in, and she handed him the pack of mail. “Please hold on to it. That way I don’t have to strap it down.” Her tone was clipped. Hurried.
He watched over his shoulder as she lifted the hook from the snow, stepped on the runners, and called out, “Let’s go!”
Without hesitation, the dogs took off. The motion jerked him back, and he had no choice but to face forward. The hum and warmth of the small community swished by, and Chris gathered every ounce of courage he had. He was alone with his daughter. For the first time in a long time.
Once they were out of the village, he shifted in his seat so he could see her over his shoulder. “I appreciate you bringing me along. I know Ruth is grateful as well.”
Her eyes never leaving the trail in front of them, she nodded, but her lips stayed in a thin line.
“I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk.”
Whitney’s eyes hardened. With one hand she reached for her scarf and lifted it to her face. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible right now. The temperature is dropping, and the light is fading. You better protect your face and bundle up.” With that she wrapped her scarf up over her nose and mouth.
Point made. No talking.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Judas,
It has been a mere six hours since I posted the first letter to you. I cannot begin to tell you the relief that I have felt in writing to you. But the urgency remains. I will spend every cent I have to correspond with you—it is that important.
As I have been poring over the Scriptures, I find myself coming back to the first epistle of John each time I think of you. “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
My dear Judas, please. I am begging you to turn back to God. To confess. Stop wasting your life on things of this world. He will cleanse you. He will welcome you with open arms and so will I.
In Christ’s love,
Cain
Judas leaned back in his chair and peered out the window at the twilight sky. What a persistent fool.
He folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope. Let the man waste his precious few pennies on letters.
It didn’t make a lick of difference to Judas.
With a shrug he straightened and stashed the letter into his top left drawer with the other. He went back to the dwindling stack of mail. No time to think about Cain or his words. He had business to do. And money to make.
By the time they drove up to the gold camp, it was after three in the afternoon. The sun had already slipped into bed for the night, and twilight lingered. Whitney swallowed, her stomach plummeting. She hadn’t thought about having to make her way back in the dark. Not because she never drove in the dark, but because she was at a gold camp. Full of miners, a lot of them unsavory at best. And a place where Garrett Sinclair himself had worked.
A shiver shook her shoulders.
No. Her thoughts wouldn’t go there. She wouldn’t allow it. Setting the hook in the snow, she jumped off and went to her father. “Deliver the mail. I’ve got to get back.”
“But—”
“There are sick children back there, Dad. They need me.” She went to the line of dogs and checked their paws, harnesses, and eyes. All of them dipped their tongues into the snow for hydration, which was good. It wasn’t that far to the village. She could make sure they had plenty of food and water once she got back there.
