Chapter 2
LEO
It was subtle. A barely there change in the light, but one that caught my attention. Simply because it shouldn't be there.
Kind of like I shouldn't be here. Out as night fell when I knew the reports a blizzard was coming.
Granted it hit hours before it was predicted to.
I'm sure there are plenty of people who view this as perfect Christmas weather.
They'll wake up to pristine waves of snow in their front yards, trees glittering with ice, and pronounce it beautiful.
It's just more cold as far as I'm concerned. Another winter day like all the others.
I came here to avoid Christmas. To avoid people who believe it's the one day to show off with gifts they purchased or gifts they were given.
To spend money on frivolous, pricy decorations that do nothing but add flash and shininess to their houses.
Money that could buy some families food for a month. Or even longer.
Being away from everyone who can't stop talking about the blasted holiday was meant to give me a bit of peace. I could hike, chop wood, eat and sleep without knowing what day it was. Without feeling like I was forgotten or unwelcome. Or an inconvenience invited somewhere simply out of pity.
But that flash of light that shouldn't be was enough to make me certain I wasn't here alone. Which also meant that someone needed help.
I may not be a fan of Christmas, but I've still got a conscience. Leaving someone, anyone, alone and stranded on a night like this was not something I could ever do.
Angling myself toward where the light had been, I pushed through. The snow was steadily growing thicker, and the heavy wet weight of it would be a burden soon enough. Best to get this done and over with. Then I could head home and warm myself up.
The small sedan that finally appears out of the haze of blowing snow wasn't built for trips like this. Between the poorly maintained road itself, the steep grade, and the quickly increasing cold, driving it up here was a distinctly bad idea.
I skirt around to the side, tapping on the driver's window. There's a muted squeak from inside and then a gloved hand wipes at the glass, clearing enough that I make out wide, startled eyes and a fringe of dark hair escaping from underneath a knitted winter cap.
"You need help." It's not a question. Because there's absolutely no question. This woman is in clear need of help, and I'm not going to be able to walk away until I know she's not in harm's way any longer.
She looks over her shoulder into the backseat, and I squint, able to make out vague shapes in the darkness.
I'm suddenly afraid that maybe this situation is worse than I thought.
Maybe she has kids in there, and my mind slips instantly into problem solving mode.
How I could guide a woman and kids to safety through this weather without anyone getting hurt, frost bitten or lost.
The click of her door opening pulls me from my planning.
"Hello," she says, leaning close so I can hear her over the wind. "I'm so glad you're here. And you're right. I do need help."
Nodding at her, I give her body a cursory assessment.
Boots aren't made for hiking, but they'll do.
The coat is better than nothing. Gloves are thin, probably designed more for fashion than actual winter weather, but at least they cover the skin.
The real worry I have in the moment is what her kids are wearing.
Keeping them warm will be a priority until we reach shelter.
She's thanking me as I pull open the back door, ducking into the darkness to count children, but jump back as boxes tumble out onto the snow.
Wrapped boxes with bows and ribbon covering them.
Christmas presents. The backseat is full of Christmas presents, not kids.
Something like relief flickers in my chest at the realization that I only have to get one person to safety. Not a whole family.
"Oh no." The woman drops to the ground, gathering up the gifts that have fallen and trying to stuff them back into the car, even as more spill out. "They'll be ruined."
"Ma'am." I start, but she doesn't seem to hear me, just continues grabbing presents, until her arms are full and she's trying to wedge her foot under another to keep it free of the snow.
"Ma'am, we can leave them here. Nobody's going to steal them." I have to raise my voice to get her attention, and when I do, she turns to me.
Her lower lip is trembling, and I see the telling shivers that warn me she's already cold, but she doesn't drop what she's holding.
In fact, it's as if my suggestion angers her somehow.
Her shoulders go back, her lips form a stern line, and I can almost feel sparks shooting from her eyes as she glares at me.
"These gifts are from Santa." She says the S-word like it's magic, as if that's all I need to know to understand why these gifts are so special. "I have to deliver them tonight. So the kids see them when they wake up."
"You're telling me you'd be okay with freezing to death, rather than leave these gifts behind."
It sounds cold. It is cold. Even I'm getting a little cold and I went through arctic training before I deployed. I know my physical limits. This woman apparently does not know hers.
"I don't want to freeze. Nobody wants to freeze." She looks at me, arms still full of gifts, stubbornness rigid in every inch of her. "But I can't leave without these. I made a promise."
I close my eyes, seeking patience, and give myself a couple seconds to recover my calm. Delivering presents to kids isn't my problem, but I'm not going to abandon someone in this kind of weather. And we don't have time to debate the issue.
"Fine. Got something we can carry them in?" I grit out the question as I open my eyes, and she gives me a flash of a smile as she nods.
"In the trunk. I picked up a new bag just before I left town, because when I tried to pack these up, I found there was a hole in the old one."
We get the trunk open and I see a blanket tossed in one corner and a red square, wrapped in shiny plastic.
It's simple work to open the bag and I hold it in place as she carefully puts the presents in her arms inside.
"I'll do the rest if you take this." I can't wait for her to gingerly pull each gift off the seat so I take them in handfuls, until the red sack is bulging. But there are too many and I can already see the argument forming on her face as I turn around. "Hold on."
The blanket from the trunk is easily tied into a pouch and I add the remaining presents to it, then hand it to her.
"I'll take the big one. You carry this." I slam the car door shut and look down at her. She's small, cold, and yet, more determined than most people I've met before. Even some soldiers I've trained with. "Stay close to me. Hold on when you need to. We can't afford to get separated."
I'm grateful when she nods, but then she leans in and says something the wind snatches away.
"What was that?" I have to get close, so close that her lips are level with my ear. It's awkward, but necessary. And it ensures I don't miss what she says next, her warm breath a welcome contrast to the cold swirling around us.
"Thank you."