Chapter 9
SHE HAD LANDED IN GROUNDHOG DAY.
Keely lay in the bed, again, listening to the wind howl outside, the snow pinging against her window. Same wind. Same smells—cotton, coffee, the scent of fire from the hearth—sneaking under her door. The room seemed warmer today, however, and . . .
No, nothing was the same.
Dawson had kissed her. And she hadn’t stopped him—not soon enough, at least. Not before the lure of his kiss made her sink into his embrace and kiss him back.
Oh my.
And worse, he tasted exactly of the amazing man who raced out into the cold to find her. A hero.
She closed her eyes and let herself sink into his arms again, remember the smell of him, all wood chips and pine, the feel of his touch—desire, and maybe a little hope . . .
It was the hope that made her step away.
Despite his words—“Amazing. And beautiful, and strong, and brave . . .”
No, he hadn’t the first clue who she really was.
“Please don’t let me hurt you.”
He had no idea the pain her life might level on him. Frankly, he probably deserved the truth.
But she wanted him to at least like her, so . . .
So probably she should refrain from kissing him again. “This can’t work.”
She opened her eyes, stared at the wooden ceiling, and weirdly, a song dropped into her head. Just a piece—
In the whirl of the storm, my dreams scream loud,
A voice lost in the wind, just trying to be found.
What was it River said—“You put to words exactly what I was feeling”?
Huh.
Keely got up and slipped into her fuzzy boots, pulled her pom-pom hat over her hair. She needed a brush, but really, she needed a hot bath. Her bones were achy, her hair turning a little coarse after so many days.
Outside her room, the early morning waxed the lodge in tones of somber gray, just the hearth fire flickering to shed light. The aroma of coffee lifted, but no chatter came from the kitchen.
“You know the drill.” Sure, he’d said that, but then had been painfully, brutally silent during their tromp toward the lodge. And by the time they returned, the blizzard had set in again, so no leaving for them.
She’d eaten dinner with Wren and Oliver, unable to look at Dawson, who had clumped with Griffin and some of the other men, talking about the community. He’d left with Griffin while she helped clean up in the kitchen, and she hadn’t seen him when she retired to her room.
Then she slept so hard she hadn’t moved in twelve hours, maybe more.
Goldie would be thrilled. Her voice felt a little stronger today too.
Keely headed downstairs into the main area and over to the hearth, flanked by the long sofas. Someone had left their guitar, still in the case, by the fire, and she pulled it out, settled herself on a sofa, and began to strum.
She set the song in the key of G major and found a D–G–B combination. Threw in an F-sharp. Started to hum, heard the words surface.
In the whirl of the storm, my dreams scream loud,
A voice lost in the wind, just trying to be found.
Each snowflake a shroud, each gust a plea,
Beneath the veil of white, I’m longing to be free.
Sounded a little desperate. But maybe . . .
She started humming again, the lyrics stirring inside her. Outside, the snow gusted, rose, and fell, like a breath.
Hear my name, as the blizzard roars untamed,
Find my soul in the silence the snowflakes frame.
As the world dresses in white, away from the dark of night,
Hear my name, oh hear my name, in the soft dawn’s light.
Better. Could be a chorus, maybe. She probably needed a notebook. Or maybe the song was just for her.
Keely stared out the window, her thoughts stirring up the memory of Dawson helping her home—no, not home, but to the lodge—his arm sturdy as she hung on. Wow, he was strong, and capable, and . . .
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“But I very much want to.”
Oh . . . Her chest tightened then, but the words swept through her, emerged soft, almost a whisper.
Trapped in the silence, where cold truths are kept,
In the grace of new snow, my veiled tears have wept.
But your warmth cuts through, like a promise anew,
In the blizzard’s embrace, I reach out to you.
“I like it.”
The voice was soft and female. Keely turned to see River standing behind her, holding a mug of coffee.
“It’s nothing.” Keely put down the guitar. “Just something . . .”
“It’s beautiful.” River set the coffee mug on a polished wooden coffee table. “Reminds me of 2 Samuel 22:20. ‘He brought me out into a spacious place. He rescued me because he delighted in me.’”
Keely raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think God is delighting in me, River. C’mon—”
“Why not?” She sat down, then indicated the coffee. “That’s for you. Two sugars and cream, right?”
“When my manager isn’t looking, yes.” She winked, picked up the coffee. “Thanks.” Hopefully River would just drop—
“I think God very much delights in you, Keely. I read the article—I know you grew up in the church. You said your mother was a woman of faith.”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t—”
“But now, this is what the Lord says—‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’”
Keely took a sip of the coffee. “You don’t know—”
“I know that God is greater than your fears, your weaknesses, even your sins.”
Keely looked away, at the fire, the flames curling around the logs.
“People think their sins, their mistakes, their bad choices will disqualify them from God’s love. But that’s the point—God’s love saves us from all that. Forgiveness leads to abundance.” River leaned forward. “To grace and promises anew.”
Keely looked at her. “It’s just a song.”
“It was from a voice in your heart. Maybe you should start listening.” She got up. “I’m making breakfast. Want something?”
“The coffee is enough.”
“I’ll bring you some pancakes.”
She walked away, and Keely turned back to the fire, the song still humming inside her.
Hear my name, through the storm’s wild claim,
Feel my soul in the fresh snow’s tame.
As the world turns white, I escape the night,
Hear my name, oh hear my name, in the morning light.
She picked up the guitar again, redid the intro, and sang through the lyrics again, her voice soft but on pitch.
Healing.
“Hey, Miss Keely.” Oliver plopped down on the sofa across from her. “What are you singing?” He held a muffin in a napkin, the crumbs spilling down his sweatshirt. His dark hair stuck up in all directions, and when he smiled, he showed a front-tooth gap.
“Just . . . a song I made up.”
“My mom used to make up songs. And stories.” He drew up one knee, his sock floppy around his foot.
“She sounds amazing.”
“She’s in heaven.” He lifted a shoulder, and his mouth went up one side, wry.
“Yeah. My mom is too.”
He looked over at her, his eyes a little brighter. “Maybe they could say hi to each other. ’Cause we’re friends.”
“I’ll bet they could.” His words found a warmth inside her, and with it, her mother’s face, her voice, in prayer. “I place all my fears in your hands, my trust is my worship. My God is able.”
What was it about this place that seemed to rouse inside Keely everything she tried so hard to dodge?
“How’s Wren today?” she asked as he got up.
He shrugged. “Still sleeping.”
The aroma of the promised pancakes rose from the kitchen.
Last night, as she’d helped with the dishes, she’d listened to the workers chat—mostly about the storm, but also about community life.
The livestock, and food stores, and firewood, and even an update on local news—something about a criminal being finally tried.
“I heard that Wilder is going down to testify,” Nance had said, and the name sparked something inside Keely.
But then the group had started to sing—almost as one—a hymn maybe, although she didn’t recognize it. Still, she liked it here.
Too much, maybe.
Keely stared out at the swirling snow, the day now lit with moments of sunlight fighting to burn through the gray.
Let the snowflakes fall, let them cover all,
In the quiet, your voice is my thaw.
Forever here, where the cold winds call,
Hear my name, it’s yours, through the snowfall’s thrall.
That’s for you, Mom.
“I was told to deliver these.”
Of course, Dawson looked ruggedly amazing this morning, strong shoulders under that blue flannel shirt that only brought out the blue of his eyes. He still hadn’t shaved, so his stubble darkened his face, but that smile . . .
She looked away, at the plate of pancakes swimming in homemade maple syrup drowning a couple of browned deer sausages. “Thanks.” She set down the guitar, then took the plate.
He walked over to the hearth, opened the screen, and added a couple of fresh logs. Then he picked up the poker and stirred the fire to life, the flames biting the logs, crackling.
Closing the screen, he set the poker back and turned to her.
“You don’t know anything about me.” Her words raked up, almost shouting.
“But I very much want to.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But . . . the thought unlatched something inside her. To be known . . . and still loved . . .
Except Dawson didn’t love her . . .
Caspian, however, seemed to have a soft spot for her, because he came over, nudged her leg. She lifted her plate away from his nose and set her hand on his snout. “I don’t know why I was ever so afraid of him. He’s got the sweetest eyes.”
“Yeah, he’s a charmer.”
“Are you sure he’s not a tracking dog? He did a good job of finding Wren yesterday.”
“Or he got bored, headed back to the lodge, saw you, and decided to play a game.” But Dawson crouched, and Caspian trotted over, his tail wagging as his owner rubbed his ears.
“You did hear him, right, Casp? Maligning you? Come back to me.”
Caspian seemed to hear her and turned. She held up one of her sausages.
“Hey! That’s not fair.”
She grinned at him. “He loves me.” Caspian took the sausage, then licked her fingers of the syrup. Now for sure she’d have to bathe. Still, he sat with her, his tail brushing the floor.
“Yes, he does,” Dawson said quietly.
She looked at him, frowned.
He met her eyes, held her gaze.