Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FLETCH
Samuel Yoder drives his buggy with a quiet confidence, in spite of the blizzard.
He introduced himself quickly while helping us in, explained that his wife Clara runs a small guest house, and assured us his farm isn’t far.
When Poppy tried to ask why he was up so late—no doubt so she could apologize for waking him with her “reckless driving”—he smiled.
“I was leaving a wedding. Clara stayed home with our little ones. A fever’s been going around the house, and we didn’t want to risk getting anyone sick.”
“I’m sorry to be an inconvenience,” Poppy said through shivers before I could clamp my hand over her mouth.
But Samuel shook his head. “You wouldn’t deny me the opportunity to entertain angels, would you?”
“We’re not angels,” I said.
“That’s not my place to judge,” he said with a smile that could rival Poppy’s in sincerity.
Now he’s giving us privacy, humming softly to himself while Poppy and I huddle together under the wool blanket he placed over us. She’s still shaking, but with my arms around her and her legs slung across my lap, it’s not as violent as it was only ten minutes ago.
Her crying won’t stop, though. My hoodie is wetter from her tears than from the snow, and every shuddering breath she takes feels like it’s being ripped from somewhere deep inside her—somewhere she’s kept locked for so long that now that it’s open, she can’t force it closed again.
This isn’t just from the accident or from the pain.
Something’s happening inside of her.
Whatever it is, I can’t let her go through it alone.
“Poppy, why didn’t you tell me about your ankle?” I murmur.
Her sobs are so quiet, I can’t hear them over the wind. I can feel the gentle shake of her shoulders, though. If it goes on for much longer, it’s going to tear me apart. And then a suspicion takes hold.
“You were worried I was going to insist on driving when I don’t fit.”
She looks down, and I know I’m right.
“Poppy—”
“I can’t be a drain on people, Oliver. I can’t.”
The words hit me like a fist to the chest. She drove through a blizzard on a hurt ankle because she thought my comfort—my comfort—mattered more than her pain. More than her safety.
“You could never be a drain,” I say, but my voice cracks on the last word, and suddenly I’m furious—not at her, but at everyone who ever made her believe she had to give everything to deserve love.
She sniffs. “Oh yeah? At my dad’s trial, they asked him why he thought it was okay to commit fraud, and he said, ‘I just wanted to provide a good life for my little girl.’”
“No. That’s not why he did it,” I say, angry enough to growl. “He did it because he was selfish.”
I feel her shrug against me. “My mom worked herself to exhaustion taking care of me.”
“Because she loved you.”
“I know. But being poor is hard, and I swore I’d never make it harder for her.
Do you know what we did on her day off? After she taught me whatever skill of the week I needed to know, we went dumpster diving.
We’d find old dressers or tables and fix them up to sell them on online marketplaces.
And by the time I was thirteen, I did most of the work so she wouldn’t have to.
When my college roommate saw me doing it, she thought it was ‘so cool.’ Like I was some environmental warrior.
” She lets out a bitter laugh. “It wasn’t cool.
It was the only way I could afford rent.
But I couldn’t tell anyone that. Then they’d pity me.
Try to help me. I’d rather people think I’m quirky than a service project.
” She goes silent for a dozen clip-clops of the horse’s hooves.
“I still shop at thrift stores. I feel so guilty buying anything new.”
With every word, I feel like I’m bleeding internally for Poppy. But we’ve reached Samuel’s farm, and there’s no time, no privacy. I want to tell her she deserves the world, that she’s not a burden, that her father’s crimes and her mother’s sacrifices don’t negate her worth.
All I can manage is, “We’re not done talking about this,” and it comes out gruff and pitifully inadequate. “I’m going to get you warmed up inside and I’m taking care of that ankle and you, whether you like it or not.”
She hiccups, and I hold her close. I’ve never wanted to protect someone the way I want to protect her. Not just from danger, but from herself—from the voice in her head that says she doesn’t matter, that she has to suffer to keep people close.
And the terrifying part? I’m starting to realize I don’t just want to protect her.
I want to be the person she doesn’t need to protect herself from.
The farmhouse sits in a clearing, a two-story white building with a wraparound porch barely visible through the snow.
No electric lights shine from the windows, but I can see the warm glow of oil lamps flickering behind simple curtains.
A few outbuildings dot the property, including a large barn and a smaller building set apart from the main house with solar panels on the roof.
Samuel pulls the buggy up to the front porch and sets the brake.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he tells us before hopping down and disappearing through the front door. Within moments, a lean woman in a plain dress and heavy shawl emerges, carrying a kerosene lantern that casts shadows across the snow.
“You poor things,” Clara says, hurrying toward us. She’s younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with kind eyes and brown hair pulled back in a simple bun. “Samuel told me what happened. Are you hurt?”
“She twisted her ankle,” I say. “And she’s pretty shaken up.”
Clara nods, all business. “The guest house has heat and hot water. Samuel, help them with their things. I’ll get some tea started and fetch extra blankets.”
The guest house is the smaller building I spotted, a neat, single-story structure about thirty yards from the main house.
Clara leads the way with her lantern, the light bobbing across a well-worn path that Samuel must have shoveled earlier in the day.
Poppy insists on limping, though she at least accepts my arm for support.
When we step inside the small guest house, Clara flips a switch and LED lights illuminate the entry, powered by the solar panels I noticed on the roof.
It’s simple but comfortable. The main room has a small kitchen area, a round table with four chairs, and a sitting area with a couch and two armchairs arranged around a wood-burning stove that’s already putting out blessed heat. Clara sets her lantern on the table.
“There are two bedrooms,” she says, gesturing down a short hallway. “You can stay in the one on the left, and your friend—”
“Wife,” I blurt, hoping Poppy doesn’t contradict me. “She’s my wife. We’d prefer to stay together. I’m sure you understand.”
She nods. “Of course. The room on the right has a double bed with fresh linens. There’s a bathroom right across the hall.
” She moves to the kitchen and puts a kettle on the propane stovetop.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to look at that ankle.
I’ll bring some soup with me. You both look half-frozen. ”
“You don’t need to—” Poppy starts, but Clara waves her off.
“Nonsense. Samuel was right to bring you here.” She pauses at the door. “There are extra quilts in the chest at the foot of the bed if you need them. I’ll be back shortly.”
And then she’s gone, leaving us alone in the gentle lamplight, with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the sound of Poppy’s quiet sniffling.
I lead her to the couch and sit across from her on the coffee table. Then I carefully tug each shoe off. Poppy’s eyes are puffy from crying, and she tries to protest, but I shush her. “Stop. I’m mad at you.”
I push her pants leg up to the knee and peel the sock from her left foot first, before moving to the right foot.
I hook my fingers under the top of her long sock and ease it down.
Her breath hitches when my knuckles brush against the soft skin of her calf, and I have to remind myself that I’m angry at her so I can focus on the task instead of how warm she feels under my hands.
I work the sock over her swollen ankle with steady patience.
When I risk a glance at Poppy, her eyes are glassy.
“Sorry,” I say. “I know it hurts.”
“It’s not that,” she whispers.
I pull the sock the rest of the way off her foot and then hiss. “Poppy Lewis. You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”
Deep purple bruising extends along the outside of her foot and up to her ankle.
The skin around it is swollen, and the compression sock has left small weaves indented in the puffy skin.
I run my finger lightly over the bruise, and although her left foot is cold from our trek, her right foot is hot. Inflamed.
An irritated growl escapes my throat. But then she whimpers, and my face flies up to meet hers. “Sorry, too rough?”
Her eyebrows meet in a deep V, and the corners of her lips are tugged down in a frown that takes my heart with it. “Why are you mad at me?” she says in a voice too small even for her.
She shivers, and I realize my finger is tracing small circles on her skin without permission from my brain.
I join her on the couch, putting her injured foot over my lap.
Then I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She leans into the touch, but her frown’s not going anywhere. I keep my palm against her face.
“I’m mad because I wanted to be different. I wanted to be the one person you didn’t try to please.”
Her breath hitches. “What?”