Chapter 7
THE LONGER DAWSON stayed down the more Keely’s gut clenched. She’d seen him fall.
And not get up.
“Go inside—get your daddy!” Keely set Wren down on the porch. “Tell him Dawson is in trouble.”
Maybe she was being overdramatic, but it didn’t feel that way. Worse, she’d lost sight of him in the blizzard.
Caspian came bounding out of the white, barked then turned, and she kept her eyes on the blackness of him as she followed, even in the gray of the storm.
Snow filled her boots, despite being the hearty, ugly ones that River had given her. Maybe she should have accepted the oversized parka with the matted fur around the collar. Clearly warm and ugly were better than fashionable and freezing.
Keely nearly shouted, Dawson’s name welling up inside her, but it would only vanish in the blizzard, and she’d already taken a shredder to her healing vocal cords yesterday.
Instead, she followed Caspian, right out to where she thought the edge of the lake might be and there—yes—spotted Dawson.
Half in the water, half out, and he seemed to be sinking.
“Hang on!” She waved her arms. “Here! Over here!” No one showed through the blinding snow, but she kept waving, and Caspian shot off into the swirl of white. A moment later, a couple men emerged wearing parkas and snow pants and the orange hunting vest uniform of the community.
Griffin and Donald and another man she didn’t know.
She pointed out into the white. “Dawson’s in the lake!”
Donald stormed past her another ten feet, then dropped to his knees. “Hang on, Dawson!”
She turned back. Only Dawson’s shoulder lifted out of the water, and even from here, she could see him shaking.
Donald lay on his stomach in the snow. “C’mon, Griff!”
Griffin moved out, past him, and lay down. Donald held his ankles. The third man went past them, but even Keely could do the math.
They couldn’t reach him. Unless—
She took a breath and headed out into the snow.
“Keely, go back!” Griffin said.
She shook her head. “You can’t reach him. I’m light—I can!”
Yes, this could be stupid. And who knew what she might do to her voice if she got sick again, but frankly, she’d left that world so far behind—and all she could think was . . .
“You were serious. I’m impressed.”
Aw, that shouldn’t sit in her brain, but weirdly, his words had reached down and latched on.
So she fell to her knees and crawled out past the last man. Lay prone on the ice. Hands grabbed her legs, right above her boots.
She extended her arms. “Kick, Dawson! Kick to me!”
He balanced on his elbows, tucked under his body, holding himself just barely above water. The look he gave her didn’t resemble a man stricken. Or even desperate.
He seemed angry. His jaw tight, his eyes dark. “Keely—”
“Grab my hand!” She stretched farther. He narrowed his eyes a moment, then shook his head and reached out, kicking.
He lunged for her. His hand grabbed her arm, and she grabbed on, and added the other. He latched onto her other arm, his grip burning.
“Pull!” he yelled to the team, then to her, “Don’t let go!”
She met his eyes. His jaw gritted as the men pulled the chain in. The ice broke beneath them, but Dawson held on, and in a bit, he got his feet under him, then climbed onto his knees on the ice.
She crawled back as Donald reached for one of Dawson’s arms, Griffin the other.
They hauled him to shore.
She stumbled behind.
“Let’s get him inside!” Griffin turned to River, who had come out with a toboggan. Apparently, they had a drill. But the men dumped Dawson onto the sled and dragged him to the house.
Keely followed the path, stumbling after them, Caspian behind them.
When she came inside, someone had already wrapped Dawson in a blanket. Griff was pushing him toward the men’s room, a locker room on the ground floor where they had showers. “Get in a bath and stay there.”
Dawson glanced at Keely, his mouth grim, then disappeared inside the room.
Over by the fire, another woman had peeled off Wren’s outerwear, wrapped her in a blanket, moved her to stand in front of it.
Caspian followed Dawson to the bathroom. Sat outside the door, whining.
Keely walked over to Wren, her heart still thundering. Sank into a chair and held her hands to the hearth.
“What were you thinking, Wren?” Donald’s voice rang over the room, and Keely watched him stalk toward his daughter, his hair askew from the wool hat, his eyes bloodshot, wind shorn.
Wren’s mouth tightened, and her eyes filled.
“Donald, she’s okay.” The woman with Wren stood up.
“But she might not have been, Nance. And she knows better!” His thunder had shut down all other conversation in the room.
Aw. “Just calm down, Donald,” Keely said, more strongly than she should have.
“You stay out of this.” Donald turned again to his daughter. “The old well in the front yard is dangerous—”
“It was snowed over!” Again Keely, now raising her voice. Goldie would kill her.
He turned and cut his voice low. “The last thing I need is her wandering off and getting lost. I cannot . . .” He closed his mouth, looked away, a muscle pulling in his jaw.
He shuddered. Then he turned back. “You are a guest here. Don’t forget that.” He crouched in front of his daughter, his voice softer, as if he’d come back to himself a little. “What happened, Wren?”
“I threw the ball for Caspian, and he chased it, but he wouldn’t bring it back, so I went to get it, and I fell.”
He closed his eyes, ran a hand down his face, then drew in a deep breath and looked at her. “No more playing with this dog.”
“Daddy—”
“And no more going outside.”
“What about sledding?”
“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. Right place, right time.”
He considered her a moment.
They sat in silence. From the kitchen, the faintest sound of singing 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 his blood. “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.