“You couldn’t,” she says, so busy trying to reassure me that I did nothing wrong, that the fault is all hers, that it makes me kiss the top of her head again. “You barely fit as it is.”
“Then we should have stayed. I should never have made you feel like you had to hurt yourself to help me.”
If I thought she’d been crying before, it’s nothing to this. I turn and climb carefully, slowly, out of the ditch, up to my knees in snow at first, but by the time I’m at the top, it’s only halfway up my sneakers.
The adrenaline in my body burns too hot for me to shiver, but it’s well below freezing. I search for any place to deposit Poppy so I can go back down to the car and grab our coats and bags. Snow-covered fields stretch endlessly in both directions, dotted with the dark shapes of what might be barns or silos in the distance. There’s a guardrail post a few feet away that I could set her against, but she’s shivering so hard, I hate putting her down.
“This is just for a second,” I say, propping her up against the post. As soon as she’s out of my arms, the cold hits me, sharp and brutal as the wet soaking through my sneakers. I put my hands on her face and force her to look me in the eyes, making sure she understands. “I’m grabbing our stuff. I’ll be right back.”
She nods, but I’m not sure how much is getting through to her. She’s trembling like an icicle on a branch. I plod back down to the car and am back with our things a couple of minutes later.
I zip up her coat and pull the hood over her head. Then I drape my coat around her shoulders. My hoodie will suffice for a few minutes, at least, and Poppy’s in shock. She needs the warmth more than I do.
“I can’t take your coat,” she says through badly chattering teeth.
“You will.”
I try to drape her arm around my shoulders to help her walk, but the height difference is too much. So instead, I swing my backpack around to my chest and drop down into a squat in front of Poppy. “Hop on,” I say. “Don’t protest. It’s not forever. There’s a barn up there, and if there’s a barn, there’s probably a house nearby.”
“There are—” she shudders so hard, it’s hard to understand her “—no lights.”
“This is Amish country,” I remind her, looking over my shoulder. “Now get on.”
She climbs onto my back, and I heft her up. Then I reach down and grab her rolling suitcase, which isn’t exactly rolling in the snow so much as dragging.
“I’m … so … sorry,” she shivers in my ear.
“Poppy, stop it. This is my fault. I made you feel like you matter so little, you couldn’t even admit you were injured. We should still be in Wilson, letting you recuperate.”
“But your family?—”
“Will live with or without me there,” I say. My breath rises in angry puffs in the moonlight. “Honestly, it’s a relief to miss as much as I have.”
The wind is angry in my ears, which are starting to ache from the cold.
It isso cold.
And that barn doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.
Poppy’s shivering is getting worse by the minute, and as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t keep piggybacking her and carrying our bags through this snow for much longer.
And that’s when I hear it: the steady clip-clop of hooves.
I whip around and almost laugh with relief. Poppy’s going to be okay. We’re both going to be okay.
The Amish buggy we passed earlier has caught up with us.
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?”
