it’s downstairs. We’ll just block off the basement.”
She nodded, and Ward strode into the living room to get the leather sling he used to bring in firewood. He grabbed the gloves from the hearth too, wishing he’d tied a rope from the back door to the woodpile. It was only ten steps, but Ward had lived through a blizzard before, and he knew a man could get disoriented in a single step when a white-out came to play.
“Be right back.” He didn’t go out the sliding glass door and to the right. Instead, he went into the garage and collected a rope. Then he went out the back door in the corner of the garage and kept one hand planted against the house at all times as he stepped toward the wood pile.
He reached it and filled the sling while inhaling snow and gasping against the wind. That done, he put down the wood and tied the rope around the end pole of the rack. He collected the wood and took painful step after painful step, never moving without one hand solidly against the house. He took the few steps up to the deck and reached the sliding door. He tied the rope to the door handle, leaving some slack so he could open the door and get inside.
A sigh of relief slipped through his lips as he entered the house, and he quickly shut out Mother Nature behind him. He didn’t see Dot as he crossed through the dining room to the fireplace. He didn’t see her as he unloaded the wood. He didn’t see her as he went back outside.
Following the rope, he brought in four loads of wood and stacked it on the hearth before he decided he had enough. That should get him and Dot through at least twenty-four hours of continuous fire should they need it.
He stood in front of the dark fireplace and removed his gloves, finally calling, “Dot?” He shook from head to toe though the furnace pumped hot air into the house. “George?”
“Right here,” she said, and Ward turned toward the mouth of the hall. “He was muddy, so I put him in the tub.” She looked like she’d gotten in with him, and Ward’s mouth turned dry at the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She’d let it out of its ponytail, and all Ward could think about was running his fingers through it as he kissed her.
“I got all the doors closed. I just took the only other bedroom on this floor, on the other side of the bathroom there. I closed the vents in all the other rooms, and I made sure the bathroom had towels in it.”
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“Ward, you’re frozen.” Dot darted forward. “Sit down. George, come sit with him.”
Ward started to protest, but Dot put one palm against his chest, and he fell back despite the light touch. George jumped up on the couch next to him, and the warmth from the animal seeped into him instantly.
“Take off your wet clothes,” Dot said. “I’ll get a fire going.”
Ward shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the linoleum in the kitchen since it was so wet. He kicked off his boots and discarded his hat behind the couch. He ran his chilled fingers through his hair, which was also wet, and watched Dot shave down a larger piece of wood into kindling.
She built a teepee out of it and stuffed newspaper from the basket in between the shards of wood. She struck a match and lit a tail of newspaper, the smoke lifting into the air. She tended to it, caring for it, giving it the oxygen it required to grow and breathe and crackle to life.
Ward watched the flame as it danced, and he said, “I love fire.”
“Ah, a bit of a kleptomaniac, are you?” Dot looked at him over her shoulder, her smile beautiful in the firelight.
He shrugged, chuckling. His mind felt whole again, most of the shock of the situation wearing off. He closed his eyes, and he saw Dot standing on the front porch at the homestead, seemingly bleeding from everywhere on her head.
Then the storm warning. The bouncing ride. The absolute cold and fear of not making it inside the house. The dog. The firewood.
“I loved going camping as a boy,” he said. “Because we got to have a campfire. My daddy would bring marshmallows and graham crackers, and the only time we had