The Delivery of Decor (Shiloh Ridge Ranch in Three Rivers #7) - Liz Isaacson Page 0,38
he’d finished the tune, he’d write lyrics for the song.
Dot had marveled at such talent, because she was barely a step above tone deaf, without a single music note in her blood.
“Ward,” she said as she stepped through the double-wide office doors.
He wasn’t there.
She spun around, her heart hammering in the back of her throat now. He’d been gone for far too long for anything good to have happened. “How long does it take to get gasoline from a shed?” she asked herself, her mind taking her ten different directions.
She wasn’t an expert, but she didn’t think it would take as long as she’d taken in the shower, then laid in bed to talk to her mother, and then got dried and dressed. He’d been gone for at least thirty minutes. Maybe longer.
Dot ran through the house to the bedroom and picked up her phone. Her fingers shook as she called Ward. His phone rang while she hurried back into the living room and to the sliding glass door that assumedly went into the back yard.
He didn’t pick up.
“Dang it, Ward,” she said, her voice pitching up. Dot retraced her steps once more to get her socks. She yanked them on and then hurried to get her boots on. She shouldered into her jacket, but she didn’t have a hat or gloves. The small area just inside the garage held a bank of lockers, and Dot nearly ripped off the door of one so she could look inside.
Ideas raced through her mind. She could call Tyson and get the number for one of Ward’s brothers. She could request an ambulance. She could pray the Lord would make the wind lighter for just five minutes so Ward could find his way back—or she could find him.
“Please, please,” she pleaded, reaching to grab the first hat she saw. It was bright yellow and hideous, but she jammed it over her hair. A pair of gloves fell on the floor, and Dot picked them up and put them on. She had big, manly hands, but they were still too large. She didn’t care.
She faced the back door, only one goal in mind. Find Ward and get him back inside.
She wished she had time to build up the fire. Heat some water for coffee or hot chocolate. Hot apple cider would be amazing too. She wanted to throw a bunch of towels and blankets in the dryer so they’d be warm when Ward made it back inside.
Dot pulled open the back door, the screech of the sliding mechanism grating against her already raw nerves. The door didn’t open all the way either, because Ward had tied a rope to it.
She ducked underneath it and slid the door closed. Then, grasping the rope with both hands, Dot turned into the storm and yelled, “Ward! Ward! Where are you?”
After following the rope down a couple of steps to the woodpile, where it ended, Dot lifted one hand to shield against the swirling blizzard in front of her. He’d said the shed was in the back yard.
“Fifty feet,” she told herself, but she didn’t dare take the first step. She should’ve brought out her torch. Maybe he’d be able to see it. She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, and she dialed him again, desperation coating every cell in her body. “Come on, Ward,” she said. “Dear Lord, let him pick up. Help me find him. Help me find him.”
She repeated the words while his line rang and rang. It ran through her mind as she hung up.
“I’m going to take the first step,” she said, tipping her head back and catching the icy cold gust against her bare neck. “Guide my feet.”
Guide my feet. Guide my feet. Guide my feet.
Dot actually closed her eyes and took the first step away from the wood pile. She felt the crunch of snow under her boot, and she took another step.
“Guide my feet. Tell me what to do.”
She paused, because her mom and dad had taught her to ask for something and then give God time to answer. So she stood very still, the wind and snow and sleet and rain whipping around her, and she closed her eyes again, listening with everything she had.
Call him again.
Dot’s eyes snapped open and she stabbed at her phone four times before it registered her fingerprint and dialed. She took a step, holding the phone very close to her face. Another step. “Ward,” she yelled. “Talk to me, Ward.”