over her as she resumed her lupine form. Her eyes met Jennilee’s, and then she turned and disappeared into the trees.
One by one, the other wolves followed her, until only the dark mother wolf remained. She walked up to Jennilee and touched her nose to the blanket-wrapped bundle on Jenni’s chest. Then she, too, faded into the forest.
But for her brother, Jenni was alone. She licked her lips and shrugged her pack more securely onto her shoulders, and started down the hill toward her family.
* * *
—
Her mother saw her first. Ina had been melting snow for wash water when Jennilee emerged from the tree line. Jenni’s mother straightened up, shooed her children back into a nearby lean-to, and walked unhurriedly toward the cloak-swathed figure that stumbled toward her fire.
“Mama,” Jenni called out, her voice hoarse with emotion.
Ina’s eyes widened. “Jennilee?” she whispered, breath puffing into a cloud as she spoke.
Jennilee couldn’t help it. She collapsed to her knees in the muddy snow and began to cry deep, racking sobs. Her mother’s arms came about her, hard, as she knelt in the snow to embrace her daughter. The baby squirmed in protest.
“Jenni! The child?” The stunned hope in Ina’s voice was heartbreaking. It told Jenni more clearly than anything else how much her stoic mother had mourned them.
“H-Here, Mama,” Jenni said, forcing the words out as she fumbled at the lacings to her cloak and coat. She opened the heavy outer garment and exposed the tiny baby in his sling. He let out a healthy-sounding squawk of protest at the cold air and wriggled. Ina’s hands flew to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. She laughed, the sound filled with joy, and wiped her eyes. Then Ina Abrams stood and reached to help Jenni stand as well.
“Well,” Jenni’s mother said briskly. “We’d better get the two of you inside, out of the cold. Hyrum, go find your father,” she called to her son, Jenni’s middle brother. Jenni smiled at him and got his shy smile in return before he took off at a run to tell Dalton Abrams of his children’s miraculous return.
* * *
—
Naturally, everyone in the company wanted to hear the story. It was only by pleading exhaustion that Jennilee was able to keep from telling her tale to the entire group. The thought of doing so shot a bolt of fear clean through her heart, and she had the unmistakable feeling that to do so would be a very bad idea. With the gray woman’s warnings ringing in her ears, she begged her papa and mama to let her tell them alone, first.
She told them all of it. Anna’s labor, the blood, the milk, the snow. She told them about falling down the cliff, amazed at the dispassionate sound of her own words. She told them about her prayers, the gray woman, and about the wolves.
She told them of her choice. She showed them the scar from the bite.
Papa reached out and took her hand and began running his thumb over the distinctively shaped scar. It looked as if it had been there for a very long time, but she hadn’t had it before the storm, and he knew it. Jennilee looked at her mother, who sat across from her in the lean-to, cuddling the baby and watching her with a grave expression.
“Do you believe me?” Jenni asked softly in the silence that followed her story. Papa’s fingers squeezed her hand briefly.
“My girl,” he replied. “We believe that something happened. Clearly, the Lord saw fit to bring you back to us, and we can only be thankful to Him for such a blessing.”
Jenni swallowed hard, looked over at her baby brother, then back at her father. “But . . . Papa. I can’t stay.”
“Of course you can.”
Jenni shook her head. “No, Papa. The others . . . they’ll see me. They’ll know that something is wrong. They’ll sense it.”
Papa’s brows came together like thunderclouds. “Jennilee, no one will . . .”
Jenni pulled her hand free of his grasp. “Papa, please . . .”