“I’m not scared,” Axel bragged. “If the wolves come, I’ll shoot them all with Papa’s gun.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Axel,” his mother scolded. “You’re only ten years old. You’re not big enough to handle a gun.” She pointed to the loaded shotgun mounted on hooks above the door, out of his reach.
“But I’m the man of the house when Papa and Alvar aren’t here. That’s what Papa told me. And you girls have to do what I say.”
“Ha!” Britta looked up from the book she was reading. She’d been lost in it since Hanna had given it to her yesterday. “Just try telling me what to do, you little weed.”
“You may be the man of the house,” Inga said, “but that doesn’t mean you can shoot a gun. Britta, what’s wrong with you, girl? You’ve been buried in that book all morning. I need you to peel these potatoes for the beef stew I’m making. While it’s cooking, if everyone’s good, we’ll make a batch of pepparkakor.”
That lightened the mood. The whole family loved the ginger-flavored cookies that would make the house smell like Christmas.
“Mama, when’s Christmas?” Gerda asked.
“In two more days. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve.” A wistful sadness flickered across Inga’s face. Even with the gifts and supplies they’d brought, Hanna knew this wouldn’t be much of a Christmas for her family, especially the younger children. In New York, poor as they’d been, they’d at least managed to have a scraggly Christmas tree, with treats for friends who came by and caroling up and down the halls of their tenement building. This year, even those small pleasures would be out of reach. But at least there would be enough to eat and a few little presents to open on Christmas morning.
“What if Santa can’t find us in the storm?” Gerda asked. The traditional Swedish Santa was a sour little gnome called Tomte. The children had readily adopted the more cheerful American Santa Claus.
“Then we’ll just have to make our own Christmas, won’t we?” Inga turned toward her second daughter, who was still immersed in her book, a rapt expression on her freckled face. “Britta, put that book down. I need your help.”
Britta closed the book but left her finger between the pages to mark her place. “Please, Mama, it’s such a good story.”
“None of that, Britta. There’s work to be done.”
“Wait, Mama,” Hanna said. “I have an idea. While I help you with the stew, maybe Britta can read the story out loud to us. Then afterward, we can make pepparkakor. Think how wonderful it will smell. What do you say?”
Inga gave the idea a moment’s thought. “Well, all right, if Britta will do her part. I wouldn’t mind hearing a good story.”
“Britta?” Hanna gave her sister a questioning look.
“If I read it to you, I’ll have to start over . . .” She sighed. “All right. But if people start interrupting me, I’ll stop.” She opened the book to the first page of the story and began to read.
“ ‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug . . .’”
By nightfall, the snow was almost knee deep and blowing in drifts around the house. Earlier in the day, declining Hanna’s offer to help, Inga had shoveled a narrow path to the privy. But now even that was covered.
Lars and Alvar had yet to arrive home. Hanna could tell her mother was worried. But, as always, Inga kept a cheerful face for the sake of her children. Now that Hanna was about to become a mother, she found herself watching Inga—this tough, illiterate farm girl from Sweden who had somehow managed to become everything a wife and mother should be. Hanna was learning from everything Inga said and did.
Supper had been a feast of savory beef stew, fresh bread, and the promised pepparkakor for dessert. The meal had been meant to be shared by the entire family. But the sight of two empty places at the table had dampened the pleasure of it. Everyone was worried, even Gerda.
After supper, Inga and the younger children had talked Britta into reading more of Little Women. Not only had they become enthralled by the classic story, but they also needed a distraction from the keening wind outside and the worry about Lars and Alvar.
Lighting a lamp, they listened until Britta’s voice grew scratchy and Gerda began to nod. Then they said their nightly prayers, blew out the lamp, and went to bed.
As she lay awake in the bed her mother had fashioned for her by folding layers of quilts, Hanna’s thoughts returned to Blake. He had planned to come for her tomorrow. But with the storm still raging outside and the snow so deep, the way could be blocked for days. She would likely be here for Christmas, maybe longer. But at least she would be with her family.
Would Blake miss her? Or would he be too preoccupied with the cattle and the weather to give her a moment’s thought? But how could she fault him for that? Blake was a man with a man’s responsibilities. And it wasn’t as if he’d married her for love.
As the hours passed, she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the wind whistled around the corners of the house. As Hanna lay awake, her hand gently resting on her rounded belly, another sound reached her ears—a low-throated howl, answered by another, then another, close around the house. Hanna’s blood ran cold. She’d heard the high-pitched cries of coyotes at night, but these deeper sounds came from animals far more powerful and dangerous. She was hearing wolves, and they were right outside.
She sat up, still huddled in her quilt. Her mother, a sound sleeper, hadn’t stirred—other wise she would have been terrified.
Hanna was frightened, too. Could the wolves break in? What would she do if the house wasn’t strong enough to keep them out?
As she sat trembling in the chilly room, another sound struck to the very root of her soul. Alvar’s mare—she was screaming in terror. The animal was in the shed, but the gate to the shed was constructed of cross-braces, with spaces in between. Could a wolf get through? Or could Britta and Axel have left the gate unlatched that morning when they’d finished doing chores?
The wolves might have been attracted by the side of beef that was hanging at the far end of the shed, but Nellie, Alvar’s mare, would be prey, as well.
Without stopping to think, she jammed her bare feet into her boots and grabbed the shotgun from its place above the door. Gripping the heavy weapon with one hand, she closed the door with the other hand to keep out the cold and the danger.
Outside, the snowfall had lessened but the wind was still strong. It whipped her flannel nightgown around her body. Hanna cocked the heavy, double-barreled shotgun as she staggered forward. The snowdrifts around the house were so deep she could barely walk. The cold was bone-chilling. But nothing mattered now except saving the precious mare.
Pale shapes, barely a stone’s throw away, seemed to float in the darkness. The wolves had probably backed off when she came outside. But if they decided she wasn’t a threat, they could close in and attack her. She needed to do something now.
Her finger found the double triggers and locked on the trigger in front. She’d never had good aim, and there were too many wolves to take out with two shots. Her only chance was to fire into the pack and hope to scare them away with the noise and a peppering of lead.