The gun was so heavy that she could barely hold it level, but she braced it against her shoulder and pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening, the recoil so powerful that it knocked her backward. The wolves yelped and fled into the black night. Hanna was tempted to shoot again, but she had only one shot left, and she couldn’t afford to waste it. Right now, what mattered was making sure the mare was safe.
Keeping the gun at the ready, she pushed ahead through the wind and snow to where the outline of the shed rose against the darkness. A few more steps and she was there. Around her, the snow was trampled by pawprints where the wolves had tried to get to the horse. But Hanna found the gate sound and securely latched. Alvar’s mare was wild-eyed, stamping and snorting, but safe enough for now.
Only as she began to breathe deeply again, gulping the icy air into her lungs, did she realize the danger she was in. She could no longer see or hear the wolves, but she was so cold and weak from fighting her way through the snow that she could barely move. She had to get back to the house before she froze.
She pushed through the swirl of blowing snow. Beneath her nightgown and underthings her body had gone numb. Her feet were like ice clumps in the boots she hadn’t taken time to lace. The shotgun felt as heavy as an anvil. Her arms ached from its weight, but she mustn’t drop it in the snow, even to rest. It was all the protection her family had.
The wind had picked up again. Driven by its force, the blowing snow was like a wall of white around her. She could see nothing in any direction, not even the house, which couldn’t be far. She’d heard stories of people dying ten feet from their doorsteps in weather like this. The same thing could happen to her—not just to her, but to her baby.
And what if the wolves were to come back?
She had lost all sense of direction. Any step she took could carry her away from the house, not toward it. She was as good as trapped. Her only hope was the gun she carried. She had one shot left. She could only pray that someone would hear it.
Aiming the barrels upward, Hanna checked the hammer, found the second trigger, and pulled it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HANNA BECAME AWARE OF LIGHT, WARMTH, AND PAIN. WITH EFFORT, she opened her eyes. She was looking up at the timbers that supported the roof of the family shack. Sunlight poured through the east-facing window.
She listened for the sound of the wind, but all she heard was a far-off scraping, like someone clearing a path through snow.
As she struggled into wakefulness, like a swimmer breaking the surface of water, she realized that she was lying in her parents’ bed, covered by layers of quilts. But something wasn’t right. Every joint and muscle in her body ached. And how could it be that she was shivering at the same time she felt burning hot?
“Mama! Papa! Hanna’s awake!” Gerda’s small face appeared above her for an instant before she wheeled and raced outside.
Outside. The storm must be over. How long had she been like this?
Closing her eyes again, Hanna struggled to collect her thoughts. She remembered the howling wolves, the screaming mare, and the ear-shattering explosion of the shotgun. And she remembered being lost in blinding, freezing whiteness. Had she fired the gun again?
But what was it Gerda had said? Had Papa and Alvar come home?
Hanna tried to sit up, but she was seized by a spell of dizziness that sent her crashing back onto the pillow. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton, her skin hot but chilling.
The baby! Was her baby all right?
She laid a hand on her belly. It was as round and firm as ever. But something could still be wrong. Heaven save her, what if her foray into the storm had hurt her little one?
“Hanna, how do you feel?” Britta was leaning over her, an anxious expression on her freckled face.
“I’m . . . not sure.” He throat felt as if it had been raked with steel claws. “How did I get here? I can’t remember.”
“Mama heard the gunshot. She tied herself to the door with a long rope so she wouldn’t get lost and went out looking for you. When she finally got you back inside, you were so cold you couldn’t even talk. We got you into a dry nightgown and put you in her bed. Then she and I lay down next to you to get you warm. You don’t remember?”
Hanna shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes as she imagined her mother, unarmed, braving not only the storm but the creatures that struck terror into her very soul—the wolves—to rescue her child. That was love in its strongest, purest form, the kind of love she was just beginning to feel for her unborn baby.
Dear Lord, please let my baby be all right, she prayed silently.
“Papa and Alvar came home this morning,” Britta said. “They’re outside digging paths through the snow. They said they heard wolves, too, at the neighbors’. But Nellie was all right. Can I bring you some hot coffee?”
“Not yet. Right now I just want to be here and sleep.” Hanna closed her eyes and began to drift.
The morning passed in a blur of sleep, pain, and a vague memory of faces bending over her—her worried father, and her mother, laying a cool hand against her forehead, and the words “. . . She’s burning up, Lars. Back in Sweden we used to make a tea of willow bark for fevers. But there are no willows here, and I don’t know what to do. I’m worried for her and the baby. Alvar says that Blake’s mother is like a doctor. Maybe he’ll get here and take her home. He said he would.”
“But Blake doesn’t even know Hanna is sick. With all this snow, he may not try. I would take her home myself, but the wagon could barely make it here from the neighbor’s. Two times we got stuck, and Alvar had to jump down and free the wheels. All that time with Hanna out in the cold—no, she’s better off here.”
Her father’s voice faded as Hanna sank back into a fevered half sleep. It appeared that Blake probably wouldn’t be coming after all. That was her last thought before the fog closed over her mind.
She surfaced again, sometime later, to the aroma of her mother’s soup simmering on the stove, and a low voice close to her ear.
“Hanna, wake up. I’ve come to take you home.”
Was the voice really Blake’s, or was she dreaming?
She forced her eyes to open. He was there, a worried half smile on his tired face. His eyes were weary, his jaw dark with stubble. She tried to speak, but her throat hurt, and it was all she could do to breathe. She should have known that he would come. Blake was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
Bending, he raised her upright with a hand to her back and stuffed her pillow behind her. “Let’s get some good, hot soup in you,” he said. “After that, we’ll bundle you up and take you home, where my mother can take care of you.”
She stifled a cough with her hand to her mouth. “But the snow—how—?”
“He’s got a sleigh! Just like Santa Claus!” Gerda warbled. “And the horses have boots on.”
“That’s right, Gerda,” Blake said. “The boots are to protect the horses’ feet, just like your boots do. Here’s your mother with some soup, Hanna. Eat all you can. It’ll help keep you warm. But we’ve got to leave soon. There are more clouds coming in, and the weather could change anytime.”
* * *
Blake looked on while Inga spooned the steaming soup into Hanna’s mouth. She swallowed it with effort. He’d looked forward to bringing her home in time to celebrate Christmas Eve with his family. Instead, he’d be racing against time to save her and her baby.