Angels in the Snow (10 page)

She shook her head, as if to dispose of these troubling thoughts. Why not just enjoy the day, the walk, the snow? After all, if she decided to stay in San Francisco after the opening, it could be her last chance to be here and to do this. She took in a deep breath and looked up at the sky. She hadn’t noticed earlier that it had that heavy look again—that dull gray density that could possibly mean more snow. Hopefully it would hold off until later that afternoon. By then she’d have met the old couple and be safely back at her cabin, probably packing up to leave. She’d have to remember to take some time to stop by and say good-bye to old Lucy. Lucy had been a real godsend, especially when it came to securing the deal with Michael. Claire smiled to herself as she recalled Lucy’s surprised face when she’d gone in to settle up Rick’s bill for the dog. Claire had painted a small angel picture for her on an old piece of board she’d found in the shed. Nothing really special, but Lucy had been deeply touched.

“I’ll hang it right here by the cash register,” she’d promised. “Why, it’s my first piece of honest to goodness art—and from a real live artist too!”

Claire and Michael trekked through the woods until they reached the dead tree. And there, to her surprise, were two sets of fresh tracks, clearly visible, as if they’d just been made. This was more than she’d hoped for! She’d expected to at least discover some old tracks that were still discernable, but nothing as plain as these. She looked up the trail, half expecting to see an old couple
slowly walking along. But there was no one. Still, she should have no problem following these footprints to their “final conclusion,” as Jeannie had put it. And if she hurried she might actually catch up with them.

She walked fast. Pausing at the footbridge to catch her breath, she glanced up at the sky with slight apprehension. The clouds seemed a little lower now, but no flakes were falling as yet. Still she could never be sure. “Okay, boy, ready to go?”

Michael turned around as if to head back toward home as usual. “No, we’re going this way today, Michael,” Claire said.

He looked at her curiously, then joined her, tail wagging eagerly.

“Yes, we’re going to meet our neighbors,” she announced as they continued on, her heart beating a little faster in anticipation.

After about ten minutes of fast walking, Claire noticed it had begun to snow. Nothing threatening, just a few random flakes. But the farther she got from the turning point of the footbridge, the more her heart began to pound. What in the world was she doing? And why? Tracking footprints that belonged to a couple of old-timers? What did she really hope to prove by this anyway? And what if the footprints simply went on and on—traveling off into nowhere? What if she and Michael were to become lost out here, all alone in the wilderness with no one for miles around? Who would ever think to check on them or go out to look? She stopped and glanced nervously at the trail behind her. Should she turn back? It wasn’t too late to stop and retrace her steps. And yet something
beyond herself, something deep within, seemed to drive and compel her forward. And so she continued, praying silently as she went.

The footprints continued up over a slight hill, then curved off to the right. The snow was falling harder as she and Michael descended the hill, and she could feel it blowing around her in little flurries. And visibility began to decrease.

“It can’t be too far ahead,” she said aloud, to assure herself as much as Michael. She noticed that the footprints were becoming less distinct; they were slowly being devoured by the quickly falling snow. “We’ve got to hurry, Michael!”

Claire began to jog, keeping her eyes focused on the ground ahead of her, afraid if she made one wrong turn, she and Michael might be lost out here forever. She paused once to look behind her. At least her freshly made footprints were still fairly clear; she ought to be able to follow them home if weather forced them to turn back. She tried to envision the older couple out walking in the snow. But somehow it just didn’t fit. And then she remembered the pair of snow angels—one big, one small. Surely an elderly couple wouldn’t lie down on the snow and make snow angels—would they? And if the rapidly fading footprints in front of her didn’t belong to that elderly couple, whom did they belong to? Could it be?

She continued jogging, a tight feeling wrapping itself around her chest with each step. The snow was falling even faster now, and the trail was a blur. She couldn’t even be sure she was still following the footprints.
Perhaps she had stumbled onto a deer trail. She knew how they crisscrossed the National Forest. A person could become lost for weeks following such a trail.

“Oh, dear God,” she cried out breathlessly as she continued pressing on. “Help me!”

Finally, she stopped running and bent over, her chest heaving up and down from the exertion. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been traveling, but a knifelike pain stabbed into her right side, and her lungs burned like fire. She knew she could run no farther. Her legs felt like lead, and her heart was consumed with fear. She knew she was lost. And all around her was white and swirling snow, thick and opaque, like a living blanket that wanted to suffocate her. She looked all around, unable to see her dog.

“Michael!”
she screamed. But her voice sounded dull, hushed by the deadening acoustics of the snow and the wind. “Michael!” she cried again, turning around in a circle. “Please, come here, boy!”

Claire never knew for sure how she got there. Perhaps it was like in her angel dream, with a pair of invisible celestial beings lifting her up and carrying her along, high above the storm. Or maybe it was Michael, her angel dog, who had led her to safety. She could only imagine. But somehow, both she and her faithful companion emerged half frozen from the snowy woods. And seeing a faint golden light up ahead, she stumbled stubbornly toward it, forcing one icy foot in front of the other until she collapsed on the porch of a cabin not much larger than her own.

And even then she couldn’t remember anyone coming to the door, or opening it up and saying, “Hello, and what have we here?” In fact, she later learned she had never even made it to the door. It was Michael’s persistent scratching and loud barks that had finally aroused the
attention of the tenants. The first thing Claire remembered was sitting in front of the big river rock fireplace, her bare feet wrapped in a soft woolen throw, and a young girl, about age ten, Claire guessed, holding a thick mug of hot tea before her.

“Can you drink this?” asked the girl in a quiet voice.

“Thank you.” Claire believed she said those words, although she couldn’t be sure. But she did recall taking the warm mug into her hands and eagerly wrapping her cold fingers around its exterior, then slowly drinking the hot contents.

“My dad’s calling for help,” said the girl.

Claire felt her eyes open more widely. “Help?”

“For you. He thinks you have hyperthermia.”

Claire thought she may have smiled at that. “You mean hypothermia?”

The girl solemnly nodded. “You looked frozen.”

“My dog?”
Suddenly Claire remembered being unable to see Michael in the snow. The girl pointed to her left and, curled right next to Claire’s bundled feet, Michael rested by the warmth of the fire.

“He’s okay.” The girl ran her hand along Michael’s still damp coat. “He’s a good dog, isn’t he?”

Claire nodded. “Thank you for helping us. My name is Claire. I live in a cabin—”

“Has she come to?” This came from a male voice, and he sounded worried. Claire turned to see a man now entering the room. His blond hair looked disheveled and his beard in need of a trim. “Are you okay?” He came over and knelt in front of Claire, peering into her eyes as
if to discern her mental stability as much as her physical well-being.

“I think I’m fine,” she answered, feeling like the village idiot. “I—uh—got lost in the snow.”

“I can understand that,” he said, standing to peer out the window. “It’s turned into a real blizzard out there.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you—”

“Good grief, you’re no trouble. You and your dog looked like you were about to freeze out there.”

“I’m so glad we stumbled onto your house.”

“I’ll say. You must’ve had a guardian angel watching over you.”

She looked at him closely. “An angel?”

He laughed. “Well, who knows? But how are you feeling now? It doesn’t look like you’re suffering from frostbite. Fortunately you were well bundled up. But I suspect you worked up a sweat trying to find your way through the snow, and you were getting pretty chilled.”

She nodded, noticing now that her heavy wool jacket had been replaced by a thick polar-fleece blanket. “Yes, we were running—I got scared—”

“I was afraid you might have hypothermia. You were shivering pretty badly. I called 911, and they told me just to get you warm and that it would take them at least two hours to get anyone out here, due to the weather.”

“Oh, I don’t need anyone—”

“Right, I’ll let them know.”

“I’m actually starting to feel warmer now.” She looked up into his eyes, noticing that they were a mixture of blue and gray and perhaps a mossy green. Interesting really. “I should probably get going.”

He laughed. “Not in this weather, you don’t.”

She looked out at the snow still swirling in menacing circles. “I suppose you’re right.”

“We’ll give you a ride home as soon as you’ve had a chance to get thoroughly warm and when the weather abates some.”

“Thanks.” She looked over at the girl who was still peering at her curiously. “Thanks for everything.”

“It was your dog that got Anna’s attention.” He nodded to the girl. “He was scratching and barking. Pretty smart dog, that one.”

Michael opened his eyes and looked up now, his tail thumping on the floor.

She reached down to pat his head. “Good boy, Michael.”

“Michael?” said the girl. “Is that his name?”

“Yes,” Claire answered her then looked back at the man. “And as I was just telling your—uh, your daughter?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“That my name is Claire Andrews, and I live in a cabin over on Ridge Road.”

“I’m Garret Henderson—”

“Oh, are your parents the Hendersons—” she interrupted, then laughed. “I mean do they own this place? My friend mentioned an older couple named—”

“Yes, Marge and Carl. They stay here during the warmer months. But usually this place is abandoned in winter.”

Anna nodded. “You’re lucky we were here.”

“I’ll say.”

“What I can’t figure out is what you were doing this far from home.” Garret scratched his already messy hair. “And in weather like this.”

“I know. I must seem like a crazy woman to be out in this.” She frowned. “Actually, it’s kind of a long story.”

“And you should probably rest.” Garret stepped back. “And I need to call those 911 folks back and let them know we don’t need an ambulance or anything.”

“Right.” Claire leaned her head back into the comfortable chair and closed her eyes. She felt so silly about her quest now—trekking off in the middle of a snowstorm to find her lost angels. Good grief, had she been mad? And, of course, Jeannie had been right. Two perfectly normal human beings. No feathers or angel dust anywhere.

“More tea?” offered Anna.

Claire opened her eyes to see Anna with her hand out, ready to take the nearly empty mug. The girl had a lovely oval-shaped face with clear blue eyes. Her hair, slightly darker than her father’s, was about the color of polished oak. “Thank you,” said Claire, “more tea would be nice.”

When Anna returned, Claire asked her how old she was.

“I’ll be eleven next month,” she said proudly.

Claire nodded. “That was about my guess.”

“I’m really supposed to be in school right now, but I got special permission to be with my dad while he works on his book.”

“His book?”

“Yeah.” Anna smiled brightly. “My dad is an author.”

“Cool.” Claire took a sip of tea. She wanted to ask about Anna’s mother but couldn’t quite put this
question into words, at least not into words that didn’t sound rude or intrusive.

“We’ve been here since school started in September. I’m doing home school until we go back and I can be in my class again.” She frowned.

“And you’re not looking forward to that?”

“Not really. I like it out here. And I think I learn more doing home school than I do at real school. My dad’s a good teacher.”

“What kind of books does your dad write?”

“Novels.” Anna’s eyes grew wide. “That means they’re fiction, which is the same as not being true. Oh, it’s not that my dad tells lies, but he makes his stories up, you know?”

Claire smiled. “Yes, I know.”

“Actually, he writes historical novels.”

A light went on. “Does your dad go by the name of G. A. Henderson?”

“Yeah. Garret Allen Henderson.” She nodded proudly. “That’s him.”

“I’ve read some of his books. He’s good.”

Anna’s face grew brighter than ever, and suddenly Claire wished she could paint her. She would be a perfect model for an angel. Not that Claire had needed models before, but the idea appealed to her now.