Jingle Bell Bride. Jillian Hart
a scholarship in your name.”
The electronic jingle of her cell penetrated her wool coat’s outer pocket. She fumbled for it, the mitten’s thickness and the numbing cold making her fingers clumsy. The number on the luminous display came as no surprise.
“I’m almost home,” she said, squinting as the snowfall thickened, beating against her face.
“I was worried.” Her youngest sister’s voice sounded crackly. Reception was terrible because of the storm. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the clock and the weather report. Half the county roads are closed, and you should have been here twenty minutes ago. Where are you?”
“Safe. I had to stop by and visit Mom.”
Johanna’s silence said it all. Understanding zoomed across the line, the static unable to diminish the strong bond between them. Chelsea didn’t have to explain how she’d been needing this place of connection to their mother.
“The roads are getting worse by the minute,” Johanna reminded her gently. “I want you home safely.”
“That’s my plan.” Chelsea was good with plans. They had always been her strong suit.
She took comfort in a logical world, in compiling pro and con lists and puzzling out the road ahead. Once sure of her destination, she gave all she had into getting there. That’s how she had gotten accepted to med school and won a coveted residency position. She’d always taken to heart the Bible passage: a man chooses his path and God directs his steps.
“I’m leaving right now,” she promised.
“Good, because they are about to close Grimes Road. I thought you might want a heads-up, that is, if you want to sleep in your old bed tonight.”
“You know I do.” Home. There was no place like it. She’d had her own apartment for years, but her family’s piece of the Wyoming rangeland would always be her real home. Full of memories of love and laughter, made more special this time of year. Christmas had always been done right at the McKaslin household. She thought of her mom, how she always used to be waiting to welcome her daughters, cooking and baking up a storm. They all gained ten pounds every visit, especially if they weren’t careful.
It was hard to think of opening the front door and not seeing her there. Chelsea pocketed her phone, realizing she was shivering. The arctic cold sliced through her coat like a razor, chilling her to the bone. She faced into the wind, blind as the snowflakes struck her with a worsening fury. She really did need to get home while she could.
Snow squeaked beneath her boots as she hiked around headstones and across the rippled sheen of snow accumulating in the parking lot. Security spotlights glowed like tiny moons hovering overhead, their light eerie and veiled. At least she would get her snow fix. She didn’t miss Seattle’s gray drizzle, not one bit, as she knocked snow off her car’s windows. Home was all she could think about, her sisters waiting for her, the front door swinging open and Johanna launching out of it with a welcoming squeal. Lord, please see me safely home—
“Daddy! Daddy!”
A little girl’s voice broke into her prayer, a lonely and frightened sound in the thick snowfall. Chelsea froze, heart drumming. She glanced around, but there was no sign of another car as far as she could see, which wasn’t far at all. The snow had picked up speed, cutting visibility.
“Daddy!” Shrill this time, sharp as if on the edge of tears. Something was wrong. Was the child alone? Hurt? In danger?
She bolted from her car, trying to gauge where the cry had come from. A little north, she decided, as the snow grabbed at her boots and the wind pushed against her, holding her back. The labored sound of her breathing, her footsteps crunching in the accumulation and the thousand whispering taps of the snowflakes hitting the ground was all she could hear. No other sound from the child.
She definitely hadn’t imagined it, but the thickening darkness gave no hint of where the girl might be. Now what did she do? Chelsea swiped snow from her lashes, turning in a slow circle. Maybe she’d gotten disoriented and the child was farther away then she’d thought. Wait—was that something? She held her breath, listening. There it was again, a hiccup, such a small sound.
Thank God she heard it. She kept going, angling toward the graves, until she came across small boot prints. They led her to a little girl sprawled on the ground in the inky shadows.
“Daddy?” she sniffled.
“No, I’m sorry, it’s just me.” She hit the button on the miniature flashlight clipped to her key chain—a stocking stuffer from Mom three Christmases ago—and a faint light illuminated the girl. Maybe seven, eight years old. Pale face, big eyes, tears pooling, but they didn’t fall. The child was out here all alone? “Hi, I’m Chelsea. What’s your name?”
“I’m not supposed to tell strangers that.”
“That’s right and face it, I’m a stranger. My sisters tell me all the time that I’m really strange.” A little humor might make the kid feel more at ease. “But not scary, although this storm is a little scary. I can’t see a thing. How about you?”
“No. That’s why I fell down.” Silken brown wisps peeked out from a bright purple knit hat. The little girl swiped at them with a matching mitten on her good hand. “It was the curb.”
“I tripped on it when I got here. Almost fell right on my nose. I’m saying it was the curb’s fault, too. Definitely not ours.” Chelsea hunkered in, keeping her voice soft. She didn’t need her medical degree to see the girl’s arm was hurt, or why else would she be cradling it? “You must be here with your family?”
“My daddy.” The pooling tears threatened to spill. She was a cutie, with a round face, a sloping nose and a porcelain-doll look. Someone’s precious daughter. “I got to pick out the wreath but it was too sad leaving it at the stone.”
“I know just what you mean.” She thought of the flowers she’d left behind, pushed aside her grief and gave thanks she was a pediatrician. Her training would come in handy. “Now what about your arm? Can you move your fingers?”
“I don’t want to.” The kid shook her head, scattering snowflakes and locks of molasses. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just cold.”
“I see.” She’d had stubborn patients before. “Is the rest of you cold too, or just your arm?”
“My arm especially. It’ll be okay, I just know it.” Honest blue eyes looked up into hers, so serious. “I really need my dad.”
“I’ll help you find him.” She’d feel better if she could take a look at that arm, which the girl held gingerly. A sprained wrist? A fracture? The doctor in her was itching to find out. The dad couldn’t be far. “Leave it to me. I have three sisters, so I’m really good at hollering. What’s his name?”
“Dr. Kramer. I— Well, I guess it’s okay to tell you my name. It’s Macie.”
“It’s good to meet you, Macie. I’m Chelsea. Tell you what, I’ll holler and we’ll follow your tracks back to him, all right?”
“But I don’t want to go back. It makes me sad.” Macie stayed right where she was, sorrow shining in her blue gaze. “It’s cuz my mom is here.”
“I’m sorry.” Sympathy hit Chelsea so hard, it left her weak. Tears burned behind her eyes. “My mom is buried here, too. I know just how you feel.”
* * *
Michael Kramer pressed his gloved hand against the gray marble as if to will what remained of his regret through the cold stone. Icy flecks of snow beat against his face as he fought not to remember his failings as a husband.
“The storm’s worsening, Macie.” He adjusted the wreath of plastic poinsettias, already dotted with snow. “We’d better get home before the roads close.”
No little girl’s voice answered. Probably because his