The Winter People(10)

Martin’s head pounded. His bad foot throbbed from all the miles he’d gone, trudging along in his duck-foot snowshoes—lift, slide, lift, slide. No sign of the girl.

He stumbled, pulled himself up again.

Birdy. Birdy.

Dirty birdy.

He thought of the fox with the chicken in its mouth.

Dead birdy.

He thought of his little girl, following his footsteps up into the woods.

Dead Gertie.

He covered his ears with his mittened hands and collapsed into the snow. He was supposed to be able to keep his family safe, to fix things when they went wrong. And here he was, soaking wet, half frozen, a man who appeared to be in need of rescue himself.

“Gertie!” he screamed.

Only the wind answered.

At last, exhausted and barely able to put any weight on his ruined left foot, he headed back down the hill, toward the house, as the sun sank low.

As he shuffled across the field in his snowshoes, he spotted Sara coming out of the barn. Wrapped in a light shawl, shivering with cold, she walked in frantic circles around the yard, her voice diminished to a hoarse croak: “Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” She had no gloves on, and her hands were blue, her fingertips bloody and raw—she picked at her skin when she was nervous.

He recalled those same hands clinging so desperately to Baby Charles, whose body was cold, his lips blue.

I can feel his little heart beating.

If they lost Gertie, Martin knew it would ruin his wife.

She saw him and ran over, eyes enormous, hopeful. “Any sign?”

He shook his head. She stared at him a minute in disbelief.

He thought of the fox with its golden-rimmed eyes, how it had looked at him, through him, before he shot it.

“Martin, there isn’t much daylight left. Get the horse and ride to town. Tell Lucius and Sheriff Daye what’s happened. Gather people to help us look. Have them bring lanterns. Stop and see if the Bemises might have seen Gertie. She’s been over to play with their girl Shirley.”

“I’ll go right now,” he promised, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You go inside. Get warmed up. I’ll come back with help.”

He was so hungry, so thirsty. But to stop now, to go back to the house for even a cup of water, would be wrong. Not when his little girl was out there, lost in the storm. He’d stop at the creek on the way into town. He’d hunker down and drink like an animal.

“Martin,” Sara said, taking his hands. “Pray with me. Please.”

Martin had never been a praying man. Sara and Gertie prayed each night before bed, but he never joined them. He went to church every Sunday with them, listened to Reverend Ayers read from the Bible. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, just that Martin never believed that God might listen to him. With the millions of people who must be praying to him each day, why should God pay attention to Martin Shea in West Hall, Vermont? But now, desperate and running out of hope, he nodded, removed his hat, and bowed his head, standing in the snow outside the barn, Sara’s hands with their bloody fingers gripping tightly to his own.

“Please, God,” Sara said, voice hoarse. Martin sneaked a look at her; her eyes were clamped shut, her face was blotchy, nose running. “Watch over our Gertie. Bring her back to us. She’s a good girl. She’s all we have. Keep her safe. Please bring her back. If she’s gone, I …” Sara’s voice broke.

“Amen,” Martin said, ending the prayer.

Sara let go of Martin and walked off toward the house, head still bent down, lips moving, as if she was continuing her own private conversation with God, bargaining, begging.

Sliding open the door to the barn, Martin heard the animals letting him know he’d never fed them. The cow hadn’t been milked. She gave a mournful wail as he walked by her pen, but she would have to wait. He grabbed the saddle and was lugging it to the horse stalls when something caught his eye, stopped him in his tracks. His heart pounded in his ears; the saddle was heavy and awkward in his hands, now slick with sweat.

The fox pelt was gone.

Hours ago, he’d nailed it up against the north wall of the barn to dry. Then he’d stood back and admired his handiwork, imagined the hat Sara might make for Gertie.

He squinted at the empty wall.

Only it wasn’t empty.

No, something else hung there by a nail. Something that glinted in the little bit of light coming in through the window. His breath caught in his throat as he stepped forward to see. The saddle fell from his hands.

There, nailed to the rough wooden boards, was a hank of blond hair.

Gertie’s hair.

His stomach cramped up, and he leaned over, retching.

His head felt as if it were being pounded between a hammer and an anvil. He gripped it in both hands, fingertips pressing into his temples.

He looked down, saw the blood on his clothing from skinning the fox.

“Martin?”

He swallowed hard and turned to see Sara in the doorway. She was walking toward him slowly. He jumped up, stood so that he’d block her view of the hair.

“What are you doing?”

“I was … getting the saddle.”

For the second time that afternoon, he prayed: Please, God, don’t let her see the hair.

He could not allow Sara to see the hair; it would destroy her. He had to hide it—throw it into the stream, where it would be carried away.