Send Down the Rain(10)

At the top I was met by the woman. Her lips were blue and terror covered her face, but she was laser-beam focused on the little girl.

The wind was howling, so I had to raise my voice. “You got anyplace you can get warm?”

She shook her head.

I held the girl in my arms and nodded. “My coat!” She snatched it off the ground, and I wrapped it around the girl and pointed. “My cabin. I got a fire.” She nodded and I led the way.

The woman followed step for step, along with the boy and Rosco. We descended the trail as quickly as we could, almost a half mile, where it spit us out onto the logging road. A quarter mile later we could smell the smoke of my fire. Every part of my body was screaming with lactic acid buildup.

The woman opened the door, and all three of us converged on the fire. I set the girl down on top of Rosco’s bear rug, and the woman immediately began stripping the clothes off the kids. I fetched two sleeping bags, added several logs to the fire, and helped the woman slide the kids into the bags. They were shaking uncontrollably, and the little girl was whimpering.

“You’d better get in there with her,” I said. “I’ll get you some dry clothes and put on some water to boil.”

The woman peeled off her wet clothes, I handed her some sweats, and she wrapped the bag tight around the two of them. As they began to thaw and warm, the shaking became more violent, proving that they had been cold for quite some time. Seeing that the boy needed some extra warmth, I scooted Rosco up alongside him. The boy unzipped his bag, wrapped his arm around Rosco’s tummy, and pulled the dog in closer.

Rosco stared at us like we’d all lost our minds. The boy snuggled up next to Rosco, and the four of them started the long—and painful—process of warming up. Getting cold is one thing. Getting warm again is another entirely. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire, the chattering of their teeth, the little girl’s cries, and the sound of Rosco’s tail happily pounding the floor in rhythm as the boy scratched his tummy.

I stripped out of my wet clothes and laid an extra wool blanket over each of them. The young girl was the worst. I don’t know how long she’d been in that water, but she was irritable and having a tough time sounding coherent. I made some hot cocoa and topped it with spray whipped cream. The can was probably a year old, but when I turned it upside down and pushed the nozzle, it made that shhhhhh sound and produced a mound of white. I handed the mug to the woman and she held it while the girl sipped, poking the end of her nose and cheeks into the whipped cream.

Seeing an opportunity, Rosco exited his sleeping bag and began licking the girl’s lips and cheeks and nose. At first she was irritated by it, which further encouraged the dog, but then she began to giggle. I made a second mug and handed it to the boy. He looked as if he wanted to smile but was waiting for permission. Finally I made one for the woman—who watched me carefully. She held the mug between both hands and hovered over the steam. The fear had not left her face.

She shot a glance at the door and spoke with a thick accent. “A man is following us.” Her eyes darted. “A bad man.” She lowered her voice. “If he finds you . . .”

The children’s faces confirmed her words. “How far?” I asked.

“Close.”

I pulled on my dry pair of boots and a black jacket and beanie. She climbed out of the bag. Her hand was trembling when she touched my shoulder. “He will kill you.” Another pause. “Without thinking.”

While she talked, I rubbed my hand along the soot on the outside of the fireplace and began wiping it on my face. “Where’s he from?”

“Juarez.”

“Drugs?”

She nodded.

“He killed men?”

Her eyes were cold. She never hesitated. “Many.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty.”

I didn’t know squat about Mexican drug lords, but if he came from Juarez, the mere fact that he’d lived this long told me he was good at his job. I pulled a double-barreled shotgun from behind the door, broke it open, loaded it, and handed it to her. “You know how to use this?”

The way she held it told me she did.

I handed her my Jeep keys. “If I’m not back by the time this storm lets up, you drive out of here and flag down the first police officer or fireman or ambulance driver you can find. Understand?”

Her face told me she was not going to do that.

“You don’t want to do that?”

“They’ll send us back . . .” She glanced at the window. “He has friends.”

I handed her a box of shells. “Then hunker down and shoot straight.”

I looked at Rosco, who, having watched me dress, now stood at the door with his nose pressed against the crack. “Stay.” He backed up, but the muscles in his shoulders were taut. I pointed to the boy but spoke to the dog. “Lie down.” Rosco lay down next to the boy. His whimper told me he didn’t like me leaving without him. I zipped up my coat and pulled the door behind me. I needed to get away from the house—without creating more footprints. That meant I had to backtrack.

Tricky.

Mount Mitchell is the tallest mountain east of the Rockies: 6,684 feet. Running north from the summit is a twelve-mile hikers’ trail called the Black Mountain Crest. It follows the ridgeline along eleven other peaks, each greater than six thousand feet, ending at a place called Celo Knob. This vast and steep wilderness is encompassed by what is called the Pisgah National Forest. It’s a rugged landscape. More vertical than horizontal. Most people live down below in the valleys, but I am not most people. My cabin sat at five thousand feet, with the closest neighbor more than two miles away.