Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  King was smart, Jerry knew, but would he find his way? Hope rose in his chest as King leaped to increase his speed when the snow lay thinly on the high spots. He raced across these areas, then plowed through the drifts with unbelievable strength.

  The snow, the prairie, the sky, everything became one, then, as the wind began to wail and howl, the song of the elements. It battered Jerry’s face with stinging ice, flung his woolen stocking cap into the vast, blowing vortex of the onslaught that followed every blizzard, sending tremendous clouds of snow racing across the miles and miles of prairie. There were no mountains, no tree lines, nothing to slow the great blitz of the North Dakota wind.

  And still King lunged, gathering his muscular, rippling haunches beneath him, his breath coming in powerful exhalations, his nostrils distended as he sucked in the oxygen he needed for the pumping of his great heart, the expansion of his vigorous lungs. His head was lowered, his thick neck distended, as he used every muscle in his resplendent body, sensing the danger, knowing he was pleasing his beloved master.

  He never stumbled and he slowed only when it was absolutely impossible to keep up his pace, his ears flicking back, waiting for a voice, a command. Jerry urged King, spoke softly to him, but the power of the wind tore his words away from his mouth and sent them uselessly away.

  But King knew. He knew Jerry was urging him. He sensed the danger, and so he stayed on course, faithful to his training, obedient to the one master he adored.

  Pain crept up under Jerry’s eyelids and his ears were on fire with the cold. His right arm was cramped, sending dull throbs of pain into his shoulder. King slowed to a walk, snow up to his wide chest. When it thinned and lessened, he lunged forward.

  On and on. Jerry placed complete trust in his horse. He had no idea where the buildings were situated, had no idea how far they had come or how much distance they were required to travel before there was any shelter. All he knew was that as long as King stayed on his feet and kept moving forward, if he could keep Hannah and himself in the saddle, they still had hope of survival.

  Over and over he repeated, It’s up to You. It’s up to You. And it was. It was simply whether God chose to save them both. Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. The verse brought calm and a renewed spirit.

  And then King stopped. Jerry lifted his head and saw the looming gray wall of the barn and yelled a harsh, maudlin sound he wasn’t aware of making. He lifted Hannah’s form and held her against his chest with superhuman effort as he swung a stiff leg across the front of the saddle and let himself fall, still holding Hannah as best he could. As he sprawled awkwardly in the deep drift by the barn wall, he let her limp body roll into the snow.

  He yanked the barn door open, led the heaving King inside, then returned for Hannah. Staggering under her weight, he laid her in the loose hay by the horse stalls. Without a lantern, he worked quickly and efficiently. He rubbed the horse all over with a feed sack as he talked, crooning and praising King, alarmed at the amount of sweat and lather. He stroked his wet neck, cupped a hand to the still muzzle and laid his forehead against King’s. Then, he led him to the watering trough, but took him away after a few sips. He fed him well, without sparing the hay or grain, then lowered the bar on the gate to his stall.

  Jerry checked the length of rope to the house. Still there.

  He bent to pick up the inert form of his wife, grasped the rope firmly in one gloved hand, and struggled to open the door and close it again before embarking on the long, arduous trek to the safety of the ranch house.

  He told himself to stay calm, to take one step, one moment at a time. Visibility was almost nothing, except for an occasional glimpse of the rope he grasped with a desperate grip. He had come this far, but what if he lost the rope, missed the house by inches, and they both froze on the prairie, the fate of many hardy pioneers who lived on this harsh land before them?

  His shoulders ached. His arms burned with the strain of his cold muscles called to perform this heroic effort.

  The porch loomed in the whirling darkness, sending a surge of adrenaline through his bursting veins. He staggered up the steps, let go of the rope, lurched across the floor of the porch and fell against the door.

  Then there was a blessed calm. A dark stillness. He realized the roaring in his ears was merely a remnant of his time in the wind.

  Gently now, he laid Hannah on the sofa, alarmed at the stiffness of her limbs. Quickly, he lit a kerosene lamp, stoked the fire, opened the draft, and was rewarded by an instant crackling as the wood began to burn. He held his hands to the warmth, felt the tingle of pain in his frozen fingertips.

  He shed his coat, vest, and one flannel shirt, then turned to Hannah, carrying the lamp to place it on the oak table beside the sofa. A doctor was needed, that was one thing he knew for sure. He crossed off that possibility immediately.

  Hypothermia. Did people die from this condition? Why was she still unconscious? Helpless in the face of her still form, Jerry stood gazing down at her as she lay still, barely breathing, her face a waxen, ivory pearl … unreal.

  “Hannah?”

  No response. Gently, he touched her face, her ears. He opened the buttons on her coat and lifted her limp arms to pull the garment off. He didn’t know what to do about the frozen skirt of her dress, the trousers that were caked with ice. The smell coming from her clothing was offensive, like an unwashed horse. Perspiration from the horse’s body, he guessed.

  He should rid her of those frozen clothes but, if he did, and she woke up? Well, he…. It was unthinkable.

  He got two towels, dried off her skirt and trousers and pulled the boots from her feet, thankful to see the layers of woolen socks.

  The stove turned red hot, roared, the draft beneath the burning wood causing it to go wild. Quickly, Jerry shut off the draft, then resumed his duties.

  He rolled Hannah into a sheep’s wool comforter, then another. He pulled the couch across the oak floor, kicking rugs from his path, until he was satisfied that the heat was close enough to begin the warming process.

  He touched her face. “Hannah?” Nothing.

  Soon enough, when the heat penetrated her frozen limbs, her ears, she would have to be brought back to consciousness. The pain would wake her, he knew. He applied cold washcloths to her ears, until he saw a bit of color returning. He would likely need to put her hands in cold water, too, to thaw them. Hot water would be unbearable.

  The wind howled and whined, threw grains of snow and ice against the window panes. An overwhelming gratitude rose in Jerry, for the heat from the stove, the good solid walls and roof, and their deliverance from this awful storm.

  He stopped applying the washcloths. He felt her fingers on both hands. So cold, almost as if there was no life.

  He laid his head on her chest, heard the quiet flicker, the weak beat of her heart. He caressed her cold face. “I love you Hannah. Please wake up.”

  He kissed her cheek and smoothed her hair. He knew without a smidgen of doubt that he could wait as long as the Lord saw fit for her love. God had brought them through this for a reason. He traced the contours of her cheekbones, memorized the way her lashes fell like delicate feathers on her perfect face.

  She drew in a sharp breath. Jerry stepped back. She coughed, softly, drew in a ragged breath, then choked. She kept choking, gasping for breath.

  Jerry laid her on her left side, propped up her shoulders and supported her head. Her eyes flew open, dark pools of terror and pain. She whimpered, drew up a hand to drag it across her right ear. Her fingers flopped like helpless strips of cloth.

  She blinked, squinted, struggled to swallow. She tried to form words, straining to use her tongue, but no sound emerged. He thought she said dirty, dirty, and began to apologize for her wet, frozen clothes. But she was thirsty. So thirsty, there was a desperation. He brought a tumbler of cold water, raised her shoulders, and held it to her lips.

  “Just a few sips, Hannah, or you’ll get sick.” He knew she was conscio
us when she glared at him, grasped the glass in both hands and drained it, then leaned over the side of the couch and threw it all up. He held her head, wiped her mouth with a washcloth, then cleaned up the floor with rags and soapy water.

  She drew in a sharp breath. A resounding “Ow!” came from her mouth, followed by howls of protest. She yelled and hollered and whimpered. She grasped her fingers with the near helpless fingers of her other hand, squinted her eyes, and rocked from side to side, loosening the comforters in her struggle.

  “Do something!” she wailed.

  Jerry lowered his face to hers. “You need to drink only a little at a time. Cold water for your fingers and toes. No heat. It will only make it worse. I’ll make you hot tea.”

  She turned her face away and told him to shut up. He hid his grin. Definitely awake! So, he put the teakettle on the stove and shook a few tea leaves into a sturdy, white mug, adding sugar. He filled an agate basin with water from the faucet.

  “Put both hands in this water.”

  “I can’t,” she yelled, louder than ever.

  “You have to, Hannah. Listen to me. It will only get worse if you don’t.”

  It was a long night. She refused the basin of cold water, cried and begged for mercy. She wouldn’t allow him to remove her socks, said she could do it herself, which she obviously could not, so he didn’t make any further attempts to ease her pain.

  She did sip the hot tea, though, which was something, he supposed. The odor coming from those comforters was a nauseating smell that filled the room. How she could be unaware of this was beyond him, but he said nothing.

  He must have dozed off shortly before daybreak. He awoke to morning’s white light across his face. He sat up from his blanket on the floor and quickly realized that Hannah was missing; there was only the heap of smelly comforters on the sofa. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and saw the bathroom door was closed.

  Oh. She must have found her way to the bathroom then, which meant she had been able to walk. He listened. Complete quiet.

  He rapped softly on the bathroom door, placing an ear on the wooden panel. “Hannah?”

  “Go away.”

  “I’m just checking if you’re okay.”

  “I’m not okay. I’m frozen stiff!” she screeched.

  Jerry turned away and felt a deep release of laughter. She was going to be okay.

  When Hannah emerged, her dark hair wet, her face pale and thin but, mercifully, clean, a woolen blanket around her body like a giant shawl, she walked painfully to the sofa and sat down carefully. She pushed aside the comforters and asked him to take them out on the porch.

  She was shivering uncontrollably. Her hands shook as if she had a palsy. Tears slid from beneath her lowered lashes, until Jerry asked her gently if there was anything he could do for her. He tried to take her hands, but she yanked them away and glared at him.

  “Hannah, it’s hard for me to see you suffer.”

  “It hurts so bad,” she whispered.

  “Do you want to try cold water?”

  “I already had a bath. I could hardly do it.”

  “I believe it. You’re strong, Hannah.” He thought, strong-willed and determined, but didn’t say it.

  “I smelled horrible.”

  “Just horse, is all.”

  She didn’t want to talk after that. She simply sat on the couch and suffered in silence, her stinging fingers repeatedly going to her ears, the tip of her nose. She watched in baleful silence as he fried steak in the big cast-iron pan, sliced bread, and soft-boiled four eggs for himself and two for her.

  Hannah almost fainted from the delicious aroma of the frying steak. She was so terribly hungry, but there was no way she could hold a spoon.

  He quietly filled two plates and brought them both to the couch and sat down beside her. He set her plate between them, then bowed his head in silent prayer before lifting his fork to his mouth with a bite of piping hot steak.

  Hannah swallowed. She glanced sideways at the soft, gelatinous egg, the buttered toast. She swallowed again. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jerry cut a bite-size piece of toast, loaded a spoon with the soft-boiled egg and held it out to Hannah’s mouth, a question in his soft, brown eyes.

  Her hunger overrode her pride, and she opened her mouth like a fledgling. And so they ate breakfast together quietly, without speaking. She met his eyes once, and they held their gazes exchanging questions and answers.

  He wiped away a bit of egg from the corner of her mouth. She looked at her helpless fingers. “They hurt so bad.”

  In answer, Jerry lifted them both to his mouth and kissed the tips of each finger. Drawing her hands away, she put them back in her lap, hurriedly, with averted eyes.

  “You could have died, Hannah,” Jerry said tenderly, his voice raspy with emotion.

  “So I owe you a big thank you,” she said, with only a trace of sarcasm.

  They both listened to the wailing of the wind, turning their faces to watch clouds of roiling snow being hurled across the prairie, and they knew. They recognized the stark reality of what might have been, and what God had wrought. The perfect lull in the storm’s aftermath, the timing that had been so critical, and the fact that they were here, together, warm and safe.

  CHAPTER 8

  ALL THAT DAY, HANNAH DID NOTHING. SHE SAT ON THE WOODEN rocking chair, wrapped in the woolen blanket, her dark hair tied into a ponytail, her eyes swollen and red, alternately clutching her fingers as she grimaced in pain, or holding a warmed washcloth to her ears.

  Jerry kept busy feeding the livestock, tending the two stoves, stacking up wood in neat rows from the pile by the back stoop, repairing broken gates inside the barn, coming in every few hours to see how she was faring.

  She could not sleep. The pain kept her awake, so she sat, bearing it stoically, refusing any remedy Jerry suggested. He cooked bean soup in the afternoon and offered to share it with her but she shook her head. “Tea would be nice,” she said, flatly.

  Jerry could barely make the tea fast enough. What a sweet request. Oh my.

  He sat with her, eating his bean soup as she sipped her tea. He decided to say nothing but to allow her time to ask questions, if there was anything she wanted to know.

  She whispered so soft and low that he could barely decipher her words. “It was awful.”

  He nodded.

  “He fell. The horse.”

  “I know.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s down. About four, maybe five miles from here.”

  “Is that where you found us?”

  “Yes.”

  She said nothing more. He waited for her to ask more questions, but she didn’t. In fact, she never asked any questions after that, not once.

  The wind died down, as all prairie winds eventually do. The sun shone and melted the snow, but only partially, where the wind had swept it clean. Patches of winter wheat showed green—limp and bedraggled, but green.

  Hannah’s frostbitten fingers and ears healed, but she seemed changed somehow. Her eyes were large and dark in her pale, thin face, and they seemed to have dimmed. The fire that used to flicker in them so often seemed to have been snuffed out. Jerry wished he could read her better, understand her thoughts, what was causing the lethargy, the deflation of the static energy that normally propelled her from morning till evening.

  One day, when another dark bank of clouds rode in from the northwest, another blizzard in the seething black mass, Hannah stood at the window with her arms crossed like a vice around her waist, her shoulders jutting with tension. “I don’t know if I can stand another blizzard again,” she said through tight lips.

  Jerry was repairing a saddle with an awl and strips of rawhide. He looked up from his work, a question in his eyes. “The cows will be all right,” he said slowly.

  “I’m not thinking about the cows,” she snapped. “I think once you’ve nearly lost your life, the weather takes on a different kind of menace. I can’t really
explain it the way I would like to, but it’s almost as if you’re not sure you have it in you to sit here and just … well … you know, take it. Take the wind and the lashing of the snow and the cold and the loneliness … and the …” Her sentence dangled between them, unfinished, mysterious.

  Now was not the time to point out that she was the one who had chosen to stay here, to fight through the miserable winters and dry summers.

  “This one might not be so bad,” Jerry said, bending his head to his work.

  She said sharply, “You need a haircut.”

  “Why don’t you cut it?”

  “I never cut my own hair,” he replied matter of factly.

  “Who’s going to cut it?”

  “I guess you’ll have to.”

  “No. I don’t know how. I can’t. Go to town or something.”

  Jerry laughed.

  Hannah scowled.

  “You could do it,” he said, almost teasingly.

  “I never cut anyone’s hair and I’m not planning to start, either.”

  “Good. I’ll just let it grow, then. Eventually, I’ll put it in a braid, the way a lot of the pioneers did.”

  Hannah almost smiled. “I miss my mother.”

  This was so unexpected that it took Jerry a few seconds to absorb her words. He busied himself shoving the awl through a soft piece of stirrup, his hair falling over his eyes.

  “I miss my mother, and Manny. Eli and Mary are probably going to the same school in Leacock Township that I went to.” A wistful note crept into her voice so Jerry looked up from his work.

  “Would you like to go to Lancaster for a visit?”

  Much too quickly, there was a sharp refusal, a vehement shaking of her head. Then, “You never talked about the palomino.”

  “What is there to say?” Jerry asked gruffly.

  “Was he still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?”

  “Hannah, listen. There is nothing harder in the world than putting a bullet into a horse you love. The only reason I could do it at all was to relieve the pitiful creature of its suffering.