by Lynn Donovan
He glanced in the windows of the Tanner shop. It was dark and the door was locked. Mr. Tanner had gone with the hunting party. With no apprentice to keep his shop open, the tanner needs would wait until he returned. All looked quiet inside. Was this a waste of his time? There was obviously a storm coming, would a bushwhacker attempt to rob an empty store in this kind of weather? Then again, a bushwhacker would look for a town’s biggest vulnerability. With so many men gone and those left behind hunkering down for this storm, it would be the perfect opportunity to pilfer available goods.
Ron walked further down the boardwalk, tilting his hat into the wind, and checked each shop for any intruders. Real intruders, not fake ones like what he had locked up in his jail cell right now. A cold wind whipped up as he crossed the dirt road between sections of town. Brrrr. It was really cold for September. He pulled his jacket closer under his chin. The sky looked dark and a squall line was forming to the northeast. Something was coming this way. It didn’t look good. Ron hurried, checking each business, until he reached the end of the businesses, he crossed another street and did the same for the warehouse shops. The clouds grew bigger and darker. He felt the need to rush back to his wife.
Just as he made it to his brother-in-law’s wagon shop, lightning rent the air with the loudest crack of thunder and blanching light he’d ever seen. Several blocks from the jailhouse, Ron had almost completed his rounds. The bone chilling wind swirled with debris, knocking him against the windows. He could see unfinished wagons inside, no lamps were lit, or fire in the stove. His brother-in-law had gone on the hunt, too. He knew where Scott Dawson hid a key. He retrieved the hidden key, unlocked the door and slipped inside the shop. Fact was, Sheriff Applebee knew where most shop owners kept a key to their front door, just in case. Surely whatever this storm was, it would blow over quickly, and Ron could get back to the jailhouse to check on Linda.
Linda hated being alone when these open-prairie storms hit. He had hurried home many, many times when one came along, to find her curled up in a ball beside the bed, terrified. A result of her experience on the wagon train that brought her and her sisters to Last Chance. Well, almost to Last Chance. The girls walked the last ten or twelve miles alone.
Their parents had died several miles outside of Last Chance. After the trail guide buried their folks, Hollie, Linda, Becca, and little Winnie Gail were left to fend for themselves. The wagon train just left them on the prairie with advice that there was a town within walking distance to the west.
Thinking someone would come rescue them, the girls huddled together under a sparse tree while a hailstorm passed over. Hollie being the oldest at fifteen, and Linda, next in age, was ten, did their best to protect Becca and Winnie by tucking them under their bodies, like human shields. The hailstones pummeled their backs pretty bad. When the storm was over, they walked toward the afternoon sun. West. Until they found the town.
The undertaker and his wife, Arnold and Peggy Blanchard, took them in and raised them as their own until they got married. They bore black and blue bruises on their backs and it was said they had been beaten. But it had been the storm. Linda never fully got over the experience.
Ron vowed he would always be there for her. But right now, it was all he could do to protect himself by ducking into his brother-in-law’s wagon shop. The wind was impossible. If he hadn’t gotten inside when he did, he would have been blown down the street, helpless against the icy gale. Soon, there was dense snow and ice in the wind that passed by the large display windows. Ron couldn’t even see the hitching post just a few feet from the windows. This storm was worse than he imagined it could be. This was a blizzard!
His heart pounded in his chest. He knew Linda needed him. She was just across town from where he had taken refuge. But he couldn’t go outside in this fierce, white-out storm. All he could see was dirty snow moving horizontally, frosting the window and filling the corners with beads of snow.
A shiver ran down his spine. He needed heat. Even if only for a few hours. Surely this storm would die down soon. Meanwhile, he walked over to the Franklin stove and lit a fire. Warming his hands by rubbing them in the heat coming off the cast iron, he thought of Linda. Would the pot belly stove keep the jailhouse warm enough for her? Soon as he could get over there, he was putting an end to this research and taking her home. He’d had enough. If she didn’t have enough authenticity to write her story, then too bad. Enough was enough.
Ron pulled a blanket from Scott’s office and wrapped it around his shoulders. His stomach growled. Did Scott have any food? Ron rummaged through the back and found dried meat and hardtack biscuits. That would do for now. Was there any chance Linda had figured out a way to escape and could get to the tray of food he had brought her from the diner? He hoped so. Never in his life had he prayed a prisoner would figure out how easy it was to jimmy the lock on the cell door and roam free in his office. It was the reason he or his deputy always stayed in the office while a prisoner was inside.
The wind was not letting up. Ron walked to the large paned windows and stared into the bleak whiteness. How long was this storm going to last? Was Linda all right? What about the others? He hadn’t seen that many people outside of the shops. Did everybody make it inside before the worst hit? God, he hoped so. What about the children in the schoolhouse? Miss Millie would keep them inside, surely.
Ron chewed the inside of his cheek. They were all his responsibility. But there was nothing he could do ’til this wind died down. He sighed, frustration making his jaw ache. He walked over to a mostly finished wagon bed and sat down. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. How he wished there was something he could do.

Ron woke with a start. The wind howled and whistled. A fluttering sound made him think the shingles on the roof were succumbing to this horrible wind. That wasn’t good. The window was no longer covered in blowing whiteness. It was dark. What time was it? He pulled his pocket watch and glared at the hands. Three o’clock? Seriously? He’d slept that long? Was Linda alright? He rushed to the door and yanked it open. The wind whipped the knob out of his hand and slammed the door against the wall. Paper flew from everywhere. He staggered back against the driving force.
Shielding his face with his elbow, he took a step against the freezing, icy wall of wind. Then another. He had to get to Linda. Suddenly, the wind whipped around, changing its direction, and throwing him off his momentum, knocking him down hard. His hat tumbled from his head and vanished in the darkness that looked like smoke, but he knew it was snow. Turning over onto his hands and knees, he struggled to crawl back into the shop and fought against the raging wind to close the door. A quell of silence filled the shop as soon as he latched the door. He had not realized how loud the wind roared in his ears until he got back inside. There was no way he could get to Linda. He remained on his knees but lifted his hands in prayer. “Please, Dear God, keep my wife safe. Amen.”
Slowly he rose to his feet and walked back to Scott’s desk. He folded down into the chair and rocked furiously while waiting and listening for the storm to end this wrath against Last Chance. He hated that there was nothing he could do. Tears filled his eyes. He’d promised Linda he’d never leave her alone in a storm. He swore to her…
The tears rolled down his cheek. “Forgive me, sweetheart,” he muttered. Anger festered in his gut. He swiped the tears from his face. This was ridiculous. He was the sheriff. There had to be a way to get across the street and down the section to his office. He slammed his fist on the desk and leapt to his feet. Some way…
Looking around, he spotted a coil of heavy rope. “Ah ha!” He stomped to the coil and lifted it in his hands, uncoiling the loops to see how long it was. He made a decision. “This oughta work.”
He tied one end around his waist and marched to the front door. Looking for the most solid anchor near the door, he threw the other end over a ceiling rafter, climbed on a barrel and tied it soundly. Surely this would hold. Bracing himself against the expected force of the w
ind, he opened the door— immediately stumbling backward. The screaming, icy wind was deafening and disorienting.
Gripping the door facing, he pulled himself out into the storm. Stumbling sideways, he fell against a bench anchored to the boardwalk. “Ow!” He couldn’t hear his own voice.
Wanting to rub the pain but unable to let go of the bench, he crawled to his feet. The wind pushed him so hard he couldn’t possibly stand but tumbled backward. Grabbing the only thing available to him, the rope, he looped it around his arm, trying to shorten its distance before his tumbling in the wind broke his arm.
Finally, he stopped with an abrupt snap in his shoulder. The rope was taut. Hand over hand, he pulled himself toward the door of the wagon shop. He could barely see his hands, let alone where the rope ended. Ignoring everything that hurt, he worked his way along the safety line. The wind blew the opposite direction from where he needed to go in order to get to his wife. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the rope and himself. Finding the bench, he knew he was a few feet from the door.
There was no way he could make it across the street, let alone to the jailhouse. He tugged with all his might clinging to the bench, groping for the door frame, he located it. Ducked his head against the icy onslaught, he pulled rope and wooden frame to get himself inside the door.
Lunging to land on his back inside. He shoved the door closed with his boot. Lying on his back, hurting, wet, and cold from the ice and snow that covered him from head to boots, he sighed in defeat.
“Ahh!” He screamed to no one and slammed his fists on the wooden floor. Yanking the rope off his waist, he rolled over to his hands and knees, and slowly rose to stand. He’d have to be patient and wait out the storm, but he didn’t like it! Limping across the shop, he collapsed into Scott’s chair and rubbed his shoulder. Considering the Franklin, he forced himself back to his feet. Surely there was fixings for coffee. He needed to warm his bones.
Chapter Four
Linda sat on the cot with the cell door open in case it locked on its own, with her knees against her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She rocked in an attempt to calm herself. Memories of the hailstorm where she and Hollie stood over Becca and Winnie to protect them from the pelting ice balls, rambled through her mind like an unwanted intruder. Ron had sworn she’d never be alone in a storm again, even though she was indoors, bad storms woke those awful memories. It couldn’t be true, but she thought she could still feel the hammering of the hailstones on her back and legs.
Tears and anguish poured from her soul as she sat on that cot and waited. But this storm didn’t let up. It whistled and howled all through the night, into the next day and another night. She truly thought she might lose her mind with the deafening, relentless sound. The tray of food Ron had brought her from her sister’s diner was intended to feed her three meals. Who knew how long it would have to last? She limited herself to very small portions, just in case she was stuck in here several more days. Once she ran out of food, and the water bucket was empty, she figured she’d have about a week. Then, her husband would find her dead body. Assuming Ron was still alive.
The sobs came in waves, this time. She couldn’t imagine life without her husband. What if she survived all of this, only to find he did not? What on earth would she do then? What about the other people in Last Chance? Had they managed to get inside their homes or stores in time before this blizzard hit so hard? She gasped!
What about the men who went out on the buffalo hunt? How far reaching was this blizzard? Her brothers-in-law and friends, were they caught out on the prairie when this rolled in? “Oh, no,” she sobbed. “Please, God no!”
The next morning, she woke to silence. Slowly, she rose from the bed where Ron slept when he was guarding a prisoner. The storm had ceased. Excited, she wrapped a blanket over the duster and tore open the front door of his office.
She was met by a wall of solid snow.
“No!” She screamed at the obstruction. Looking around, she grabbed the ash shovel and scraped at the wall of dirty white snow. Snow fell in at her feet, but she dug into it, praying to see sky. More snow collapsed, making this a very dangerous thing to be doing. What if it all fell in and she couldn’t close the door to keep the heat from the pot belly stove inside.
She stopped. Angling her face in the window to look up, she tried to determine how high the snow had accumulated. There was no way to know. She couldn’t see anything but filthy snow. Stepping back, she shoved snow aside and closed the door. She staggered to the small bed where Ron had last slept and flopped face down on the mattress. Inhaling his scent, she sobbed without abandon.
Half of a biscuit, a tea-cup size portion of beans and salt pork, and a sliver of ham was her last meal. She had rewarmed the coffee so many times, it was officially God-awful and bitter. The water in the barrel was her last hope, and so she didn’t use it to make more coffee, but sipped it from the third coffee cup hanging on a hook in the small room. It must have been Deputy Chris’s coffee mug.
She went to bed, wondering what it would be like to starve to death.
By late afternoon the next day, she could see the top of the drifts of snow. Her heart leapt with joy. She took the shovel and dug herself a channel ending at the waist-high drift that covered the street between the businesses. Climbing out onto the packed snow, she scrambled into the middle of the street. “Ron!”
“I’m here!” His voice was glorious. She turned toward it and cried, “Ron?” She slipped on the slick surface, falling onto her hands and knees, and scrambled back to her feet.
“I was trapped in Scott’s Wagon Shop!” Ron hollered as he ran toward her. “I had to dig out.”
“Me too.” They collided into each other arms. He kissed her face and she kissed his until their lips met in desperation and they kissed longingly. So happy to finally be in each other’s arms.
“I thought you might be dead.” She mumbled against his lips.
“I was afraid of the same thing.” He leaned back from her, gazing into her eyes with wonder. “Let’s go home.”
Walking awkwardly across the hard-packed snow with their arms around each other, they worked their way down the street to their home. The Livery barn was silent. Too silent. Peeking over the gate inside the corral, they could not see any horses standing in the stalls. Had they all frozen to death. Linda buried her face in Ron’s chest. Ron would check on the livery owner, Dave McFarland and the livestock later. How many would they find dead?
Digging through the drift, they managed to get their front door open and went inside. The house had withstood the storm, as far as they could tell. No windows were broken at least. She lit a fire in the stove and set the kettle in place. The water inside was frozen solid. The bucket from the well was solid ice as well. She set the bucket on top of the stove and waited for the ice to melt. It would take a while before their house could be warm. Meanwhile, Ron lit a lamp and went into the root cellar. Luckily, they had access to it from their mud room at the back of the house. Soon, he returned with an arm full of canned goods she had put up already. Thank God for small favors.
“Oh, Ron. I was so frightened I’d lost you in this crazy blizzard.”
“I know, darling.” He rushed to her. Wrapping her in his arms. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you. I had promised I’d never leave you alone in a storm ever again. I tried, honestly I tried my best, but it was impossible.”
“I know.” She looked up at him. “Believe me, I know. I tried too, but that wind—”
“Yeah. It was impossible to get through.” He squeezed her snug against himself. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I put us in this predicament—”
“Stop, Linda.” He shook her gently. “Neither of us had any idea this storm was coming.”
“True. I’m just glad we’re back home.”
“Me too.” He sighed. “Tomorrow, I’ll walk up and down Main Street to assess… the damage.”
Linda closed her
eyes. “You want me to go with you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I have a feeling this is gonna be something a lady shouldn’t see.”
Linda bit her lip, not able to stop the tears. “I’m sure you’re right.”
He rushed to her and held her firmly. “Have you eaten anything?”
“I rationed the tray you brought from Dawson’s. But I could certainly eat something now.”
He turned to the jars of canned vegetables he’d bought up. “How about a soup?”
“Sounds wonderful.” Together they opened and emptied the jars into one large pot. She made cornbread and baked it in the oven. Once they had filled their bellies, they went to bed. It felt so good to be together and in their own bed, at last.

The next day, Ron set out on the gruesome task of discovering who survived the blizzard. The sun had melted the snow down to less than two feet in most areas of town. Doors could be opened at last, people, mostly women whose husbands had gone on the hunt, emerged from their homes. The schoolhouse opened and Miss Millie let the children out. They immediately began making snowmen and forts, snowballs were lobbed in great fun. Miss Millie stood on the stoop of the schoolhouse smiling at the children’s antics, but concern filled her eyes. Where were the parents?
Ron tipped his less-worn Stetson as he rode his horse down the street. He missed his favorite hat that blew away when he tried to get to Linda. Red and the livery livestock had survived the below zero temperatures but needed salves for some patches of frostbite. Ron intended to stop by the veterinarian’s before heading back home to see if he had any on hand. Plodding through the snow, Red repeatedly lifted his head and anxiously vibrated his lips. Did his horse sense the death that was inevitable with this kind of sudden storm?
The creek roared, drawing Ron’s attention. The banks were filling. All this snow melt was running off into the beds. This wasn’t going to be good. Flood waters would be Last Chance’s next big problem.
