by Irene Hannon
At a sudden ripping sound above her, she raised her head. The wind had plucked one of the heavy wood shutters off the house. The sight of it tumbling across the lawn like a match-stick galvanized her into action. Throwing back the trapdoor, she jogged toward the house, fighting down her panic. You can do this, she told herself. You have to do this.
Shoving her windblown hair back, she pushed through the door. The final words of the song died in Jenna’s throat as Christine stepped inside, and the little girl ran to her, burying her face against the denim of Christine’s jeans.
“I—I sang the w-whole song, like you said, Ms. Christine.”
“I knew you would.”
Extricating herself from the little girl’s grip, she took the child’s hand and moved around the house, retrieving the afghan from the living room and two sweaters from the closet. Throwing the items over her arm, she picked Jenna up and pressed the little girl’s head against her shoulder.
“Hold tight now, okay? It’s very windy outside. But it’s nice and quiet and safe in the cellar. We’ll sing songs and tell stories when we get there.”
Without waiting for a response, Christine pushed through the kitchen door, tugging it shut behind her. Hunching over Jenna, and cupping the girl’s head in a protective grip, she hurried around the side of the house.
For one brief second she faltered as she stood at the entrance to the dark cellar, fighting back her fear, trying to swallow past her nausea. Please, God, give me the strength and the courage to do this, she prayed.
A gust of wind pummeled her, and she staggered down the stone steps. Her blouse caught on a jagged piece of wood, but she wrenched the fabric free. Once on level ground, she set Jenna down and flipped on the flashlight. Then she went back up the steps far enough to reach the handle on the door.
Once she wrestled it shut, quiet descended. Along with suffocating darkness. The flashlight barely penetrated the gloom, and Christine began to shake.
“I don’t like d-dark places, Ms. Christine.”
Jenna’s tremulous comment helped diffuse her own terror. Mustering every ounce of her self-control, she dropped to one knee beside the little girl. “I don’t either. But this is where we’ll be safest until the storm is over.”
She set the flashlight on a small rock ledge in the wall and spread the afghan on the floor. After bundling Jenna in a bulky cardigan to ward off the cool dampness, she pulled the other sweater over her head. Dropping onto the afghan, she drew the little girl close, cuddling her in her arms.
“It will be okay, honey.” Christine prayed that she was right. That she would be able to control her claustrophobia and keep the child safe. “The storm will be over soon, and the sun will come out again. I don’t like dark little rooms, either, but it’s not as scary when you have someone with you, is it? Why don’t we sing another song? After that, I’ll tell you some stories. Would you like that?”
She felt Jenna’s nod against her shoulder, and Christine launched into a familiar melody she often sang with the children at story hour. Jenna joined in, the howling wind providing a muted backdrop to their refrain.
After the song, Christine began to tell Jenna stories. Eventually the youngster grew slack in her arms, the steady rise and fall of her chest indicating that she felt secure and safe enough to fall asleep.
If only she could do the same, Christine lamented, each agonizing second an eternity as she fought the clawing need to throw open the door and breathe fresh air.
But she couldn’t give in to that temptation. Protecting Jenna had to be her priority. For the little girl’s sake. And for Dale’s. No matter the cost to herself.
Chapter Sixteen
“Thanks for your help, Dale.” Stan Phillips held out his hand. “It’s always good to have the experts on hand when something like this comes up. I’m glad it was a false alarm. Sorry we had to bother you.”
The explosive device in the high school had turned out to be a knapsack filled with electrical components and wires, origin unknown.
“No problem. It doesn’t pay to take chances. Never hesitate to call.” Dale took Stan’s hand in a firm grip. He’d worked with the Rolla police lieutenant on several occasions and respected the man’s thoroughness.
As activity wound down in the basement of the evacuated school, Dale checked his watch. Four o’clock. The afternoon was gone. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to head out. I have to pick up…”
“Lieutenant?”
The two men turned to the young officer who had interrupted.
“What’s up?” Phillips asked.
“If you’re finished here, the captain would like you to assist with the storm calls.”
Parallel grooves dented the man’s forehead. “Back up, Castellano. What storm?”
“Sorry, sir. I forgot you’ve been down here all afternoon. A storm with gale-force winds just passed through the area. No touchdowns yet, but we’re getting reports of major property damage and injuries.”
Fear tightened Dale’s gut. “Was Oak Hill affected?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’re only handling calls for the Rolla area. But it would have been in the path of the storm.”
“I’m out of here, Stan.” Pulling out his cell phone, Dale punched in Christine’s number.
“Understood. Thanks again.”
As Dale strode toward the exit, taking the stairs two at a time, he listened to a message telling him there was trouble on the line. Frustrated, he slid the phone back into its holder and pushed through the door, heading for his car.
With each mile he covered on the drive back to Oak Hill, Dale’s alarm escalated. Huge trees had been toppled, roofs ripped off, outbuildings leveled. And Christine and Jenna had been in the middle of it.
Flooring the car, Dale flicked on his siren. He restricted its use to dire emergencies, but this qualified. He needed to know that the little girl he cherished and the woman he loved were safe.
The woman he loved.
Those stunning words echoed in Dale’s mind as he raced toward Oak Hill. All these weeks, while he’d been agonizing over whether he could let himself care for a woman like Christine, whose problems reminded him so much of Linda’s, he’d been deluding himself. A person didn’t choose whether or not to care for someone. Love was stronger than that. It happened. Period.
Dale might choose not to get involved with Christine, but he’d had no choice about loving her. Her strength and integrity and kindness, her willingness to trust despite her fear, her humor and intelligence and sensitivity, had won his heart.
The only thing that had held him back from acknowledging his feelings had been the fear that, like his wife, Christine would be unable to move past the trauma she’d endured and open herself to love in the fullest sense, without boundaries or barriers or fears.
But she’d already proven she was capable of that, he realized. Perhaps because her trauma differed from Linda’s in a very important respect. By the time Christine had crossed paths with Barlow and Stratton, her sense of identity and self-esteem were solid, thanks to the loving upbringing provided by her mother.
By contrast, in Linda’s most formative years, before she’d had a chance to develop that same resilience and strength and grit, she’d been deprived of the unselfish love that creates stability and a solid foundation of self-worth.
In that regard, the two women were night and day, Dale concluded, finally grasping their essential difference as the miles raced by in a blur. Yes, Christine had made an error in judgment with Barlow. But a cunning manipulator could fool even the most astute person. Especially if that person had a kind heart and believed in the basic goodness of people.
And that was a perfect description of Christine.
It was why he loved her.
Yesterday, Dale had told her he thought they should take things slowly as they worked through their issues. That might still be true for her, and he would give her whatever time she needed to answer any lingering questio
ns and put her fears to rest. But as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And in the process, give Jenna the mother she’d always wanted.
Once Dale arrived at Fresh Start Farm, he took the driveway as fast as he dared, ignoring the frantic, metallic ping of gravel on the underbelly of the squad car. The house was intact, though two shutters and quite a few roof shingles were missing, he noted in a sweeping glance. A large white pine tree at the side of the house had also been uprooted and lay on the ground, its branches brushing the siding. If it had fallen a couple of feet to the right, it would have caused extensive damage to the house.
His pulse pounding, Dale took the front steps in a leap and pounded on the door. When an eerie silence was his only response, he moved to the rear and checked the garage. Christine’s car was inside, meaning she and Jenna were somewhere on the premises.
Returning to the house, he tested the back door, stepping into a deserted kitchen when he found it unlocked. A swift perusal revealed cookies on cooling racks, a potholder on the seat of a chair and a half-empty glass of milk, suggesting a hasty departure. Papers lay strewn about the floor, as if a gust of wind had blown in through the door and sent them flying.
“Christine?”
When his voice echoed with a hollow ring and again produced no response, he did a quick inspection of the house. Hoping to find a set of steps leading to a basement, he tried all of the doors on the first floor, but they all led to closets.
Planting his fists on his hips, Dale tried to rein in his rising panic. They had to be here somewhere. Christine was too smart to take refuge in an outbuilding. That would be the first to go in a tornado. A basement was the safest place.
Given that the farmhouse was old, might there be an exterior entrance to a cellar? he wondered. Moving back outside, he circled the structure, looking for a trapdoor. And found it, half-hidden by the branches of the downed white pine.
With a silent prayer that he’d find them inside, safe and secure, he grasped the heavy wooden door and pulled, the rusty hinges announcing his arrival with a loud creak.
The sight that met his eyes sent relief coursing through his veins even as it twisted his gut.
Christine was sitting on the dirt floor, her back against the wall, a sleeping Jenna nestled in her arms. His daughter was wrapped in two bulky sweaters, her lashes sweeping across her rosy cheeks, and she looked fine.
But Christine didn’t. Her face was white, and there was a long, bloody scratch on one cheek. One sleeve of her cotton shirt had been almost ripped off at the shoulder, and her hair was in disarray. Even from a distance he could see that she was shivering as she blinked in the sudden light.
Descending the stone steps, Dale went down on one knee beside her, touching her cheek, her hair, her arm, needing to reassure himself that she was okay.
“Is it over?” Her words came out in a hoarse croak as she tried to focus her glazed eyes.
“Yes.” He lifted Jenna into his arms. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
His daughter roused a bit as he hurried toward the house, looking up at him sleepily. “Hi, Daddy. We had a storm.”
“I know.”
“Where’s Ms. Christine?”
“In the cellar. I’m going to go back and get her as soon as I take you into the house.”
She yawned. “We sang songs and Ms. Christine told me stories until I fell asleep. But I didn’t like it down there. It was too dark. And I was cold until Ms. Christine gave me her sweater. She didn’t like it down there, either.”
Knowing the severity of Christine’s claustrophobia, that had to be the understatement of the year, Dale concluded, his jaw tightening. Left alone, he doubted she’d have considered going into that dark hole, preferring to take her chances with the storm. But she’d put aside her own fears to keep Jenna safe, enduring yet another reminder of the trauma Barlow had subjected her to.
The love he already felt for her swelled, contracting his heart with a tenderness so intense it was almost like a physical ache.
After settling Jenna at the table with a cookie, he sprinted back around the house, half expecting to find that Christine had emerged. But she remained where he’d left her, her back propped against the wall, her eyes wide and dazed in her colorless face.
He descended the steps, ducking under the low ceiling to crouch beside her. “Let’s get you out of here.” His voice was gentle, his touch strong and sure as he gathered her into his arms.
With his help, she managed to stand, and he followed her up the narrow steps, one hand supporting her at her waist. The storm had left cooler weather in its wake, and when a chilly breeze blew past, her shivering intensified. Putting an arm around her, he urged her toward the house.
“Let’s get inside where it’s warm.”
The electricity hadn’t yet been restored, and night was falling fast. After pulling out a chair and urging her into it, Dale scrounged up some candles from a kitchen drawer, fitted them into some makeshift holders and set them on the table. Then he retrieved a heavy sweater from the hall closet.
The candles didn’t provide a lot of light, but enough to confirm his initial assessment of her condition. The experience had taken both an emotional and physical toll. She looked shell-shocked and injured. He’d already noted the long, angry scratch on her cheek. But as he bent to drape the sweater around her, a purple bruise on her shoulder peeked out through the jagged tear in her shirt.
Bending close, he eased the fabric aside to get a better view. The contusion was four inches across, and she flinched as he touched it.
“The back door slammed against me when I opened it to g-go out. It’s just a b-bruise.”
He wasn’t convinced of that, but he gently draped the sweater around her shoulders and focused on the cut on her face. “You have a nasty scratch on your cheek.”
“It’s bleeding,” Jenna offered. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too much, honey.” Somehow Christine managed the semblance of a smile.
Dale rose. “Where are your first aid supplies?”
“In the bathroom. Bring aspirin, too.”
He didn’t need to ask why. The strain around her eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth were clear indications she was battling a major headache.
Once back in the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and handed her four aspirin. She swallowed them all at once.
“Let’s have a look at that cheek.” As he pulled up a chair beside her, she angled her head to give him access to the scratch. He did his best to be gentle as he cleaned the cut and treated it with antiseptic ointment, but she tensed a few times, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. “Sorry, Christine. I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“I know. It’s okay. I appreciate your help.”
Up until now, Jenna had watched Dale’s ministrations in interested silence, elbow on the table, chin propped in hand. But she, too, noticed the tear. “Are you going to cry, Ms. Christine?”
At the little girl’s troubled expression, Christine dredged up another smile. “No. It just stings a little bit. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“I cut my chin last summer when I fell off my bike. That hurt, too, and I cried a lot. I had to get stitches from Dr. Sam.”
“Well, that’s much worse than this. I don’t even need stitches.”
Finished, Dale gathered up the supplies and stowed them back in the first aid kit. He still didn’t like Christine’s color, and she continued to shiver despite the heavy sweater.
“I’m not crazy about the idea of leaving you alone tonight.” He considered his options, settling on the one that would cause her the least stress. She’d already had more than enough of that for one day. “Why don’t Jenna and I stay? Between the window seat and couch, we’ll be fine.”
“No.” Gratitude tightened her throat, but she shook her head. “Take Jenna home. She’s had a tough day.”
“So have you.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll be fine. I’m going straight to bed as soon as you leave and I’ll probably sleep till morning. Is the house okay?”
“No major damage that I could see. A couple of shutters are gone, and a few roof shingles were ripped off. You lost the pine tree, too, but it missed the house. I can take a closer look tomorrow in the daylight, after I pick Mom up at the airport.” He leaned close and touched her face. “You’re sure you’ll be okay alone?”
Looking into his warm, caring eyes, Christine didn’t feel alone. And she had a strong intuition she never would again.
“You’ll be close if I need you.”
In response to her tender smile, the blue of his irises deepened in color. “Count on it.”
They left a few minutes later, Jenna’s hand tucked into Dale’s. Christine went to bed at once, as she’d said she would. But as she drifted to sleep, Dale’s final comment echoed in her mind.
He’s said that she could count on him. That he’d be close if she needed him.
And she didn’t think he’d been referring only to tonight.
For the past week, Christine had been reflecting on the questions Reverend Andrews had posed for her consideration. All at once the answers seemed clear.
No, she didn’t want to let fear win and live the rest of her life alone. Yes, she did believe that Dale was who he appeared to be. And yes, she was willing to put her trust in the Lord and open her heart to love. Because she had come to believe that God meant for them to be together. For always.
It might take Dale longer to arrive at that conclusion, Christine reminded herself. He had heavy baggage to deal with, too. But she was filled with a serene confidence that the Lord would reveal it to him, in time, as He’d done for her.
All she had to do was wait.
And keep reminding herself of that inspiring passage from Corinthians that spoke to the power of love.
So there abide faith, hope and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
