Saving Gideon (2 page)

He shook his head. His nearest
Englisch
neighbor was a two-mile walk through the pasture. They were good neighbors. They never gave him strange looks or tried to take his picture. And they never blew their car horn at this time of night.

Someone was in trouble. Gideon pulled on his coat and the rubber boots he used to wear when he fed the pigs, then he grabbed up the battery-operated lantern he kept on the porch for emergencies. No one made a racket like that in the middle of the night without there being something wrong.

As he stepped from under the shelter of the front porch, the snow swirled around him on fretful gusts. The wind was stronger now. The wet, fat flakes piled where they landed, built up by their weight and number. It was a doozy of a storm and not the best night to be in trouble.

He headed off toward the road. It would be quicker to cut across the pasture, but far more hazardous. His lantern only illuminated three yards directly ahead of him, so Gideon kept his head down and his feet pointed north until he reached the slated fence that lined his property. Turning east would take him to the Bradleys’ house, his
Englisch
neighbor, but something told him to turn west. Through the dancing swirls of snow, he could just make out a set of red lights about a quarter of a mile down the road, off to the side and in a field where nothing was planted.

Probably some irresponsible
Englisch
teenager with more money than sense.
Most likely took the corner too fast for the weather and veered off the road. Or someone’s teenager in
rumspringa
. . .

It wasn’t right to make assumptions, to pass judgment, but sometimes it was so hard not to. All he had wanted when he moved out here was peace and quiet. He wanted to get away from family and friends and the soothing talk and the well-wishers. It wasn’t the Amish way, but he couldn’t do it anymore. He just couldn’t do it.

Gideon shook aside those thoughts as he drew nearer to the car. The clear light from the lantern flashed off of shiny silver paint—and even shinier chrome of a crumpled-up fender.

He was no expert on
Englisch
automobiles, but he could tell this one was very costly and very damaged. The windows were tinted black as pitch, and he couldn’t make out any of what was inside, just the constant bleat of the horn and the hiss of the engine.

With gloveless fingers he tapped on the window. “Hello?” he called, rapping a bit harder. “Hello?”

No answer.

Not wanting to waste another minute, Gideon grabbed the door handle and pulled. Stuck. He pulled again. The door let out a mournful groan, but creaked open about half an inch. Placing one foot against the front panel of the car, Gideon braced himself and pulled again. The door screeched and popped as it opened, the dome ceiling light illuminating the interior.

He wasn’t sure what he would find, but it surely wasn’t this wisp of a woman slumped over the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against the horn.

He exhaled, not realizing until that moment that he’d been holding his breath. He should move her, but . . . what if her neck was damaged? Or broken? What if she had internal bleeding and by moving her he caused it to be worse, or even fatal?

What if she froze to death while he stood in the snow and mulled over all the “what ifs”?

As gently as he could, he cupped her shoulders and pulled her away from the steering wheel. Then he eased her head back against the seat rest. Blessedly, the horn stopped, but was immediately replaced by the irritating
yap, yap, yap
of a tiny pooch.

The woman’s skin was as pale as buttermilk, and he thought for a moment she might already be dead. Then he noted the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the foggy tufts of her breath. Just under the feathery cut of her bangs, a nasty-looking bruise had started to form. A thin cut bisected her left eyebrow, and blood trickled down her cheek.

“Missus?” He knew she wouldn’t respond. She was alive, but unconscious. With a goose egg like the one she had, it was no wonder.

He hesitantly reached out a hand and pushed back her hair. It was as dark as a raven’s wing and twice as shiny. Soft as down—and thick with blood.

A low growl issued from the passenger’s seat. Gideon momentarily turned his attention from the woman to her dog—if one was feeling generous enough to actually call him that. The whelp couldn’t have weighed more than five pounds, but Gideon had the feeling that if pressed the dog would defend his mistress with sharp teeth and all the bite he could muster.

He extended a hand and let the tiny canine smell him. The silky-looking demi-beast whined, then licked Gideon to show his approval. Then he sat back on his haunches and cocked his silverytan head to one side as if waiting for what to do next.

“That makes two of us,” Gideon muttered.

One thing was certain—he had to get the woman out of this weather before she froze to death. She wore only a scrap of a dress. A spangled little thing of green and silver that looked as if it had been made of dragonfly wings and stardust. In it she seemed like some sort of pixie princess, but it couldn’t be very warm. Her shoes weren’t much better—tiny straps of silver and sparkly stones—hardly enough to call shoes and certainly not made for walking through unexpected snowstorms. Not that she would be walking anywhere.

Gideon calculated the time it would take to get to the Bradleys’ with her carried over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. The mental picture included her head lolling around as he struggled over the treacherous distance covered in snow. Then he considered the journey without her, and then back, and how long it would take to get her into town and . . .

The numbers were not promising.

He didn’t want to hurt her worse. And as much as he didn’t want her at his house, he couldn’t leave her here. If he had been a praying man, he would have asked God for guidance, to help him, to help
her
. But Gideon hadn’t prayed in a long, long time.

He set his lantern on the crumpled top of her car, then stripped off his coat and covered her with it. As gently as he could, he scooped her into his arms, and cradled her to him like a child. He was careful not to let her head fall too far forward or too far back as he reached once again for his light.

Her dog growled. Gideon sighed. He couldn’t leave the beast in the cold any more than he could his mistress. His mutts could stand the weather, but he had a feeling this little dog was as pampered as they come.

“And what should I do with you?” he muttered as snow fell around him, landing on her eyelashes, and the pale, smooth curve of her cheek.

As if sensing it was time to go, the dog crawled into the gigantic brown handbag overturned in the passenger’s seat. Then he poked his head out as if to say,
What’s taking you so long?

Still holding her, Gideon wedged himself into the driver’s seat, his feet planted on the snow-covered ground. He snaked one arm through the light-colored handles of the bag, took a deep breath, and stood, managing to keep both woman and dog safe in his grasp.

The walk back to his house seemed longer than any he had ever taken. Bitter cold nipped his face and hands. The handbag containing the woman’s dog banged against his right leg. With every step he took, the lantern slapped against the other. The dead weight of the woman—even one as tiny as she—became a burden after the first hundred yards. Or maybe the burden was carrying her so gently. It was hard not to jostle her as he picked his way over the frozen ground. He was painfully aware of the steps he took, how jarring they were, how cold the wind blew, and how pale she was. With every step his boots, heavy with caked-up snow, were nearly sucked from his feet. By his constant whine, the dog seemed none too happy about the bouncy ride and relentless snow. But Gideon trudged on, the way lit only by the lantern dangling off his arm.

He could only hope she wasn’t hurt internally, and that by moving her he hadn’t sealed her death. He couldn’t stand another life on his conscience.

Slowly he made his way back up the road and down the unpaved driveway that led to his house. He’d left the oil lamp burning in the front room. Golden light shone through the window, beckoning him like a sailor to a lighthouse.
Just a few more yards.
His breath puffed out in bursts of cloudy vapor. The snow continued to fall, but it had lost its urgency and now the flakes, still as large and wet, drifted lazily toward the waiting ground.

Getting the door open was no easy feat, but no one locked up out here and with a little cautious shuffling, Gideon managed to get his injured pixie out of the storm.

The temperature inside the house was marginally better than outside. With no one to tend it, the fire had fizzled out once again, and though the coals still burned brilliant orange under their blanket of ash, they gave off very little heat.

He laid the woman gently on the couch. She moaned as he moved his arms from beneath her. He considered that a good sign. Maybe she wouldn’t be out much longer. Maybe she would wake up and tell him who she was and what she was doing driving around on a night like this.

He removed her shoes and placed them next to the big brown handbag he’d deposited on the floor, then he covered her with his coat.

The tiny pooch stuck his nose out and sniffed around. He looked longingly up at the sofa, seeming to measure the distance, and then thought better of it. He whined, and Gideon wondered if the dog had ever been allowed to jump before. The little thing leapt into the air and scrambled onto the woman’s belly, settling himself down on top of Gideon’s coat.

Gideon stirred the glowing coals, added a couple of logs to the grate, and in a few short minutes the fire roared once again. The wood glowed, the light casting golden orange shadows onto her face.

Pixie
. The word sprang to mind once again. During his
rumspringa
he’d read a book about a faraway, made-up land filled with magical creatures—fairies, gnomes, and pixies. His houseguest seemed to be the embodiment of the latter. She had a heart-shaped face with a pointed little chin and dark eyebrows to match short, inky curls. She looked beautiful in an other-worldly kind of way—beautiful, privileged, and as pampered as her dog.

But if he remembered the story correctly, the pixies caused all the trouble and the eventual downfall of the fairy kingdom.

Gideon shook himself free of the spell that seemed to surround them. He shouldn’t be standing there, staring at her and thinking about long-ago books, he should be—it took him a minute to collect his thoughts—he should be cleaning her wound, gathering more blankets, and seeing if he could rouse her.

Think about it!
He shook his head.
If she didn’t wake up after the way you carried her, she ain’t gonna wake up anytime soon.

The terrible thought occurred to him that she might not wake up at all . . . ever.

He pushed it away, trying to remember what the doctor had told his brother Gabriel when his oldest boy had fallen out of an apple tree and conked his head.

Let them sleep, but try to wake them up every hour or so. If they don’t respond, you have trouble.

Gideon peered out the window where the snow had piled upon the ledge.
Ach
, would he have trouble. Enough of it that he wasn’t about to borrow any. He’d just take it one step at a time.

He added another log to the fire, then made his way to the linen closet to get some quilts. She would be more comfortable in the bed, but the living room would be warmer. He scooped up the whining, growling whelp of a dog, retrieved his coat, then covered the woman with the quilts before depositing the dog back into his original position. He fetched a washrag to clean the nasty-looking gash on her forehead, wetting it in the washstand basin before warming it by the fire.

He tried to be gentle as he pushed back her hair once again and touched the rag to the gash, but his fingers felt big and clumsy against her skin. He dabbed at the dried blood and winced at the depth of the cut. It probably needed stitches, but the hospital was a long way away.

He dabbed it a few more times, and satisfied the bleeding had stopped, went to the kitchen and found the next best thing—a small tube of Super Glue. Returning to her side, he took a deep breath before applying the glue and pressing the sides of the wound together.

Her eyes fluttered open, big and unfocused. They settled on him, and in a split second, it occurred to him that they were the exact same color of the grape-flavored gumdrops Mr. Anderson kept over at the general store. It had to be a trick of the lighting. He couldn’t be sure because as quickly as they opened, they closed again.

Surely the plunge of his stomach was nothing more than relief that she had awakened at all.

“Are you all right?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t fallen back into unconsciousness.

“Head hurts,” she murmured.

Not a lot, but a start. Gideon smiled despite himself. “I bet it does.”

“What happened?”

“You had a wreck,” he said, using the words he’d heard from the
Englischers
in town.

“My whole life is a wreck.” Her defeated tone tugged at his heart.

“An automobile wreck.”

“Where am I?”

“My house.”

“Oh,” she said. “You rescued me.”

“No—”

“Thank you . . .” She turned her face away and once again drifted into oblivion.

Gideon stood motionless in the fire’s flickering shadows, but he wouldn’t let himself think too much about what she had said. It wasn’t true. He hadn’t rescued her. Heroism wasn’t his strong suit. He didn’t have it in him.