If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
The throbbing in my left foot had turned into a searing pain, a deep ache that seemed to radiate through my entire leg. I’d wrapped it tightly in an old wool scarf, but the cold seeped in anyway. My cabin was a barely tolerable icebox.
The envelopes sat on my small kitchen table, waiting for dawn and the long walk to the mail delivery box. Barnaby watched them, then me, from his spot by the stove.
I drifted into a fitful sleep, fully clothed, slumped in my armchair.
Then, a sudden, piercing crackle.
A smell, acrid and sharp, filled the air. Smoke.
I jolted awake, my heart hammering against my ribs. The window. A terrible, orange glow pulsed against the frosted glass.
My barn. My wood storage barn was on fire.
Julian. He wasn’t waiting for the twenty-four hours to expire. He was escalating.
I scrambled to my feet, a cry catching in my throat. My precious firewood, my only source of heat, was going up in flames. The thought of losing it sent a fresh wave of panic through me.
Barnaby let out a terrified yowl, his fur bristling.
There was no time to save anything, no way to fight it. The fire was already too big, roaring with a terrible hunger.
My mind raced. The cabin itself wasn’t directly threatened yet, but the heat from the blaze was immense, and sparks flew like angry embers in the wind. And my envelopes. My carefully crafted notices. I couldn’t leave them.
I snatched the stack of envelopes from the table, then grabbed Clara’s tin box. Barnaby rubbed frantically against my leg.
“Come on, boy,” I whispered, pulling on my boots. “We have to go.”
My only other option, my only sanctuary, was the old stone root cellar underneath the cabin. A cramped, dirt-floored hole, but it was solid stone, fireproof. And it was unheated. Dangerously unheated.
I stumbled out of the cabin, the cold night air hitting me like a physical blow. The roar of the fire was deafening, the heat intense even from a distance. Flames licked high into the black sky, casting dancing shadows all around.
Barnaby darted ahead of me, scrambling down the narrow wooden steps into the cellar. I followed, my frostbitten foot screaming with every painful step.
The cellar door creaked shut behind me, plunging us into absolute darkness. I fumbled for my lantern, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped it. The small flame flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows on the packed dirt walls.
The air was still, heavy, and bone-numbingly cold.
I huddled against a stack of canned goods, pulling Barnaby close. The cat, usually so independent, pressed himself against me, trembling.
Hours stretched, agonizing and endless. The smell of smoke permeated the earth above us. The cold seeped into my bones, into my very marrow. My left foot, already in agony, grew steadily worse. I tried to rub some circulation into it, but it felt like a block of ice, a dead weight at the end of my leg. A deep, sick numbness began to creep in, followed by sharp, stabbing pains.
I knew what it was. Frostbite. Severe, crushing frostbite.
Julian had tried to freeze me out. Now, he had burned me out, driving me into an unheated hole in the ground.
But I still had Clara’s documents. And my letters to his lenders. He hadn’t won. Not yet.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours