Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  Morgan pulled her hand away, hoping her expression more closely resembled a smile than the grimace she felt.

  There would be no next time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Morgan opened the back door a crack and peeked inside. Del slept in the easy chair, his long legs propped up on the padded footstool. The plaid wool blanket draped across his lap, but it wasn’t long enough to cover his gray socks. Morgan thought she would make a clean escape across the kitchen to the hallway when Del woke.

  “Made it back okay, I see.” He yawned.

  “Hill Street was slippery, but I made it,” Morgan said. “The snow is coming down hard now.”

  Del stood and stretched. “I’d better check on Houdini and Adelaide before I turn in.”

  “I already did,” Morgan said. “They have plenty of hay and water. Thanks for putting them in the barn.”

  “So how was your date?” Del asked.

  “Strange.”

  Del opened the wood stove and stirred the coals with a fireplace poker. “I would have expected that from Mr. Faerie Tales.”

  Morgan sat on the rocker next to the easy chair. “Did you ever date after your wife passed away?”

  “I tried it once or twice.” Del placed two pieces of wood inside the stove. “But it just didn’t feel right. I guess I’d rather be alone than marry the wrong woman, you know?”

  “I do know.”

  “You can have the chair,” Del said. “I’m turning in.”

  Morgan wrapped the wool blanket around her shoulders. She dozed off in the easy chair to the smell of wood smoke and the sound of pinesap popping. A loud cracking woke her. Morgan jumped out of the easy chair. She ran to the back door in her sock feet and peered through the glass. A branch had broken off a tree near the back door under the weight of the wet snow.

  No monster, no Trevin, no murderer. Morgan went to bed.

  When she walked into the kitchen the next morning, Del seemed ecstatic about being snowed in. He bundled up and stomped his way through knee-high snow to the woodpile. The sound of the chain saw broke the peace of the morning. Morgan started a batch of pancakes from a box mix. Turkey sausage links sizzled in the cast-iron skillet.

  While she cooked, she watched a sparrow land on the window sill and puff out its feathers. Snowflakes dusted the little bird and covered the openings on the feeder. Morgan stepped outside to knock the snow off the feeder. The sparrow attacked the feeder the minute Morgan retreated indoors.

  She couldn’t imagine surviving the winter with only a thin layer of feathers to keep her warm. Maybe the sparrow had a nest to huddle in.

  The day she had found Dawn, the magpie had flown to a nest, carrying something in its beak. Wintertime bird nests. Morgan would be able to look it up on the Internet soon, when the new service was installed. Phone service would be more consistent, too. Morgan checked her cell phone.

  No signal.

  “Great.”

  The pancakes and sausage were done. Morgan started to fry eggs to go with the rest of the meal. It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard the chain saw in a while.

  She leaned out the back door. “Del! Breakfast is ready.”

  No answer.

  Morgan sat on a kitchen chair to pull on her snow boots. She grabbed her coat and scarf and walked outside. Heavy snowflakes splatted against her face.

  “Del?”

  His knee-deep boot prints were half buried with fresh snow. Morgan followed his trail around the side of the house to the woodpile.

  “Del!”

  The old cowboy leaned against the stack of firewood. His shoulders quaked as he shivered. Then Morgan saw the red staining the white snow.

  “I had a little accident with the chain saw,” Del said through chattering teeth. He attempted a smile.

  Morgan ran to the woodpile. Del pressed one gloved hand to his left forearm. Blood soaked the jagged edges of his coat sleeve. Red drops oozed down his glove and plopped onto the snow.

  Morgan knew the correct response to emergencies. She was determined she wouldn’t panic this time.

  “We’ve got to get that bleeding stopped, and get you to the hospital.”

  Del tried to walk, but he was shivering so hard, his body didn’t seem to cooperate.

  “Put your arm around my shoulder.”

  Morgan had to get Del inside, by the fire. He was either freezing, or going into shock, or both. Somehow she managed to half carry and half drag the tall cowboy into the kitchen. Morgan helped him lower himself into the easy chair. She stacked pillows on the arm of the chair and rested his forearm on top, to elevate the wound. She stirred the fire and threw on two more logs.

  Morgan flipped open her phone. No signal. She resisted the urge to throw the useless phone against the wall, and stuck it in her jeans pocket instead. She picked up the receiver for the landline phone. No ring tone.

  “Del, I need to see your arm. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  He nodded his head. He had stopped shivering, but his normally ruddy face was pale.

  “I think pulling your coat off will cause too much movement. I’m going to cut off the sleeve.”

  She got scissors and sawed at the sleeve from his wrist to above his elbow. Morgan gently pulled it open.

  Nausea nearly overwhelmed her when she realized the extent of the injury. The bloody gash revealed bone and tendon. Blood pumped out of his arm in a steady rhythm.

  “I need to put a compress on your wound.”

  She pulled clean dishtowels out of a drawer and placed them on Del’s forearm. Morgan held them to the wound, pressing firmly. The towels soaked through with blood.

  If the blood clotted, removing the compress might cause the clot to dislodge, and the bleeding to resume. Morgan wondered how she could tell whether the blood had stopped pumping out of Del’s arm.

  She tried both phones again.

  Nothing.

  Del closed his eyes.

  “Stay with me, Del.”

  The pillows under his arm dripped blood onto the floor, already soaked through.

  “Del, I can’t get the bleeding stopped.”

  “Damn doctor,” Del whispered.

  “What?”

  “Doctor’s orders.” Del opened his eyes. “Blood thinner. Must be making me bleed out.”

  Morgan looked out the window. Huge flakes smacked against the glass. Maybe one of the neighbors had phone service. Morgan debated leaving Del for the chance that someone further up the hill might be able to call for an ambulance.

  That was what she had done for Dawn. Left her alone to go call for help.

  Del rested his head against the back of the easy chair.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Morgan said.

  She grabbed the car keys and ran to the garage. Falling snow obscured the path to the garage. Morgan remembered Del’s warning about people freezing in blizzards, and not being found until spring. A snowdrift piled against the door waist-high. Morgan grabbed the door handle and pulled as hard as she could.

  “Shovel,” she said.

  She struggled through knee-high snow back to the house and grabbed a snow shovel. Back to the garage. Morgan shoveled furiously. The faster she dug, the harder the snow seemed to blow back in. She got one side of the double doors open wide enough for her to slip inside.

  Maybe she could push the garage doors open with the car.

  Morgan jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine made a reluctant effort to turn over. Morgan tried again. And again. Until the engine did not respond at all. She turned the key one last time. Click click click.

  The battery was dead.

  Morgan let her head fall onto the steering wheel.

  A battery wouldn’t have broken her budget. And now Del might die due to her negligence. Morgan brushed away tears with her gloves. There had to be something she could do to save Del.

  The keys were in the ATVs. Morgan fired up one, and drove it to the garage door. She gunned the engine. The tir
es spun on the garage floor. The door wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m wasting time.”

  Morgan slid out the door and hurried to the house. She rested her wrist against Del’s forehead. He felt cool and clammy.

  They were so close to town, and yet they might as well have been a hundred miles away. Or in another century. How did people survive without phones and cars in the horse and buggy days?

  Or donkey and cart days.

  Morgan headed for the barn. The doors faced south. The snow was only a foot deep against the front of the barn. She ducked inside the small side door and pushed the double doors open from inside.

  “Time to earn your feed,” Morgan told the donkeys.

  They cooperated as Morgan fumbled with the bridles, harness, and cart. She was certain she had not fastened all the buckles and straps correctly, but when she drove the cart through the open barn doors, everything held together.

  The sturdy little animals strained against their harness, plowing through deep snow. They negotiated two gates and stopped near the back door. Morgan ran inside. She strapped on the survival pack, then grabbed the comforters off both beds.

  “Del, we’re going to the hospital,” Morgan said. “Houdini and Adelaide are taking you.”

  She was able to rouse Del enough to get him out the door and onto the cart. After bundling him up, she walked beside the cart. The donkeys knew the way to town. She let them set their own pace, even though her heart was racing. It was like walking inside a snow globe.

  Hill Street was devoid of traffic. The snow muffled every sound except for clinking buckles on the donkeys’ harness. Their hooves punched holes in fresh snow. Morgan’s breath came out in steaming clouds. Sweat soaked through her wool cap and trickled into her eyes.

  When they reached the bottom of Hill Street, Morgan pulled back on the reins. She hadn’t thought beyond getting Del to town. She fumbled for her cell phone. No signal. No tire tracks marred the snow.

  She didn’t expect anyone to be out in the blizzard, but surely people were holed up in their above-the-shop apartments. Morgan turned in a circle, searching for signs of life in the shops. She could barely see across Main Street. A neon fairy danced in Piers’s shop window, but the “closed” sign faced the street.

  Morgan drove the cart into the rear parking lot of Faerie Tales.

  “Piers! We need help!” She pounded her fist against the back door. “Help!”

  She had assumed he went home after dinner. But no one answered. Morgan took a step backward and looked up at the second-floor windows. She bent down to form a snowball, and aimed it at a window. It splattered against the glass.

  The curtain gapped open slightly. Morgan caught a glimpse of a person through the cream-colored sheers. Just enough to see it wasn’t Piers looking at her.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “Call nine-one-one! Del is hurt!”

  The figure turned slightly, and Morgan thought she detected a heavy, but definitely womanly, shape. The sheers and the falling snow obscured her vision.

  “Sparrow?” Morgan whispered to herself.

  Piers certainly hadn’t wasted any time when Morgan spurned his advances just hours ago. The curtain fluttered closed.

  Morgan’s injured ego would have to wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It might have been seconds, but it seemed that she waited in the falling snow behind the closed rear door of Faerie Tales for an hour. She pounded on the door again. No answer.

  “Front door,” she told the donkeys.

  They plowed their way toward the front of the shop. The cart jerked to a stop. They had run against some snow-covered obstacle. Morgan pulled, and the donkeys strained against their harness, but the cart’s wheels wouldn’t budge. Morgan abandoned them at the side of the shop. She ran to the front door and beat her fist against the glass.

  “Piers! Help!”

  Morgan pulled her cell phone out. She tried dialing nine-one-one, even though her phone didn’t have signal. She turned, scanning Main Street for any open shops. Golden Springs was a ghost town.

  She checked Del. His eyes were closed. If he was breathing, Morgan couldn’t tell through the layers of comforters.

  “Del, I’m sorry!” Morgan wiped her glove across her eyes. The tears threatened to freeze to her cheeks. She didn’t want to leave Del, but she had no choice. She had to get help. “I’ve got to run to Bernie’s. I’ll be right back.”

  “Morgan!” Kurt Willard post-holed through knee-deep snow across Main Street, a still camera bouncing against his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “Del tore up his arm with a chain saw.”

  “Follow me.”

  Kurt helped dislodge the cart, then plowed back across Main Street. Morgan followed. The donkeys struggled to drag the cart across the slick pavement. Kurt led them to a Victorian-style house on a side street. He clambered up the snow-covered steps onto the porch and hammered his fist on the door.

  A woman with soft gray hair opened the door. She clutched the neck of her pink fleece bathrobe. A huge black Labrador pushed past her legs, sniffing the air and eyeing the donkeys.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Drewmoore,” Kurt gasped. “We have an emergency. We’ve got to see Doc.”

  Kurt lifted Del off the donkey cart, and struggled up the slippery front steps. Morgan looped the donkeys’ reins around the porch railing and followed Kurt inside.

  Doctor Drewmoore ushered them into an examining room. He pulled a lab coat on over his sweatshirt and pants, and slid his sock feet into rubber heelless shoes.

  The men lifted Del onto an examining table.

  “Is he alive?” Morgan asked.

  Del moaned as the doctor unwrapped the comforters.

  Morgan burst into relieved sobs. Mrs. Drewmoore put an arm around Morgan’s shoulders.

  “Come with me,” she told Morgan. “We’ll have a cup of tea while we wait for the ambulance.”

  It was a long wait.

  Patty Drewmoore distracted Morgan with small talk. She and the doctor were semi-retired. They maintained a small clinic that took up one side of the ground level of their home. They were well equipped for minor emergencies. The doctor often administered first aid, keeping people stable until the ambulance could take them to the hospital in Granite Junction.

  “We weren’t supposed to be here today,” Patty said.

  Morgan rubbed the Labrador’s blocky head. “What do you mean?”

  “Henry and I were going to meet our son and his family at Monarch Ski Resort last night. When we heard the weather forecast, we debated whether to try outrunning the storm, but we decided to stay home. For Del’s sake, I’m glad we did.”

  Kurt stuck his head into the kitchen.

  “Del wants you.”

  Morgan rushed to the examining room. Del lay flat on the table, still pale, but awake. An IV snaked from his good arm. The doctor had bandaged the wounded arm.

  “We’ve got to get him to the hospital,” the doctor said, “but once he’s down the hill, I’m sure they’ll get him patched up.”

  “Thank God!” Morgan pressed her hands to her face as the tears started to flow again.

  “I’m a tough old buzzard,” Del whispered. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Morgan said.

  The doctor shook his head. “You got him here. You saved his life.”

  The Granite Junction ambulance couldn’t get up the pass to Golden Springs. The blizzard had dumped too much snow for ordinary vehicles to navigate. Instead, a search and rescue snow-cat rumbled up to the doctor’s house.

  Morgan ran onto the porch with Mrs. Drewmoore and waved at the snowcat. The donkeys stood with their reins looped around the porch railing, falling snow covering their backs. They eyed the boxy orange contraption with suspicion, but seemed too worn out to run from the noisy vehicle.

  Four triangular rubber snow tracks, modeled after the continuous track of a military tank, gripped the snow-packe
d street. A paramedic jumped out of the cab and ran up the porch steps.

  Mrs. Drewmoore led the woman into the house. Morgan paced across the porch, wearing a path through the snow. Finally, the doctor and Kurt carried Del out of the house on a stretcher and down the steps to the snowcat.

  Morgan started to climb into the cab of the snowcat with the paramedic.

  “No,” Del whispered. “Houdini and Adelaide.”

  “I’ll go with Del,” Kurt said. “I’d offer to take care of the donkeys, but I don’t know anything about livestock. I’ll call you when we get to the hospital. Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan said.

  She pulled the cell phone out of her pocket. The signal was strong. It figured.

  “Call my number.” Kurt recited his cell phone number. Morgan dialed it. Kurt’s ringtone was a big band song. “Now we’re connected!” Kurt flashed one of his charming smiles, and for once Morgan wasn’t annoyed by it.

  The snowcat rolled slowly out of sight.

  Morgan turned to Houdini and Adelaide. She threw her arm around Adelaide and buried her face in the donkey’s neck.

  “You are the best donkeys. The best!”

  Patty Drewmoore stepped onto the porch, Buddy the Labrador at her side. “Have they got a place to stay tonight?”

  “We’ll head back up the hill,” Morgan said. “If we made it down, surely we can make it up.”

  “Oh, no!” Patty said. “It’s still snowing, and it’ll be dark soon. They must be exhausted from their adventure. Our garage was a carriage house once upon a time. Bring them around back.”

  Patty backed an SUV out of the converted carriage house. Her neighbors helped clear space while Morgan unharnessed the donkeys. News spread quickly about the donkeys who had saved Del Addison’s life. The riding stable near Mineral Springs Park sent two bales of straw and a bag of oats to the Drewmoores’, pulled by a horse-drawn sleigh.

  “What exactly happened to old Del?” the Drewmoores’ neighbor Abe, as old as Del, asked.

  “He cut his arm with a chain saw,” Morgan said.