When Snowflakes Never Cease (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  Unplanned

  Paralyzed

  Policed

  Straightened

  Infected

  Abridged

  Turbulence

  Secluded

  Captivated

  Alaskan Refuge Christian Suspense Series:

  Identity Theft

  Termination Dust

  Frost Heaves

  Whispers of Refuge (North Korean) Christian Fiction Series:

  The Beloved Daughter

  Slave Again

  Torn Asunder

  Flower Swallow

  Out of North Korea

  Orchard Grove Christian Fiction Series:

  Beauty from Ashes

  Before the Dawn

  Breath of Heaven

  Dear Crossroads Reader;

  I sincerely hope you immersed yourself in the adventure of Cosette and Josh. She had to learn that God cares about all the details of her life, big and little.

  It is now my very real joy to introduce the third book in this collection, Wrong About Mr. Wright by the unquestionably talented author, Chautona Havig. I have known and called Chautona “friend” for many years now online, but it was a special privilege to be her roommate a year ago at a writer’s conference we both attended. There is nothing like cementing a friendship with late night gab sessions, shared meals, and spontaneous heart to hearts. I look forward to many more years of friendship, getting to know Chautona even better!

  In Wrong About Mr. Wright you will meet Ronni Carlisle, who is convinced that her early retirement plan just got buried under the snowdrifts of Juniper Springs. Stranded, Ronni teams up with local resident, Hank Wright, and helps “make Christmas” for the rest of her fellow passengers. Now, if he’d just stop messing with her idea of the perfect man for her.

  Please enjoy this story of trusting the Lord to guide our lives—even when His plan doesn’t look how you think it should.

  Alana Terry author of Buried Secrets

  A Novella By

  Published by

  Havilah Press Publications

  Copyright Notice

  Wrong about Mr. Wright by Chautona Havig, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.

  The events and people in this book are purely fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental. I’d love to meet them!

  Edited by: JTW Editing

  Fonts: Garamond, Eras, Austina, Berton Regular

  Cover photos: belchonock/depositphotos.com and okfotopuntoit/depositphotos.com

  Cover art by: Chautona Havig

  Some Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation

  Each book in this collection is the intellectual property and the copyrighted material of the respective author and/or publisher and is reprinted as a part of this collection (anthology) only once and only by permission of the owners. The publisher makes no claim on, or to, the property of the owners which exceeds that permission. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or intended to be used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, places, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and beyond the intention of either the authors or the publisher.

  “Christmas never feels like Christmas on the off years.”

  Piston, a sleek tabby with more than a few of her own opinions on the subject of off-year Christmases, stretched out one paw, barely tapping Hank in the process. Hank took it as another jab at the lack of Christmas decor for her to destroy one tree skirt, ornament, and light string at a time. Because of that, he ignored her. It was expected.

  A fire blazed in the fireplace—worthless against the snowstorm raging outside. That’s what HVACs were for. However, something about a good blaze gave a fine illusion of warmth and coziness, his Peg had always said. He built the fire for her. He always did.

  Even three years after Jesus had called her home.

  A log fell. It lay just a little too close to the fire screen, so Hank hoisted himself from the couch, stretched, gave Piston a couple of ear scratches, and went to rearrange the burning wood back on the grate where it belonged. “And that’s why we have a screen, lil’ girl. Those sparks would have singed you if you’d been—”

  His butt buzzed—probably one of their girls calling to see how he was doing on “Christmas Adam.” Heather had heard some shop owner call it that when they were on vacation in the Midwest once, and she’d insisted on making it part of the family’s culture. Christmas Adam. “Because Adam came before Eve, Daddy! The lady said so!”

  He fumbled for the phone and frowned at the name flashing on the screen. “Yolanda? What’s up?”

  “Whew! Hank. I am so glad you’re there.”

  “Where else would I be in this storm?”

  “If we were all smart, nowhere near here. Look, it’s getting bad out there and, that makes me feel real guilty for asking you this, but…”

  You need an errand. Well, I could afford to freeze off a few pounds. “Whatcha need?”

  “A plane had to land about an hour ago—out of Glendale. It’s just a puddle jumper to South Tahoe, but now they’re stranded here.” She lowered her voice. “Hank, I’ve got forty-two passengers and a coupla pilots in here and nothing to feed them! I’ve got enough water, sure, but we can’t get a bus down this way to try to farm these folks out. Joe won’t even try to do it—says the roads are treacherous. Then I remembered your snowmobile and sled… and how you always keep stocked up…”

  “You need supplies.”

  Yolanda sounded a bit panicked. “Could be for three days!”

  “So,” Hank amended. “You need food, blankets, sleeping bags, pillows, air mattresses—”

  “Hank?”

  He just waited.

  “Bring whatever you’ve got that’ll fit in that sled. And if you have a crockpot or something to cook any of that food in, we’ll take that, too.” He’d just started for the kitchen when she said, “Just don’t take away from your family.”

  “They’re not here, Yola. It’s the off-year.”

  He couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn she whispered, “Thank God for that, anyway.” Before he could ask, Yolanda continued. “I kind of have another favor—an even bigger one.”

  Before she could continue, a loud, demanding, I’m-used-to-being-obeyed voice breached the peace and solitude of his home. “Who’s that?”

  “That is my other favor. You’ve got to get her out of here. She’s making everyone all stressed out and jittery. Take her to Bev’s. I’ll pay for it myself. Just save us!” When he hesitated, she added, “Don’t forget, I make your favorite cookies, and I’m not ashamed to withhold them indefinitely until you agree.”

  Something about inept pilots and insufficient services reached his ears. “She got warm clothes with her?”

  “Um, doubt it. She shivered in here wearing a pencil skirt, drape-necked shirt, and suit jacket—heels that my granny would have unflattering opinions of. No coat, even!”

  “I’ll bring one of Peg’s snowsuits, then.”

  “Bring two,” Yolanda insisted. “You could fit two of this lady in one of Peg’s.”

  Not one person at the podunk airport seemed to know what they were doing. Stranded passengers huddled in the few chairs shoved here or there, on the floor, stood near a now-empty vending machine… Half of them had cell service. The other half didn’t, and the fools didn’t even care.

  Ronni Carlisle was among the number with no service. Even as the woman behind the counter chatted with what was probably her boyfriend, Ronni’s entire retirement plan slowly swirled down the drain of her existence. All because inept pilots couldn’t keep ahead of a little snowstorm.

  The phone dropped into its cradle, and “Yolanda” plastered on the fakest smile since the Miss America runner up had to congratulate the winner on camera. “I�
�ve called one of our local men. He’ll be here in a bit with supplies and then take you to our bed and breakfast.” Ronni might have made a retort, but the woman dropped her voice. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about that. Everyone would want to go, and Bev doesn’t have enough rooms. Policy says the pilots get rooms first, and then it's first-come-first-served. I’m giving you first dibs.”

  It sounded contrived, but a look behind her at the packed room made Ronni decide she didn’t care. A toddler began a tantrum. Nope, definitely did not care. Ronni’s gaze landed on the abandoned phone. “Hey, may I use your phone? Maybe I can salvage—”

  “It’s against airport policy, sorry.”

  “And stranding passengers in the middle of nowhere isn’t against company policy?” Asking the question? A waste of time and Ronni knew it. Still, there was a certain satisfaction in knowing she’d irritated the woman.

  The clock that dangled slightly cockeyed over the gate desk read two o’clock. “My Uber driver will be arriving right about now.”

  Yolanda eyed her. “We don’t have Uber here, ma’am—”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Fine. Miss.”

  Ronni couldn’t help herself. “I’m not twenty, either.”

  “Miz, you’ll find that Juniper Springs lacks some of the amenities you are probably used to.”

  Once more, she couldn’t help herself. “Would those include indoor plumbing and intelligence?” Ronni winced. Too far. “Um, sorry. I’m stressed. That was uncalled for.”

  “It was, but you’re forgiven. It’s a difficult situation for all of us.”

  I.e., You’re making my life miserable. Ronni wanted to say she didn’t care, but she did. The hard, molded plastic chairs meant no one could sit comfortably. The floor—too cold for small children to crawl around on, and yet they did—pushing toys, spinning. If it could make you dirty in thirty seconds flat, they did it.

  One little girl, however, stood in a corner, holding a doll close to her. Something about her reminded Ronni of a child from fifty years ago. Did kids even play with dolls anymore? Real dolls with soft bodies?

  Her father said something, and at that moment, it reminded Ronni of a picture she’d seen the week before—of a little girl with leukemia. Sure hope they found the guy they needed.

  Just then, Yolanda’s words took on new meaning. Bed and breakfast? They might have a landline—or a business phone I could use. Internet, even! She turned back. “You said someone was coming to take me to a bed and breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long will that take, do you think?”

  Yolanda dove to save a kid from being clobbered by a stanchion that threatened to fall. But she returned a moment later, several stanchions in arms. “Well, let’s see. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive to Hank’s house, so I’d say he’ll be here in an hour and a half or so.”

  Only after the woman disappeared behind an “Employees Only” sign did that register. What?

  The door snapped shut behind him, but Hank couldn’t hear it for the voice that overrode all noise. “—and how hard is it for you to do your job?”

  He saw the supervisor’s office as he passed and stepped in. Two chairs served well as drying and thawing racks for the snowsuits. That voice would never load herself into a chilly snowsuit, much less two.

  In the doorway, he debated. Save Yolanda from further scolding or get the supplies indoors? Things quieted for a moment, so he turned toward the back door. Once again, that voice started up—this time ranting at no one in particular as far as he could tell.

  Hank winced at the tone. How could a voice that deep hold almost a shrill quality? Never mind that. There’s nothing quality about a shrill voice. Hand resting on the push bar to the exit, he waited to see if it would stop. Instead, it escalated, and Yolanda’s pleading tones reached him.

  Enough was enough.

  Determined to put a stop to the haranguing, Hank strode down the hallway to the gate area and found the woman. No one would believe that a woman with such pale, long blonde hair and petite stature and build could possibly have such a deep, rich voice. Her profile showed lovely features marred by hard lines and rigid determination. She should be beautiful.

  Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but Hank knew Yolanda well—she’d been his Peg’s friend. She’d had a hard life, and when he saw the hint of a twitch at the corner of her mouth, he knew. She’d cry soon.

  That’s all it took. He marched forward and stepped between the women. “Excuse me, ma’am. If you’ll just come with me. We’ve arranged to take care of your needs. This way…”

  How he managed to shuttle her down the hall and to that office, Hank couldn’t quite say. It appeared that he’d startled the both of them. Once inside, he snapped the light on again and reached for the handle. “Do you have luggage?”

  “Just my bags in the wait—”

  Yolanda appeared with said bags. “Thought she might want to keep an eye on these herself.”

  Translation: you don’t want to be accused if anything goes wrong.

  “Thank you.”

  He and Yolanda just stared. The words had been soft, genuine, pleasant, even. As different as a summer scorcher in Death Valley from the blizzard raging outside. Yolanda excused herself, and Hank tried for a smile. “Welcome to Juniper Springs, Ms.…?”

  “Carlisle. Ronni Carlisle.” She thrust out her hand with the air of one used to controlling the conversation.

  “Well, I’m Hank Wright, and I’ll be your chauffeur down to Bev’s place today.” At her start of surprise, he winked and continued. “For ultimate comfort, I recommend you squeeze yourself into those snowsuits over there—one on top of the other. As soon as I unload the supplies I brought, I’ll get you to your lodgings.”

  That prompted a smile that lit the woman’s face. It’s just as lovely as I thought it should be.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wright. I’ve got a deal to salvage and a cellphone with no reception.”

  As much as he wanted to help her—to keep this sweeter version of Ronni Carlisle appeased, he doubted that she’d have better luck at Bev’s. Juniper Springs phone lines were notorious for going down in storms, and as far as he knew, Bev didn’t have a cellphone.

  An hour had passed before he unloaded the supplies, got warm again, and loaded Ronni-the-snow-bunny onto the snowmobile and took his seat. To her credit, she hadn’t even balked at being shoved out into the storm. He powered up and headed out through the blinding, swirling storm as if it didn’t terrify him a whit. Bravado. That’s all it is. Bravado.

  What should have been a ten-minute drive took twice that—partly because he drove a tenth of a mile past Bev’s before realizing it. Shouldn’t be out in this mess. I’m too old for this stuff.

  His kids would laugh at him, calling himself old like that. Then again, they’d probably say they were too old to be traipsing through dirvishly swirling flakes and pounding on doors for grumpy women with a diva complex.

  No one answered. He tried the knob. Nothing. Peering through the wreath with its mistletoe cluster at the top earned him nothing. The back. Nothing. Not until he’d gone to peer through the big bay windows did he realize Ronni had followed. She shouted at him through the wind blasts. “Why isn’t she answering?”

  Moving as close as he dared, Hank yelled back, “Must’ve gone to her daughter’s down in Bishop.”

  As he turned, he saw it—panic in her eyes before snowflakes hid it again. Ronni grabbed his arms and shook him. “I can’t go back to that airport. I can’t!”

  Apparently, she just can’t, Lord. So, what do I do with her?

  The answer came the moment she said, “Put me in a heated doghouse, and I promise not to complain. Just don’t take me back there!”

  He didn’t have a doghouse. Piston would never approve of such a thing in her realm, but there was the mother-in-law apartment they’d made out of the garage. Poor Ma Meers had never gotten to live there, but it had sat
there for over a decade now—only used when one or more of the girls came home with their families or boyfriends.

  If anything, the storm kicked up worse. Hank grabbed her sleeve and shouted, “Come on!”

  By the time they stomped into his kitchen, his face felt numb. It only took a minute for the stinging pricks to appear and make him want to rip the flesh from his cheeks or pickle his head in Lidocaine. Ronni just stood there stiff as a board and unblinking. Were her eyelids frozen open?

  “Ronni?”

  “Don’t. Ask. Questions. Just don’t. Please.”

  Perhaps it had been rude. Her lips pursed, causing the stinging in her face to intensify. No perhaps about it. You were rude, Veronica Marie.

  It wasn’t uncommon to hear her mother’s scolding tones when she’d done something stupid, and apparently telling off the guy who had saved her from instantaneous cabin fever fell into the unacceptable category.

  Still, those six little words, Don’t. Ask. Questions. Just don’t. Please, had cost her. I’ll apologize later. Right now, defrosting so I’m alive to do that little thing is paramount.

  Hank… Right? Was that what he said? Writhe? Her brain must be defrosting because clarity appeared in shining armor to rescue her from stupidity. Wright, of course. Hank Wright. I wonder if Hank is short for something.

  He watched her for a minute as if uncertain and nodded when she didn’t… what? Keel over? Attack? No, he just moved across the semi-rustic living room and began stoking a fire into a roaring blaze. That accomplished, he pointed. “You might want to get out of that outer suit—it’s melting all over the carpet anyway.”

  Moving, while not the furthest thing from her mind, did rank in the top ten, “You can’t make me” items. Still, the puddle of water forming at her feet—the ones standing in said puddle, no less—told her it was time to hustle. Should have left those snow boots on. Then I wouldn’t have cared.