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The windshield wipers kept the snow out of her line of vision, but packed it at the bottom of the windshield and occasionally stuck to the wipers in a squeaky blob that ricocheted to and fro before finally knocking itself loose.
“‘I gotta say, you really got a way…’”
Not exactly how she’d planned to spend the week before Christmas. She should be trying out her lobster gumbo recipe and watering the Christmas tree in her apartment back home in Maine. The grand opening of her restaurant was scheduled two weeks from now and she had plenty of preparations left. But as luck would have it, her dad had broken his leg and landed himself in traction just when this load needed delivery in time for a juicy bonus.
It had been nearly three years since she’d driven a load, two and a half of those years spent in culinary arts school, finishing her degree. Starla hadn’t wanted any part of the road again. Not for any reason.
But this was different. Her dad needed help with the only other thing besides her that meant anything to him, the only thing he’d wanted since her mother had died—this rig. And she hadn’t been able to refuse running the load. She’d grown up on the road, eaten in greasy-spoon restaurants and showered in concrete-block stalls since she was thirteen. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what to do, how to drive, keep the log sheets, make the safety checks. She’d fallen right back into the routine as though she’d never been away.
This truck was much nicer than the one they’d shared all those years. The Silver Angel was her dad’s dream rig.
She would call him in another half hour, just before his neighbor brought him supper, because he would be watching the weather channel and charting her progress. Humming, she plugged her cell phone into the charger and made sure the green light came on.
A soft sound distracted her and she turned down the stereo volume to listen. Nothing coming from the engine. She checked the side mirrors and the road behind her and, once satisfied that it had been nothing, she turned the music back up.
A sound came again. Louder this time, and unmistakably from the sleeper area behind her. Heart lurching, she cautiously leaned to the glove box and pulled out her dad’s revolver. It could be an animal. A cat or a raccoon might have slipped in while she’d been doing her log check. How many times had her dad cautioned her to close the door after grabbing the clipboard?
Starla scanned the white-blanketed vista ahead and behind, then guided the rig off to the side of the road and put the transmission in Park, at the same time unfastening her seat belt.
Jabbing the power button on the stereo, she plunged the cab into silence and turned sideways in the seat to get up. Crouched beneath the head liner, she stepped to the doorway and flipped on the overhead light. There was room to stand straight in the sleeper and she moved forward.
A bundle of bunched covers in the corner of the bed rustled. The hump was bigger than a cat or a raccoon. Heart hammering, she swallowed hard and pointed the gun. “What are you doing back here?”
The covers moved again. Not really a big enough lump to be a person—unless it was a very small person. Keeping the revolver at the steady in her right hand, she leaned forward and, with her left, jerked the blankets away.
She saw a tumble of dark hair first, followed by a small white face and blue eyes. A child!
Quickly Starla jammed the revolver into a storage cabinet overhead and bent to the little girl. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? Who are you?”
The child’s lower lip quivered, and her gaze moved to the cabinet above and back to Starla. “I’m Meredith.”
Completely confused, but relieved that her intruder was harmless, Starla sat on the edge of the bunk. “What are you doing in my truck?”
The girl sat up swiftly, all signs of worry erased, and crossed her stockinged legs. She wore a red jumper with a Sesame Street character on the bib. Grover, maybe. No, Elmo, that was the red one. “You have to help my daddy.”
Knowing full well there was no one else hiding in this cramped space, Starla looked around, anyway. “Where’s your daddy? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s at home. And he’s sad. That’s why you have to help. If you sprinkle some of your miracle dust on him so he can be happy again, I know he’ll find me a new mommy.”
Starla rubbed her brow in confusion. “Where is home?”
Meredith shrugged.
Starla pressed, “Where do you live?”
“In a brown house.”
Oh, my goodness. Placing her hands on her knees and biting her lip, Starla concentrated. Couldn’t be too hard to figure out where the kid had come from. The last place she’d stopped had been that café back on the highway a while back.
Of course. The pieces of mental puzzle slipped into place. This child had been seated at a booth with her father. Everyone in the place had stared at the stranger, the lady truck driver, but this little girl had waved and looked happy to see her. “Do I look like somebody you know?”
Meredith nodded happily.
“Who? Your mommy?”
The child frowned then and shook her head.
“Who do I look like?”
“You’re the angel, like the one in my book.” She pointed to the colorful cover. “See?”
“I’m not an angel,” Starla denied, glancing at the picture of the platinum-haired celestial being. “I’m just a person.”
Meredith shook her head. “Says you’re a angel right on the door of this truck, don’t it?”
“That’s just the name of the truck. Men are silly like that. They name things. Like trucks. My dad calls his truck Silver Angel.”
“You’re the angel,” the child insisted, pointing. “This one.” She opened the book and turned pages until she came to a picture of the woman sprinkling sparkly dust. There was a smear that appeared to be ketchup across the corner of the page. “See right here?” Meredith turned enormous blue eyes on her. “My daddy needs some of your miracle dust. Please say you’ll help him.”
“That’s just a story,” Starla told her. “It’s pretend. If I was an angel, what would I be doing driving a truck across Iowa in a snowstorm?”
Not to be dissuaded from her cause, Meredith ignored the denials and used five-year-old logic to explain, “Aunt Edna who lives at the nursey home said she was in a car crash once, and a beautiful angel in a white robe sat right on the seat beside her and kept her from going off a bridge.”
“Your aunt Edna is in a nursing home?”
“She’s not my aunt. That’s just her name. She’s prob’ly somebody’s aunt, though.”
“Well, as you can see,” Starla replied, gesturing to her cashmere V-neck sweater and jeans, “I don’t have a white robe.”
“Uh-huh.” Meredith nodded and pointed to where Starla’s white satin dressing gown and pajamas hung on a plastic hook.
“Those are my pajamas.” Starla shook her head in negation. Or was it confusion? “How did you get in here?”
“I watched when Miss Rumford carried dishes to the back. When you got your coat, I followed. I was behind the gas pumper and saw you take your papers from inside and walk around, looking at the tires and the lights and stuff. You left the door open.”
She certainly had. After all Dad’s warnings.
Meredith scooted toward the edge of the bed. “I have to go potty.”
Starla held her forehead in her hands, her mind thrown into overdrive. She would have to take this child back to her parents. To her father. To that café. She was going to lose…her gaze shot to her watch…nearly three hours, even if she made good time!
The child’s family would be frantic by now.
“Meredith,” she said suddenly. “We have to let somebody know that you’re okay.”
“Daddy’s going to be mad. Really mad.”
“I’m sure he’s more worried than mad.”
“I really have to go potty.”
Ten minutes later, after showing Meredith the camper-size toilet, digging a bag of popcorn from a supply cupboard, then buckling her into the seat belt on the passenger side, Starla asked. “Do you know your phone number?”
Meredith nodded and reeled off the number. Starla jotted it on the edge of a log sheet on her clipboard and unplugged her phone to dial. She got an answering machine. “He’s not there.”
Of course he wasn’t there. He was either at the café or at the sheriff’s department, reporting a missing child.
“He gots a cell phone, too,” Meredith told her.
“Oh! Do you know that number?”
Meredith shook her head.
“That’s okay. I’ll call information for the café. What’s it called?”
“Miss Rumford’s restaurant?”
“Yes, what’s the name of it.”
“Miss Rumford’s restaurant.”
“Of course.” Starla called long distance information and asked for the café in Elmwood, Iowa. She jotted another number down and called it.
“Waggin’ Tongue,” a male voice said.
“Oh, hi. Um, is there a man there who is looking for his daughter?”
“Charlie! It’s for you!”
At the man’s shout, Starla jerked the phone away from her ear, then returned it tentatively. “Hello?”
“Hello!” a man said into the phone. “This is Charlie McGraw.”
“I don’t quite know how to say this,” she began. “I have your daughter with me—”
“Oh God,” he said. “What do you want? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, she’s just fine. I…I don’t want anything.”
“Please don’t hurt her. Let me talk to her!”
Starla held out the phone. “Meredith, tell your father that you’re all right.”
Meredith sank back against the seat and shook her head, her chin lowered to her chest.
“Just say you’re okay, so he knows. He’s worried about you.”
Meredith shook her head, and her lower lip protruded enough to park a truck on it.
“She’s afraid,” Starla began to explain, talking into the receiver.
“What’s wrong? What have you done with her? Where are you?”
“I haven’t done anything! She thinks you’re mad at her. We’re on I-80, almost to Rock Island. I just discovered her in my sleeper about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Discovered her? What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s a…a stowaway.”
“You’re telling me she got into your truck all by herself?”
“Apparently. She keeps calling me the angel lady and asking me to sprinkle you with miracle dust.”
An audible groan came from the other end of the line.
“I’ve tried to explain that I don’t have any special powers, but she’s convinced I can do something she wants me to do.”
“Put the phone to her ear, will you, please?”
Starla reached out and placed the phone to the little girl’s ear. “You’ve got her.”
Meredith’s wide blue eyes accused Starla for a moment, then she turned her gaze away while she listened. She gave a half nod, caught her lower lip between her teeth. A tear formed at the corner of her eye. “I love you with my whole heart, too, Daddy,” she said finally. “I will. Okay. I will.”
She looked at Meredith. “He wants to talk to you.”
“I’m really sorry about this,” the man said to her. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’ve been out of my head with worry.”
“I can imagine.”
“Look, I can come get her.”
Starla glanced at the clock on the dash. “No, I’ll bring her back. I’d rather do that than sit here and wait. We’ll be there in an hour and a half or so.”
“The weather’s getting worse,” he said. “Take your time.”
“I’ll drive carefully. I have to find a place to turn around.” It was easy for him to tell her to take her time. She was the one losing precious hours needed to deliver her load on schedule. They exchanged cell phone numbers and he told her to let Meredith call him if she wanted and he’d pay for the charges.
Starla buckled in, pulled out onto the pavement and watched for an Exit sign.
“Can we listen to your music some more?” Meredith asked.
Starla flipped on the CD player, and music filled the cab.
“Is this angel music?”
“Nope. It’s a soundtrack.”
“Oh. Some angels don’t have wings that show, isn’t that right?”
The windshield wipers cleared two arcs and Starla peered into the driving snow and spotted the green sign indicating an exit. “I wouldn’t really know about that.”
Within minutes they were headed back the other direction.
“Do you know my mommy?”
Starla kept her attention on the white blur of road and sky. “I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone in Elmwood.”
“No, my mommy’s in heaven. She’s a angel, too.”
She absorbed that information with equal measures of understanding and sympathy. “Meredith, I’m not an angel. I’m just a person. I was a baby once and I went to school, just like you.”
The child straightened in her seat, settled the book squarely on her lap and opened it. “This is the mommy and daddy,” she explained, pointing to an artist’s rendition of a couple in a house with a roaring fireplace. “The daddy has lots of work to do, and he goes to his job with his beefcase.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He comes home too late at night and the mommy and the little kids are sad, ’cause they miss him.” She turned a page. “See they make cookies, but the daddy isn’t there. And they decorate the tree, but the daddy isn’t there.”
Starla was listening, but her concentration was on her driving.
“Then, the beautiful angel on the top of the Christmas tree hears how sad they are and she comes to life. See, she looks just like you.”
Starla glanced over at the white-robed apparition. Pale blond hair would be a comparison, she supposed.
“She sprinkles miracle dust on the mommy and daddy. The daddy comes home and kisses the mommy under the mistletoe, and then he stays home and opens presents with the kids. Isn’t that a nice story?”
“Very nice. What do you like the most about the story?”
“That there’s a mommy and a daddy. Two of them.”
The yearning in the child’s voice was plain. “Sometimes a daddy is enough,” Starla said. “Especially if he loves you as much as a mommy and daddy put together. That’s how much my dad loves me.”
Meredith picked up on that right away. “Is your mommy a angel, too?”
“She died when I was twelve. I was older than you, but I still had only a dad for a lot of years. He taught me to drive a truck.”
“He did? What else?”
“He taught me how to load and fire a weapon. He made me go to a martial arts school.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s where they teach you to protect yourself.”
“Oh. Can you flip guys and stuff, like the Power Puff Girls?”
“Nothing that fancy,” she replied.
“But you’re a angel, can’t you just zap bad people?”
“Meredith, I’m not an angel. How am I going to convince you?”
Meredith shrugged.
The questions continued until Starla asked Meredith to read the book to her again. The child tired and fell asleep for about half an hour, then woke groggy. “Where are we?”
“We’re almost there.”
“Can I call my daddy?”
Starla punched the numbers and handed her the phone. “Tell him we’re on the highway, not far away now.”
“Hi, Daddy…he wants to talk to you.”
“Hello,” Starla said into the phone.
“They’re closing the highway and the interstate,” he told her.
Her heart sank. She would be trapped. “Great.”
Ice was pelting the windshield and freezing now. She had slowed to a crawl and could barely see. The sun had set long ago, and the darkness was lit by the snow and her two beams of headlights that were growing dimmer by the minute. “Sleet must be freezing to my headlights. I can barely see in front of the hood.”
“Can you make out any landmarks?”
“Not really. Wait, there’s a sign up ahead. It’s covered with snow, I can’t tell. I think it’s the Elmwood sign.”
“You’re only a quarter mile from my place if it is,” he told her.
“Okay, I’m watching. It’s slow going.”
“That’s okay. You’ll see a grove of trees on your left.”
“I’m passing them now.”
“Look up ahead to the right now. Go slow around the curve.”
“I’m going slow.”
“I’m in a Cherokee at the end of my drive with my headlights on. Can you see anything?”
She couldn’t. “No…no…wait, we’re sliding!” Starla dropped the phone to grab the wheel with both hands and guide the rig around the curve. She felt the trailer slide, jackknifing toward her. Momentum and treacherous ice jerked the wheel out of her control, sending the cab toward the ditch.
Grabbing Meredith’s pink coat, she flung it over the child’s head and held it there to protect her as the truck slid sideways. An enormous jerk knocked her against the door, and pain wracked the side of her head. Starla’s vision faded to blackness.
Chapter Three
Through the falling snow and the darkness, Charlie made out the headlights as they veered abruptly. He held the phone to his ear and shouted: “Hello! Hello!”
His daughter’s crying could be heard, a sound that terrified and assured him at the same time. “Meredith?”
He threw the Jeep into low gear and guided it slowly and carefully onto what he hoped was the pavement. The four-wheel drive pulled the vehicle through the buildup of snow, but would do precious little if he hit a patch of ice like that truck had, so he crept forward slowly. He couldn’t see where the road was supposed to be, and the phone poles on the other side of the ditch gave him pathetic guidance. As long as he didn’t get too close to those, he should stay on the road.
“Daddy?”
“Meredith, are you all right?”
“Da-addy!”
Her sobs tore at his already overworked heart.
“Meredith, talk to Daddy. Are you all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the lady? Is she all right?”
“She covered my head with my coat, so I couldn’t see nothing. I’m scared!”
“I’m on my way, baby. I’m almost there.”
“Hurry, Daddy!”
“It’s okay, sweetie. Can you see the lady?”
“Uh-huh.”
Charlie was afraid to ask anything more. How would Meredith know if the woman was alive or dead, and what difference could she make in either case?
“She gots blood on her head,” she volunteered finally, then whimpered.
Oh, Lord. “Okay, I’m almost there.”
He could see the headlights clearly now. The semi had slid from the road and was in the shallow ditch, right side up, thank goodness. Charlie parked on what he hoped was the side of the road and got out, plunging into snow halfway up his calves to make his way down the bank to the cab. The truck engine thrummed, loud in the snow-silent night.
He got to the door and found it locked. He pounded on the metal. “Meredith! You have to unlock the door!”
A moment later a sound indicated she’d found a power lock. He yanked open the door to hear her terrified cries. Unfastening the seat belt, and pulling himself up, he scooped her into his embrace and comforted her, running his hands over her head and limbs. She seemed perfectly unharmed.
The driver, however—the beautiful young woman with the silver mane of hair, sat slumped toward them, her seat belt fastened across her breasts, a crimson rivulet streaming from a gash on her forehead, down her temple, a stain spreading on the shoulder of her pink sweater.
“Meredith, I’m going to take you to the Jeep and come back for her.” Hurriedly, he shoved the child’s arms into her pink coat, carried her up the incline and deposited her in the back seat. “Put your seat belt on. I’ll be right back.”
Wide-eyed and hiccuping from her recent near-hysterical crying, the child nodded her acquiescence.
Charlie opened the rear of the Jeep, took out an old plaid blanket, and plowed his way back down the bank. He paused to scoop a gloveful of snow, then, once inside the cab, he turned off the engine and dabbed the snow on the woman’s forehead. She had a cut about an inch long that looked fairly deep. He stuffed the keys in his pocket and unbuckled her. After wrapping the blanket around her, he slid her out of the cab as gently as he could and struggled up the bank with her held in his arms. He slipped to his knees twice, but retained his hold on her.
He was sweating by the time he got her into the back of the Jeep, covered her wound with a fresh blob of snow, tied it with his wool scarf and closed up the back.
Fearful of backing off the edge of the road if he tried to turn around, he carefully backed the Jeep along on the highway until he was certain the access area he reached was wide enough to back into and head out going forward. Perspiration cooled his forehead as he got the vehicle turned around and drove toward home. He would never make it to the town’s clinic in this weather without another accident. He couldn’t see the road. Meredith was uncharacteristically silent, a blessing, because the hazardous trip took all his concentration.
He had no idea how badly the woman was hurt, or if he’d done her more damage by moving her, but he didn’t think so. She’d been wearing her seat belt; her head had probably hit the steering wheel or the side window.
Grabbing his phone, he called the sheriff’s office. Sharon, the dispatcher answered. “I have Meredith,” he said. “She seems fine. But the truck the woman was driving slid off the road and the driver’s unconscious. She has a pretty bad cut on her forehead. I have her with me, but I can’t make it to town.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be at my place in a few minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll let Bryce know and I’ll call Dr. Kline. He can use Sheigh Addison’s snowmobile and come out to your place.”
“I’m almost there.” Charlie hung up and focused on getting the Jeep onto his property. Once he hit his drive, there were no more drainage ditches to fear. He found the path and drove along the length of gravel, clear to the front of his garage where he used the remote to open the door. He pulled into the safe dry garage and breathed a sigh of relief.
After getting Meredith out of the back seat and placing her inside the house, Charlie went back for the young woman. He carried her through the mudroom, across the kitchen and into the great room where he laid her on the leather sofa. After hurriedly running back and hitting the button to close the garage door, he turned on indoor lights and checked her head.
The snow had helped to slow the flow of blood from the wound. He grabbed clean kitchen towels and applied pressure to the cut. Meredith stood nearby, her eyes wide with fright, her dark hair curling wildly around her stricken face.
Charlie reached for her with one arm, and she flung herself against him. He sat on the floor beside the sofa to hold his baby and keep pressure on the woman’s cut.
He’d never been so frightened in his entire life. Almost losing this child had been a gruesome experience. He hugged her warm little body close, felt her trembling and inhaled the wonderful child scent he so loved. His heart couldn’t contain his gratitude at having her safe in his embrace. His eyes stung.
“Are you so, so mad, Daddy?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“We’ll talk about that later. Not right now.” He kissed her hair, her soft cheeks. Closed his eyes and thanked God with his whole being.
They were still sitting like that when he saw a headlight flicker across the lawn and heard the rumble of the snowmobile’s engine cut. “Why don’t you go to your room and rest on your bed for a little while?” he said to his daughter.
Obediently she got up and headed for the hallway.
Charlie let Garreth Kline in. “She’s right here.” He led the young doctor to the sofa.
“What’s her name?” the tall dark-haired man asked.
Charlie realized he didn’t know and told him so.
Garreth took a penlight and raised one of the woman’s eyelids at a time. “Her pupils are equal and reactive.” He removed the cloth to examine the cut. “This needs a couple of stitches. Miss? Can you hear me? Miss?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Knocked out, I’d say. Took a good whack on the head there.”