Page 115 of Sleigh Bells and Snowstorms
I loved this woman, and I was going to save her. No matter the cost.
“Come on.” I turned and put my back to her. “Climb on.”
“You can’t carry me.”
“Of course I can. Get on.”
She managed to get on my back, and I held her legs while she clung to my shoulders. The added weight made me sink deeperinto the snow, but I didn’t care. Every step, no matter how painful, brought us closer to safety.
My legs screamed at me, my back ached, and the wind tore through my clothes. But I kept on putting one foot in front of the other. I couldn’t give up. Natalie needed me, and I wouldn’t fail her.
Besides, it was Christmas. That had to count for something.
The forest seemed endless, and it was hard to estimate distance, but the land gradually descended. I kept near the trees along what I hoped was the road. The more numb and tired I became, the harder it was to tell. I leaned forward, trudging through the snow, sheer force of will the only thing keeping me upright.
Finally, when I was starting to worry that my legs might buckle beneath me, we emerged from the trees onto what had to be the highway, covered in snow.
I set Natalie down and paused to catch my breath.
“I don’t have a signal,” she said. “Do you?”
I checked my phone. “It’s coming in and out, but it might be enough. I’ll—” A noise in the distance made me pause. “Do you hear that, or am I hallucinating?”
“Hear what?”
Maybe I was hallucinating. But there it was again. It sounded like music.
“Wait,” she said. “I do hear something.”
A deep rumbling grew, and for a moment, I thought the music had been a hallucination.
“I think I hear a vehicle, but…” She leaned one ear toward the direction of the sound. “Are those bells?”
It did sound like bells. Open-mouthed, she and I stared at each other as the noise grew—the roar of an engine accompanied by the tinkle of bells.
What was happening?
Through the falling snow, headlights appeared. At that point, half delirious with exhaustion and cold, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a sleigh pulled by bloody reindeer.
It was bright red, but it wasn’t a sleigh. It was a vintage fire truck with a wide snowplow mounted to the front—the one we’d seen outside the farm store. “Jingle Bells” blared from speakers mounted to the top, and the entire thing was decked out in blinking lights.
“Oh my gosh!” Natalie exclaimed, waving to the driver. “Woody! Stop! Woody!”
The fire engine slowed and pulled to a stop a short distance away. The music cut off, and a man with a thick white beard and a Santa hat leaned out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. Santa Claus had just come to our rescue?
“Woody!” Natalie called again. “Oh my gosh, I’m so happy to see you!”
“Natalie Thatcher? What in the name of Christmas Day are you doing out here?”
“It’s a long story. Can you give us a ride?”
“Of course I can. You’re lucky I saw you in all this mess.”
“Who is that man, and why does he look like Santa Claus?” I asked.
Natalie laughed. “Woody Blankenship. He’s the one I told you about who plays Santa every year. Because of the beard.”
