Snow Angel

Acknowledgments

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

To my dad, Jim—
who smiled, nodded, and then laughed his victor's laugh as I dreamed out loud.

To my mom, Donna—
who showed me Christ and the cost.
If I've done anything beautiful … it was born
in the both of you.

And to Tony, my husband, my Noah—
What would I be without you? I cannot imagine.
This is for you.

To my editor—Thomas Walters: Thank you for believing in me and loving Noah and Elizabeth's story. It finally happened because of you!

To my wonderful agent—Wes Yoder: Thanks for taking me on when there was no reason for you to. You are depths of wonderful advice and endless graciousness.

To the fiction team—David Webb and Karen Ball, wonder editors: I'm so blessed to have you both working on these next books.

Kim Overcash Stanford, Robin Patterson, Julie Gwinn, Diana Lawrence, David Schrader, and Mary Beth Shaw: You made it all come together and I'm so grateful for each of you!

New York City, 1879

Jane jerked upright at the pounding on the nursery door. Her gaze darted nervously to the dark, curly hair of her daughter who sat happily, so innocently beside her stacking wooden blocks into towers of tottering glee. She repressed the urge to snatch the child up into the protection of her slight bosom and cling to her, to hide them both from this horrible thing that was to happen, wishing for some miracle, some magic that would make them invisible or transport them to an exotic land where all was well for an unwed mother. Instead, with trembling fingers she smoothed Elizabeth's baby-fine hair, closing her eyes briefly, feeling the strands slide between her fingers, willing her mind to make the imprint.

Remember the silken texture. Remember that too.

The pounding came again, short and hard and angry—always angry. She forced herself up on shaky legs, weakened from the strain of living on little but nervous energy and stomach-wrenching dread waiting for just such a knock. There
had been comments from the few people she'd been allowed to see, servants mostly. “Miss Jane, you're so pale” or “You must eat something, Jane,” and the reproving glare of “You'll only make yourself sick, Jane—what good will that do the child?” All of these comments left her drowning with guilt. As if she couldn't see for herself the ashen paleness of her face in the mirror every morning, the purple-hued smudges under her eyes, and the way her clothes hung loose and forlorn from her shoulders. She hardly recognized herself these days.

She turned the knob. The door swept wide by its own weight, such a well-made door with its fancy engraving work and beveled-edged molding, one of the thousands of carefully thought-out details in their much envied townhouse. She forced herself to look at his face, into the eyes of her father. He never came to this room, had never even seen his grandchild, nor much of her since she'd had little Elizabeth nearly two years ago. How fitting, she thought bitterly, that despite the whimsical wallpaper and cheerful curtains, this room had more a sense of a tomb than of bright beginnings. The brightness was cold, the light harsh, the empty echo from the hardwood floor an accompaniment to the resonant thudding of her heart. Today this nursery meant death to the deep places of Jane's soul. After this day, she believed, she would live in body alone.

“The people from the orphanage are here, Jane. Bring the child and her belongings. I will give you ten minutes.” Her father's voice was flat, his eyes hard.

She simply stared at him, as though a fog had settled over her brain. His face, though, was reality—unmovable, insurmountable reality. The look in his eyes penetrated the daze until all she could hear was the pounding of her blood in her head. How could she
do it? Her only joy—taken. It was impossible. Her body refused to obey him, rooted to the floor like a sentinel.

“Did you hear me, Jane?” He spoke to her like she was five, his chin jutting forward, his eyes squinting in anger with that stern, sneering tone that had always terrified her and compelled immediate obedience. She felt the familiar fear of him and took a step back in defeat, hating herself as she moved but knowing that when Howard Greyson made up his mind about something, nothing and no one ever stopped him.

Jane sank to her knees in defeat. It was no use. The time for pride, for hiding behind the facade of independent bravado, was over.

Her eyes filled. Her tears spilled over. “Please, I beg you, don't take her from me.” Her voice shook so that she could scarcely continue. “Please, I'll do anything.”

Judge Howard Greyson's lip curled in disgust. “Not another one of your scenes, Jane. You can and you will. We've discussed this. Now quit groveling and get that child ready. If you don't do it yourself, I'll have a maid do it, and you won't even get to say good-bye.”

He started to turn away, to turn his back on her like all the other times. But this time Jane stopped him by pulling hard on the hem of his gray trousers.

She felt impotent rage swell and fill her chest. Her weapons were so few, so futile; still, she tried to penetrate his impassive will. “I'll never forgive you! Do you hear me?” She stood in stiff outrage and backed away from him as if he were a foul presence in the room. “As soon as I get away from here, I will find her. I will get her back.”

Unmoved, her father gave the scene a loathing glare. “You are a spineless fool, Jane. I am only doing what is best for you. Since you are in no condition to bring her down, I'll send Mary up to get her.” He turned on his heel and strode down the hall.

She was glad to see his back this time. She would never look him in the eyes again.

Little Elizabeth had listened to the scene in innocent confusion. As the door banged shut, she began to cry. Jane rushed over, picked up Elizabeth, and clasped her child hard to her chest, swaying lightly back and forth. The tears streamed one after the other down her cheeks and into the child's ebony hair.

If only there were a way of escape, she would take it. But her father had taken care of that too. She had been locked in the house, kept under guard by a sharp-eyed, starched housekeeper since he had told her of his plans to marry Jane into an affluent family in his world of politics and law. The unwanted bastard granddaughter was to be secretly banished, as if she were the thief of Jane's innocence. That they had successfully kept her pregnancy and, later, the child hidden from society for nearly two years was a fact she still could hardly believe.

Jane glanced at the nursery window in desperation. With Elizabeth pressed close, she walked to the window, parted the yellow checked curtains, and looked down. They were three stories up—an impossible height. She looked down into the little round face and the deep brown eyes of her darling girl and knew she couldn't risk it.

Elizabeth reached up and traced a tear on her mother's face with a chubby finger, saying, “Mama?”

“Yes, mama,” Jane whispered back, knowing it would be the last time she heard it. “Always your mama.”

The midafternoon sun fell across the child's face, illuminating her fair skin and shining black hair. Jane caressed the soft hair with shaking hands. She outlined the little dark brows, the softly rounded cheeks, the tiny chin that could pucker with stubborn determination, and then, her favorite, the deep brown eyes that could express outrage, glee, and hundreds of still undiscovered emotions that Jane would not see. Determined, Jane blinked out the pools of tears in her eyes and gazed at her child, memorizing every line and curve for the years to come.

“Mama loves you, Elizabeth. I want you to always remember that,” she choked out softly before pulling the child to her chest again. “I will always love you, and I will find you. Someday, I'll come for you.” Then fiercer and low she declared, “I
will
come for you.”

The door opened softly, allowing Mary into the room. With a sympathetic look, she pried the child from Jane's arms. Elizabeth cried out immediately and held her arms out for her mother, kicking her legs in the beginnings of a fit. The maid tightened her grip, causing Elizabeth to struggle in earnest, then carried her out of the room and shut the door behind them.

The last image Jane saw of her daughter was the confused distress in those dark brown eyes. Distress that turned into angry wails.

The last sound Jane heard from her daughter was her cries fading down the hall. With a wail of her own, Jane collapsed to the floor in a puddle of despair. Hands over her ears, eyes tightly clenched shut … Jane began the years of mourning.

Alaska, 1897

Cold. Hard and relentless, the icy shards of snow and ice swirled, encompassing the slight, young woman in their fury. The wind screamed about her, haunting music that rose and fell in an eerie melody, as if the conductor had fled and the orchestra gone mad. Time turned its head toward her and paused, deigning to notice her struggle—an impassive but patient enemy observing the meager strength of this lump of barely breathing clay to battle the tempest, waiting for her to give up so that it could number her among the vanquished. And at the center of the scene, as if she were the star in a stage play, the young woman stumbled through snow so deep it reached her knees, making simple steps impossible while profound tremors spread from her core in great waves of teeth-chattering misery.

Can't stop,
she repeated over and over to herself in a mind that felt stupid and sluggish.
Can't stop … can't … stop
. Her breath was snatched away so fast she couldn't say it aloud, but
she wanted to, needed to. A tremor turned sobbish, ending in a half-sane laugh.
Won't stop … no … by God, won't stop
. She stopped, as another wracking tremor-sob overtook her, the frigid air reaching way down deep into her lungs, making them ache and spasm.
So cold … so frozen solid through … can't go
on … can't stop
. Wandering thoughts flitted and fled, self-pity fighting resolve. She bent her head against the gale and took another small step forward, unable to tell if she was really moving ahead or only standing against the wind. The desire to lie down and give up surged through her—like a man in shaking, sweating need of a strong drink, it beckoned, softly warm and smiling, promising and seducing.

Wouldn't take long to die. Sleep … rest and warm. Always and
forever warm.

Emboldened, the fix grew insidious, smile turning to sneer, causing the still, frozen part of her brain to wake up and recognize its traitorous nature.

Can't stop … can't stop …
she began the chant again, not really knowing if she had stopped moving or not. It must be a bad thing, this inability to tell what her body was doing, but somehow she couldn't seem to care much. Rubbing cold-stiffened hands across her eyes, the thin leather of her gloves doing her little good, she lifted her head with fresh determination and struggled forward.

Was that a light? A flicker … a light maybe … yes …
yes.
The swirling mass of white shifted long enough to glimpse … something.

Light … life, yes, choose light-life.

She blinked rapidly, trying to see, trying to blink past the thick, wet veil, her heart pounding with hope and then fear
that it was only a blind man's dream. She saw it again, wavering yet strong, and something else—something solid and sure and huge surrounding it. A house. With sudden energy she plunged forward toward the yellow glow. She couldn't feel her feet any longer, nor her legs or hands either, but salvation was just steps away. Just a few more steps away.

She stumbled in her hurry, falling into a heap, quickly becoming buried half-alive. She tried to stand, drowning in snow, thinking her arms and legs were floundering but seeing that they were just lying there, realizing in a daze that her knees wouldn't bend, that her legs had turned to wooden posts no longer acknowledging the authority of her brain.

Get up!
Everything inside her wailed it. Her throat worked with the effort to scream it aloud, making incoherent sounds of distress, a desperate, discordant harmony in what now appeared a tragedy. Panic set in. She had to concentrate. She had to make her sluggish brain command her legs to push her up. She struggled, clawed, and climbed, digging herself in deeper, trying to stand, but her legs were unable to support her weight.
Get up!

She stopped suddenly, her breathing rasping and shallow from the effort, and fell back into the snow in defeat. She couldn't do it. Couldn't get up. She gazed up at the sky, where the dark black of night peeked through the shifting white. She felt strangely warm and comfortable. She would be buried now. Detached, she realized that the icy sensation on her cheeks were tears freezing in their trickling tracks. Her face was quickly becoming covered with flakes—soon she wouldn't be able to breathe—but she couldn't find a reason to brush them away. A voice long recognized as her strong self chided her,
You shouldn't
cry; you never cry
. Everyone died sometime, and this was her
time. Another part of her, so long suffocated by sheer will that the voice was faint, spoke softly, sadly. She was going to suffocate now, with her light just ahead, with salvation right around the corner. Like so much of her life, it all was too little too late. She would never be strong enough or brave enough or good enough. It was hopeless to try.

Crawl.

The thought came startlingly clear, as if heaven had decided to reach down and take her hand. But she was warmer now, and she was sleepy.

You have life in you yet. You could crawl.

Yes … maybe. She still had some feeling in her arms. She lifted them, feeling funny like they were waving around instead of brushing snow off her face the way she wanted them to. Taking a few deep breaths, she managed to sit up and then turn onto her stomach. She laughed. She did have some strength left. Rising up onto her hands, she rocked back and could see that even though she couldn't feel her legs she was on her knees. Looking ahead she felt another spark of hope. The wind changed sides and became her ally, shifting again, giving her another glimpse of the light. Bending her head, she inched forward, looking up every now and then, catching occasional flashes of the light. Half-crawling, half-dragging herself through snow that reached her chin, she fought on, swimming in snow, swimming for her shore. She couldn't quit. She wouldn't quit this time.

Straining forward, every muscle stretched, reaching toward the light. Her heart pounded louder and louder, faster and faster, a crescendo in the music, straining toward climax.
Where is the
light?

Suddenly, her head smacked hard against a sturdy object. Reaching up, she felt solid wood. A wall. She breathed thick and heavy, her hands pawing at the surface, icy tears of relief blinding her completely.
The door. Must find the door.
Groping with unfeeling hands and unseeing eyes, she edged around a corner. Finally the wood changed, indented long and rectangular. This must be at a door. She tried to stand, but her knees buckled. Taking a steely breath of the frigid air that made her lungs crackle inside, she pounded and pounded and pounded with the last of the life still in her.

“Please … God … ,” she whispered before collapsing.

* * *

NOAH WESLEY SAT BY A crackling fire, reading and drinking hot coffee to help shut out the bitter cold. He glanced up at the muffled sound at his door.
Just the wind,
he thought, not wanting to leave his warm fire and let in an icy blast to check. Anyone he knew would just come barreling through in this weather. No one in their right mind would knock. His broad finger absently traced the words down to his place and he began to read. Once absorbed, he was startled to hear an inner voice say loudly and distinctly,
Noah, go and open the door.

Noah glanced at the door, a vertical line creasing between his dark, bushy eyebrows. A sudden inexplicable urgency came over him—someone was in trouble. He hurried to the door. Dragging the board from underneath, he turned the new porcelain knob he'd recently installed and pulled the door wide. Snow, getting deep fast, was all he could see. He stuck his head out, trying to see through the swirling winds as they shifted and
blew ice into his face. He called out. Nothing answered but the howling of the wind, so sharp it snatched his breath away. He called again and yet again, trying hard to make out any forms in the cascade of white, anything at all. Finally, shaking his head, he stepped back to shut out the cold that was fast seeping through his thick, woolen shirt when he heard the voice again.

Noah, open the door!

“Nothing is there but the wind,” he answered aloud in a confused voice, but he opened it anyway. He took a deep breath and shouted.

“Hello-o-o! Anybody out there?”

Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he took a step forward. Something soft yet solid moved under his foot. He jerked back, knelt down, and quickly unburied the still form at his doorstep. “My God …”

He lifted her, noting how light she was, how air-thin her bone structure felt, as if she had been made for flight instead of this earthly gravity, and brought her inside, slamming the door with one hand. Carefully, he carried the seemingly lifeless bundle to the sofa, the only store-bought piece of furniture he owned, and laid her on it. He brushed snow from her chest, revealing an ice-encrusted cloak. The frogged clasp was frozen stiff and unmovable. Noah pushed the folds of the cloak aside and placed his ear over her heart. It took a moment to find it—yes, he heard a faint but steady beat. Taking out a pocketknife, he cut the frogging of the cloak, slid it from under her, and tossed it aside.

Like some angel born of the storm, she was as pale as the snow he had taken her from. Dark, curling, shoulder-length hair tossed wildly about her head. Her face was delicately made,
small and sweet. Upswept brows and long, closed lashes made dark slashes of color against the bleached skin in deathly beautiful contrast. Her bloodless lips reminded him how very cold she was. He touched an icy cheek with the backs of his fingers, noticed her wet clothes, and realized the gaping needs of a lone woman in a blizzard with nothing but thin clothes on her back. She was a living, breathing miracle … for the moment, anyway.

Hastening to his hand-hewn bed, Noah jerked off a quilt. Next, he went to his dresser and rummaged for a warm shirt and some woolen socks. She would be lost in the shirt, but it was the best he could provide for the moment.

Kneeling beside her, he carefully covered her with the blanket and began removing ice-encrusted clothes from underneath it. He barely glanced at her garments but noted in the back of his mind how well used they were, as if they had been scrubbed too many times with too much vehemence. A thin white blouse with tiny gray stripes and too many buttons—
confound the
thing
—a gray skirt, one plain white petticoat, gray stockings, and badly worn black ankle-boots completed the ensemble and marked her a greenhorn. Noah shook his head in wonderment at her foolishness. How she had made it to his cabin, which was partway up the slope of a mountain and miles from Juneau, in a snowstorm, wearing no more than this getup, was nothing short of miraculous. Who she was and where she had come from were questions begging answers—answers Noah didn't know if he ever would learn. She seemed as frail as a spring flower caught in a sudden, mean frost.

Noah dried her and dressed her in his warm garments, his hands clumsy at the task, the back of his neck turning warm
at the unfamiliar intimacy. Then he covered her with the quilt. She looked so lost and little in his red flannel shirt, too bright against the white of her throat. He didn't like it against her small-boned beauty, but it was the warmest thing he owned and he wasn't about to take it off her now. He reached out to her, first touching her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then brushing gently at the ice in her hair.

She was out cold and Noah knew enough about thawing to be glad for this. It was a painful process. He only hoped it was happening in time. For reasons he really didn't want to probe, he hated to see her marred in any way by this experience. Blackened feet to hobble on for the rest of one's life would not set well on this one. Those things belonged to grizzly miners with gap-toothed grins and greedy eyes, not to recently rescued snow princesses.

The teakettle began to whistle, bringing him back to his kitchen and the immediate need of warming her extremities. At the stove, he poured steaming water into a deep porcelain bowl and refilled the kettle from a bucket, putting it back on the stove for the next round. He would need lots of hot water if he were to have a chance of saving her feet. Taking up a soft cloth, he hurried back and knelt down beside the end of the sofa, lifting the bottom of the blanket. He slipped his arm beneath her knees, lifting her legs so that her feet dangled, half-crossing each other. Gently, he lowered her feet, immersing them in the warm water, his eyes taking in the daintiness of her toes and arches of her feet, his gaze traveling up her ankles to slim, shapely legs. Once again, he marveled that someone so thin and elegant could possess enough strength to find his cabin, on foot, in such weather.

As soon as the water cooled, he lifted her feet, dried them carefully, and wrapped them in another blanket. They had reddened in the process, but he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one; it was a bad case of frostbite, anyway.

After laying a couple of logs on the fire to keep the room warm, he concentrated on the next greatest concern, her hands. Kneeling beside her, he began soaking the reddened, chapped hands. Hard-working hands, certainly, but something more. One wrist had a long scar around it. He stared at an especially ugly welt on the inside of the other wrist, thinking of a burn he'd once had, but this was much worse. It looked like a recent injury. He wondered what might have caused it, and indignation and protectiveness rose within him. This wasn't caused by physical labor; she had been mistreated, he was sure of it. A deep disquiet settled over him as he immersed one hand at a time, warming them in the water. He then rubbed a sweet-smelling ointment into her wrists, his thumbs making tiny, gentle circles where pieces to her past lay vulnerable to his gaze. Her skin turned rosy under his care, making him feel slightly better.

Tired, Noah pulled the rocker over to the sofa, fell into it, and stared at her. If only she weren't so still. If only she would shiver or move, anything aside from the tiny rise and fall of her chest. Then he could breathe easier. Then he could find his own rest.