Rekindled Read Online Free PDF Page B

breath. His throat burned from the cold. He looked down at his right leg and saw the snow staining crimson. His feet and legs were going numb. His fingers ached.
    “I know you’re in there, mister. Might as well come out and get it over with.”
    The words were spoken in a singsong tone, lending a macabre feel to the already perilous situation. Larson lay perfectly still, listening to the crunch of the man’s boots on frozen snow. He gauged the man to be ten yards south. And moving straight for him.
    His options limited, Larson pushed ahead on his stomach through the brush and across a narrow gully. He edged his way up the side of the ravine until he heard the unmistakable tink of metal against metal. Loading chambers. At the cock of the rifle, the night went dead quiet.
    He waited for the inevitable. But no gunshot came.
    Instead, he heard humming. Humming . And the sound of it— high-pitched, carefree, something a person might hear at a picnic— made him go stock-still.
    “Mighty cold out here tonight, and expectin’ a heap more snow. You can die slow or fast, mister. Don’t make no matter to me. But I hear freezin’ to death ain’t no way to go.”
    The night air pulsed with the absurdity of the voice. Death threats mingled with the weather. Larson pressed back into the brush.
    Snatches of prayers Kathryn had whispered at night while he lay silent in bed beside her came back to him. Larson repeated them over and over in his mind as he crawled farther into the dark bramble of rock and brush. When he finally looked up, he thought the night’s silver shadows were playing a trick on him.
    A wooden shack stood like a sentinel against the rocky wall of the ravine. If he could make it inside, maybe he would stand half a chance. He fired a shot in the direction he’d last heard his assailant. Slowed by his injured right leg, he barely reached the door before another shot rang out behind him.
    Larson dove inside and kicked the door shut. Panting, he crawled to the wall farthest from the single window by the door. The cramped space inside the shack was stagnant and musty. A sharp tanginess he couldn’t define punctuated the frigid air.
    His eyes soon adjusted to the dim light slanting through the window. What looked to be stacks of barrels occupied the wall beside him. A pile of blankets and other items littered the wooden floor.
    Another shot fired and blasted out the window. At the same time, Larson heard something shatter beside him. Liquid sprayed his face and neck, and the floor beneath him grew wet. The pungent odor became more pronounced.
    A rapid fire of gun blasts punctured the cloak of night, and the shack ignited in blinding white light and flames. Intense heat engulfed the small space as a putrid stench filled his nostrils. Larson knew in that moment that he would die, and that his death would be deservedly painful. He only hoped it would be swift.

CHAPTER THREE
    W ITH THE BALL OF HER FIST, Kathryn rubbed a layer of frost from the icy pane and peered out the cabin window. More than two weeks had passed since she’d awakened to an empty bed to find Larson’s note on the mantel. Kathryn, gone to northern pastures. Back by week’s end .
    Though she’d sensed an urgency to pray for him the first few days, that hadn’t alarmed her. She was accustomed to the Spirit’s gentle nudges, especially when Larson journeyed during winter months.
    But it would be nightfall soon, again. And still Larson had not returned.
    Seeing movement behind the barn, Kathryn recognized Matthew Taylor’s stocky frame and casual saunter. She raced to open the door and called the ranch hand’s name. Matthew turned, his arms loaded down with supplies. He nodded her way before dumping the gear by the tethered packhorse.
    Kathryn shuddered at the bitter wind and motioned to him as he approached. “Why don’t you step inside for a minute? I have a fresh pot of coffee on.”
    A hesitant look clouded Matthew Taylor’s features, which