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Colorado's Choice

By Kathy Parish

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Chapter 1

Charlotte Carter stood at the window looking out at the blowing waves of snow highlighted by the porch light. She could barely see the oak tree in the back yard of the parsonage. The unexpected snowstorm blanketed her world in white silence. The house seemed too quiet even at this early morning hour. She was puzzled by the lack of joy in her heart. Instead there was a nagging discontent.
She should be happy. After all, her twin brother had married last night. Chad had been alone too long after his first wife’s death from heart failure. She had died waiting for a heart transplant that never happened. A newcomer to town had won his heart last year. Charlotte remembered how Katie Moore’s appearance in Four Corners, Arkansas, had turned the small town upside down. After all, how many millionaires had ever lived in Four Corners, much less chosen to move here?
She smiled as she remembered her pastor brother’s dismay when Katie wanted to tithe a million dollars to Four Corners Community Church. He was appalled when he learned that her wealth was the result of a gifted lottery ticket that her father had handed her as a birthday present as he was headed to prison. It had taken Chad months to reconcile in his mind and heart that God could use gambling winnings to further his kingdom—months during which the preacher was falling in love with the petite redhead. Now they were husband and wife, married just last evening. There plane had just taken off from Clinton National Airport when the unusual February blizzard-like snowstorm hit the central Arkansas area. They were enjoying the sun in Hawaii on their honeymoon, while life in Four Corners had come to a standstill.
It felt strange this Sunday morning to not be dressing for church. There were no snowplows that would make it into the small town to clear roads, and morning worship had been cancelled. She guessed she would watch one of the televised services and have her private quiet time with God. She had some questions to ask Him for sure. Like, what was she to do with herself since Chad now had a wife to fulfill the responsibilities expected of a pastor’s mate? Charlotte had lived in the parsonage and served as hostess and helper after Rita’s death. Now Chad would move into Katie’s renovated family home, Crosby House. How long would she be allowed to stay in the house that had been her home since. . . She shook her head. She would not allow herself to think about that time in her life. Not right now. Her heart was beginning to ache at the mere thought of the pain she had endured. Would she never be healed? She flipped the switch turning off the porch light and turned abruptly toward the kitchen. She would bake. She couldn’t think about that horrible time. Not now. And God would have to wait until she could be still.
***
Charlotte surveyed the racks of cooling sugar cookies. They were the best comfort food she knew. Her mom’s recipe called for plenty of butter, and the cookies baked up thin and crisp and melted in your mouth. She had also started a pot of corn chowder simmering on the stove. This weather called for warm, creamy soup. She sighed. Comfort food was meant to be shared, and she was definitely alone.
Ok girl, she thought. It’s time to get down to business with God. He’s been waiting patiently all this time for you to work this angst out of your system, and you know it’s not going to happen until you spend time with Him. She retrieved her Bible, devotional book and journal while a cup of chamomile tea brewed, and then positioned herself under a cozy quilt in Chad’s leather recliner.
The silence was kind to her time of meditation and prayer. An hour had passed when she became aware that she was at peace—and hungry. Exiting the warmth of her quilt cocoon, she pondered whether to spend the day in her pajamas or get dressed. Pajamas win, she thought. She doubted anyone would venture out in this weather, so visitors were highly unlikely. She brought her soup and a crusty roll to the living room and was soon engaged in a Hallmark movie. If life were only a Hallmark movie, she thought. Setting her empty bowl aside, she shared the remnants of her roll and a couple of sugar cookies with Missy, Katie’s big black lab, who had been left in her care while the couple honeymooned. Then pulling the quilt more closely about her, she reclined the chair more fully.
***
“No, no, not my baby,” she wailed, awakening as she thrust herself into an upright position. What had happened? The room was dark. She was sweating, her hair damp with perspiration. She rocked back and forth as tears streamed down her cheeks, followed by ragged sobs.
The dream had returned. But it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, a horribly real nightmare. It had been months since she had last experienced the dream, years since the reality. Charlotte curled herself into a fetal position, moaning softly. Her chest was heavy. Her heart pounded in its brokenness.
The therapist had said she had a form of PTSD. She said it often occurred in the lives of victims of domestic abuse. Charlotte allowed herself to revisit the dream. She remembered with horror the repeated beatings that Phil had delivered, followed by the memory of the horrific pain as kicks to her seven-month pregnant belly had ended her baby girl’s life and left Charlotte barren. Her uterus had ruptured from the trauma. She remembered tears in the doctor’s eyes as she explained that the tear in the wall of her womb could not be mended, and that Charlotte had been literally bleeding to death. She said the hysterectomy was absolutely medically necessary. “We would have lost you, Charlotte. We had lost your baby. We had to try to save you,” she had explained.
Charlotte closed her eyes as she forced herself to stop remembering. “I wish you had let me go,” she whispered.











Chapter 2

The snow was coming down like a frothy white curtain, blinding him as he tried to see the shoulder of the road. Staying on the pavement was a constant struggle. Following the yellow center line was hopeless. Fact was, he couldn’t see any lines because the road itself was a white blanket of fluffy cotton. The Suburban’s big tires cutting tracks through the soft surface provided the only evidence that anyone dared to travel this road in this weather. Trees were thick on either side of the two-lane, and the hilly road curved more than he had expected.
They had made good time until now. It would help if he even knew their destination. He looked over at his mom’s sleeping form. The swelling of her eye and lip was going down, but the ugly purple discoloration remained. His eye traveled down to her prominent baby bump. The baby--that was one reason they had had to leave. Chance had always hated Jack’s violence toward Sarah, but when her visible pregnancy had changed nothing in the pattern of abuse, he knew the time for escape had come. He had two lives to protect now.
Fortunately, he had been saving the money earned from his job stocking shelves at the Food Mart after school and weekends. And he, at the ripe age of sixteen, at least had his driving permit, allowing him to drive legally as long as a licensed adult was in the car. And his mom was licensed, never mind the reality that she was unconscious when they set out on their journey, a journey to someplace safe, someplace Jack Baxter couldn’t find them.
Chance would have to be very careful to stay under the radar that his stepfather’s family was sure to have set in motion. After all, they ran Baxter County, Kentucky, named after the family and all. That’s one reason police reports about Jack’s volatile temper and violent attacks had never accomplished anything to ensure his mom’s safety. Jack always had some acceptable explanation—that she tripped and fell or slipped on a wet floor or bumped into a doorframe because she was a klutz. Stupid explanations that were never questioned because, after all, Jack Baxter was the county’s most prominent attorney. And his dad was the county judge; his brother, the sheriff.
That’s why Chance had decided to take matters into his own hands. When Jack passed out in a drunken stupor after the last attack (if only the attorney’s clientele knew about his addiction to pills and alcohol), Chance had hurriedly packed his mom a few things, raided the pantry for some food items, swiped the keys to the Suburban, loaded her inside, and hit the road. They’d traveled well over 500 miles by now, across one whole neighboring state. He wished he had a better sense of exactly where they were. He remembered crossing the Arkansas state line a couple of hours ago. He had seen a sign a mile or so back identifying a town as Four Corners, population 1,600. They had passed what appeared to be a ranch on the outskirts of the community, with barns, a log cabin type ranch house and a shooting range, of all things.
That reminded him of the handgun, Jack’s Smith and Wesson .38 Special, in the console. He had swiped it, too, anticipating that he might just need to use it someday if that animal came looking for them. He was not ever going to let him have the chance to hurt his mom again.
Suddenly he felt the SUV’s tires drop off the pavement onto the shoulder. He instinctively wrenched the steering wheel to the left trying to regain the pavement, and then felt the vehicle veer out of control, sliding across the oncoming lane, and then heading straight for a bridge. Sarah’s screams rang in his ears as he wrestled with the steering wheel, trying to avoid the concrete railing. He felt the big vehicle go into a spin, turning two complete circles and then plowing down a steep embankment and into a mass of snow covered bushes and small trees. It came to a stop resting nose down with the passenger side firmly wedged down in a deep gully.
“Chance, baby, are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m okay.” He had a paroxysm of coughing. “If this powder stuff from the airbag doesn’t suffocate me. What about you?”
“Okay, I guess, considering that ride. Where are we?”
“Well, we’re not in Kentucky any more. I believe this place is called Four Corners, and it’s in Arkansas. I’m gonna check out the damage, but I’m pretty sure that this is as far as we go for now.”
Chance trudged through the drifting snow to survey the damage. A blizzard like this was a rarity in the mid-South, for sure. Steam was rising from the radiator. Probably busted, he thought. They had plowed at least fifty yards through dense underbrush, which had closed behind them, effectively masking the presence of the vehicle. It looked like this gully had been formed by heavy rains emptying into the creek below. He envisioned a spring melt and downpour of rain washing the wrecked Suburban clean out of sight.
Any tracks on the road were filled in by now at the rate the snow was falling and the wind blowing. Both passenger side doors were wedged against the ground. The exhaust pipes were buried in the white powder, which was turning kind of wet and heavy. He pondered their situation. No chance of running the motor for warmth. Little chance of anyone finding them since only idiots were going to be driving this road at night in this storm. And what were the chances of finding shelter? He knew there were people a couple of miles back, but did he dare risk it? They might turn him in as a runaway without a second thought. And he didn’t think his mom could walk that far, anyway. He sure couldn’t leave her behind.
He noted a little rise just off to his right. It might just be high enough to grant him a view of any surrounding structures. He struggled up the hillside, the snow pulling him down. He felt himself sink boot deep into the drifts. Pulling himself forward by grasping saplings, trees, anything he could reach, he finally reached the top.
Just then a full moon broke through the clouds. The light reflected off the pure white snow, revealing a chimney in the distance. At least it appeared to be a chimney. There was no smoke to be seen, so the inhabitants of the house (if one still stood) didn’t have a fire going. Maybe they had another heat source. Maybe they were gone. There were a lot of “maybes.” But he knew he had to get his mom to shelter and figured travel in the direction of the chimney was the best option. Didn’t look to be far, at least.
Getting his mom out of the passenger seat of the Suburban via the driver’s side door proved to be a challenge. She was far enough along in the pregnancy (about six months, he thought) to have an unwieldy belly, and the vehicle was leaning at such an angle that her exit was strictly an uphill proposition. She managed to get her legs and feet up onto the seat and then basically stood on the passenger side door, maneuvering up across the console and out through the driver’s side door.
“Careful, Mom,” he cautioned, as she pulled her body up, resting on the doorframe. Reaching up, he supported her as she swung her legs out, then caught her under her legs and shoulders and lifted her free. All that training for football had paid off, he figured. He had a lot of upper body strength, and she was a light load, even pregnant. He figured 135 pounds max—he could bench press way more than that.
He gently set her down, mentally kicking himself for not bringing some sturdier footwear for her to wear as her sneaker-clad feet sank into the snow. At least they had brought down-filled jackets, and his mom was donning hers. He spied some plastic grocery bags and a roll of duct tape in the back of the suburban. Hurriedly lifting her out of the snow and seating her on the door frame, he brushed the snow from her shoes and stuck both feet into triple plastic bags, securing them in place halfway up her legs. At least that would help keep her feet dry.
The teen quickly retrieved the gun, flashlight, bag of snack foods and his mom’s bag. “This way, Mom,” he directed, cutting a path through the snow and underbrush in the general direction of the hoped-for shelter.
It was slow going, made slower by the fact that the moon once again was covered by clouds and the view ahead clouded by blowing snow. He thanked God for the flashlight. The woman struggled to keep up, holding to nearby trees or bushes to pull herself forward. Snowflakes coated her eyelashes, and her face was pale and drawn as she labored to keep up. He knew that they had to keep moving forward or die of exposure.
Suddenly the brush thinned, turning into tall, widely spaced trees, with a stretch of smooth unbroken snow ahead of them. An old farmhouse came into view, the front porch slanting precariously, the screen door hanging by one hinge. There were no lights, no sign of life. “Okay, Mom, I think we’ve found a temporary shelter.” He murmured words of encouragement as they made their way onto the rotting porch and through the unlocked door.
A long-deserted family home greeted them. The furniture formed ghostly shapes, covered with protective sheets and tarps. A couple of mice scurried across the floor, startled by the intruders. Dust covered family portraits were scattered across the walls with no particular pattern. Lace curtains hung in tatters at the windows. Quickly removing the cover from a long sofa near the fireplace, he settled his mother in place, taking stock of the situation.
Sure, it needed some work, but it was acceptable shelter from the storm for now. There was even firewood by the fireplace, and he had a cigarette lighter. Mom would kill him if she knew he had been occasionally sneaking a cigarette from Jack’s supply. He got busy laying and lighting a fire. They would just have to chance someone noting the smoke and coming to investigate. Once he had warmed a bit by the fire, he surveyed the perimeter of the room. Spying a light switch, he tried it, hoping against hope. Nothing. Well, it would have been too much to hope that the owner would have left power on in this old deserted place. He bet the wiring was so old that the place would promptly burn down if electricity surged through those wires again.
Glancing at Sarah, he saw that she had stretched out on the sofa and was asleep, the sleep of exhaustion. He shook the dust from the sofa cover and tucked it around her for warmth. So far, so good, he thought—one test at a time—if they were going to get through this, it was up to him.
 

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