The Breaking Point (7 page)

Just walk away, you idiot. Go home.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to leave any more than he wanted to stay and suffer this torture, this watching and wanting what he knew he never had. What he never
would
have. He gritted his teeth against a surge of anger that his one haven, this one place where he came to find some sense of good, had suddenly become yet another source of pain.

Almost against his will, Gabe’s focus returned to the small family, to the room and faces that shone with a wonder he’d only dreamed of, watching, weeping, until the ache inside him exploded, surging through him, taking all his yearning and confusion and loneliness and crystallizing them into one desperate prayer.

“Please … I just want someone to love me like that.”

D
ECEMBER
19, 2003

N
OON

“
OPEN YOUR EYES, GABE. IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP. NOW
!”

Renee made the words as firm as she could, but it was hard to sound authoritative when her voice kept cracking and trembling. Bo whined as though sensing her frustration, her growing desperation, and moved to nudge Gabe with his nose.

Renee reached out to stop the dog, then let her hand fall back into her lap. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Gabe. Might as well let Bo give it a shot. That cold nose of his had gotten Gabe going many a morning. Maybe it would work now.

She leaned back against the seat cushion, uncertain which was worse: worrying about Gabe, about how badly he might be injured, or having to face this situation alone.

When Bo came to lay his head alongside her arm on the console, she gave him an understanding scratch. “I know, boy. You tried.”

She lay her palm on Gabe’s face. His skin was growing cool to the touch. She had to keep him warm. She grabbed the duffel, pulling out the blanket and several of the heat packets. She wrapped the blanket about him as best she could, then kneaded and shook the packets until the heat began to generate. She slid them between his coat and his shirt.

She settled back in her seat, rubbing a hand over her tight neck muscles. A frown worked its way across her forehead. How long had Gabe been unconscious? For that matter, how long since they’d gone through the snow barriers, over the edge of the road? She glanced at her watch—twelve o’clock. They’d left that morning around nine, which meant they’d have hit the stretch of road that was now above them around ten.

It also meant they had roughly four or five hours before darkness set in.

Renee glared at the storm that still raged around them. The snow was so thick she couldn’t even tell if the road they’d been on was in front of or behind them. She realized she was tapping her heel on the floor with rapid, nervous movements. Gabe hated it when she did that. If he’d been conscious, he would have put a hand on her knee to still the action.

She pressed her hands onto her knees in his stead, willing herself to relax. “Wait …” She spoke into the silence, wishing the sound of her voice would calm and soothe her rather than just remind her how alone she was. “The truck is big and red, someone should be able to see it from the road …”

If they’re looking, which they probably aren’t. And if it isn’t blanketed in snow, which it probably is.

She gritted her teeth against the snide voice that shivered up her spine and ricocheted off the frayed edges of her mind.
She was not going to panic. But even as she told herself that, she realized her heel was tapping rapid-fire and her knee was bouncing like a caffeine-crazed Chihuahua.

Jesus … Lord …

She dug her fingers into her knees as she prayed, almost welcoming the pain that came on the heels of the action. At least pain meant she was still alive.

Her chilled, frightened mind couldn’t come up with anything more eloquent than that.
Just help us.
But she knew it was enough, just as she knew she wasn’t alone. Not really Gabe wasn’t the only one in that truck cab with her.

The truth seeped into her, bringing a warmth that traveled across her ragged nerves, soothing, calming …

Renee closed her eyes, focusing on that warmth, embracing it, letting it ease the tension from her neck and shoulders, the pain in her body.

“Okay.” Her voice was steadier now. “Okay, I’ll wait. It won’t be long until Gabe comes to, and then we can decide together what to do.”

It was a good plan. She liked it. It certainly was preferable to the plan gnawing at the back of her mind—the one that had her going out into that storm by herself to find help … the one that kept saying she’d have to follow if they were going to have any chance of survival.

Shut up
, she told the voice,
just shut up.
She had the feeling it was laughing at her, but she went on anyway, forcing a certainty she only wished she felt into her thoughts.
It’s not up to
me,
it’s up to God. And He won’t let us die out here. I know He won’t. Someone will find us soon.

But even as she made the assertions, the sharp prick of doubt assaulted her. She brushed the snow from the dash and peered out the windshield at the blank, white world.
Would
someone find them? Did she really believe God was going to save them?

“Of course I do.” If only her whispered words rang with
far more conviction and far less apprehension. With a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes against the tears that suddenly stung them. Then, curling into a ball on the seat, she leaned her forehead on her drawn-up knees and let her eyes drift shut.

She needed sleep. Rest. To preserve her strength and clear her mind. And, for just a little while, to escape her situation.

If only she could escape her doubts as well. But she knew she couldn’t. Hadn’t she been trying to do exactly that for years? And here they were again, taunting her, tormenting her.

Hopelessness hovered over her. She could feel it, like some great, dark bird of prey just waiting to descend, to dig its claws into her. Renee shuddered, moving her arms to cover her head.

Lord … please help me. I don’t think I can do this alone.

D
ECEMBER
19, 2003

12:15
P.M.

GRACE FRAZIER WAS IN THE KITCHEN, JUST GETTING
ready to go into the dining room and sit to eat her lunch—a nice, steaming bowl of homemade corn chowder—when she heard it.

“Pray.”

She hesitated. Pray? Well, what did that mean? A frown pinched her brow. Had she forgotten to pray this morning? Heaven knew she was forgetting more and more things lately … But that didn’t make sense. She’d already had her devotion and prayer time several hours earlier.

Maybe it’s God.

She gave a soft snort. It hadn’t sounded like God. Come to think of it, it sounded more like … She shook off the notion.
Don’t be silly
, she scolded herself as she walked to the dining room.
Renee is out of town. You can’t be hearing her calling to you.

That settled, Grace eased into her chair, then glanced at her husband, pondering. It hadn’t sounded at all like him, but who else could it have been?

Apparently aware of her pensive stare, Oren looked up from the thick piece of bread he was buttering, blond brows arched, pale blue eyes regarding her with mild curiosity. “Yes?”

She shifted in her chair. “What?”

Confusion painted both his features and his tone. “What what?”

Grace folded her hands in her lap. “Well, didn’t you just say something?”

He cocked his head. “I don’t think so.” A grin twitched at his bearded features and he waggled his brows. “Why? Are the voices talking to you again?”

Grace made a face at him and pulled her napkin into her lap. “Ha, ha, ha.”

Oren’s work-roughened fingers closed over hers, and she looked at him, her irritation melting under the tender smile he gave her. Oh, she did love this man. Irritating quirks and all.

“Ready to pray?”

She turned her hand in his so that their fingers laced together and nodded. They bowed their heads, and Grace basked in the sweet sound of her husband’s voice as he gave thanks for the meal and for the hands that prepared it.

When he was done, his fingers tightened on hers in a gentle squeeze—that was their special way of saying “I love you”—and she squeezed back, then released him and picked up her spoon. The soup had been simmering most of the morning and the tantalizing fragrance had been teasing her for hours. She could hardly wait to taste—

“Pray!”

Her spoon clattered to the plate. “Or-en!”

He jumped, and the spoonful of soup that had just about reached his mouth splattered onto his shirt. “Oh, for …” He glared first at the stain and then at her.
“What?”

A bubble of laughter rose up inside her, but she resisted it, shaking her head. What a pair they made! “Come, now. Are you going to tell me you didn’t
hear
that?”

“Hon, hear what?” The faint glimmer of concern in his eyes truly looked genuine—a fact that only served to irk her.

“That … that
voice.”
She waved her hands, looking around. If Oren hadn’t spoken the word, then perhaps … Was someone hiding in the room? “It practically yelled at me this ti—” She bit off the word and fixed Oren with a mild glare. “Oren Donald Frazier, are you playing another one of your infernal tricks on me? You
know
I hate it when you take advantage of the fact that I’m just a little gullible—”

“A
little
gullible?” He hooted. “Hon, if you’re a
little
gullible, then Santa is a
little
fat, Rockefeller was a
little
wealthy, Bozo the clown was …”

Her glare intensified.

“… was …”

She crossed her arms.

“Um …” He met her stare, recognized a losing battle, and let whatever he’d been about to say trail off. Clasping his hands in front of him, he cleared his throat and gave her his most wide-eyed, I’m-sorry-dear-did-I-cross-that-line-again look. She might have almost believed he was sorry, too, except for that sparkle of laughter in his eyes. And the way his lips kept twitching.

Grace arched one brow and compressed her lips into a prim line.
I am
not
amused
, she conveyed as clearly as she could without speaking the words.

Oren swallowed, then drummed his fingers on the table, refusing to look at her. He stared at the wall, out the window, anywhere but at her. He started to whistle, but the song fizzled on his puckered lips when Grace cleared her throat.

He looked down at his hands and sat in silence for a moment … then two … then he looked up. “I’m sorry, hon, what was the question?”

She let out a huff. “For heaven’s sake, Oren! I was talking about that voice. Did you or did you not hear that voice?”

He leaned toward her, the very image of sincere concern—or he would have been if he’d been able to erase the snicker from his tone. “What’s the, uh, the voice saying?”

“Ohhh, you!” She stood and went to look out the window, muttering all the way. “I
know
I heard it, but why did it sound like Renee? I know it couldn’t have been her.”

“Grace …”

She ignored her husband’s oddly hushed comment and pulled back the curtain, peering outside. Maybe one of the neighbor children was hiding outside. “Most likely it’s that imp, Jimmy Bell. He’s a sweet boy, but I can’t even begin to count the times I’ve had to shoo the little barefoot dickens off of my pansies.”