A Very Special Delivery

all the reasons for her to stay far away from Ethan Hunter came rushing back in the cry of a tiny baby.
    * * *
    By midmorning of the fifth day, the temperatures hovered around freezing and Molly embraced a ray of hope along with this morning’s ray of sunshine that the deep freeze would soon end.
    To her relief, after the near-accident and the more disquieting near-kiss, she and her delivery man had returned to friendly banter and cooperative living.
    Ethan had to be tired of the tiny, cramped camper, but he never complained. Still, he and Laney were normally in the kitchen for the baby’s early bottle by the time Molly awakened each morning. Coffee, boiled the old-fashioned way in a pot from the camper, filled the kitchen with a rich scent.
    This particular morning they were arguing.
    “According to the radio anything that thaws will refreeze tonight,” Ethan said, bouncing Laney on one knee. “So if I’m to have any hope of digging out the van, I need to get moving.”
    “Even if you succeed, the roads are still treacherous.” Molly shoved her hair back, looping it over one ear. Considering she had had no dryer or curlers for nearly a week, she must look a fright.
    “I have to try. Laney’s running short on formula.”
    “What if you can’t get the van out?” she asked.
    “I’ll walk to town.”
    “And leave us ladies out here alone?”
    She tried to tease, but the quiver in her voice gave her away.
    Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I can’t carry a baby six miles in this cold.”
    “I know.” Self-loathing dripped inside her as cold and sharp as the icicles hanging outside the kitchen window. Why couldn’t she just get over herself? “We’ll be fine.” She hoped. “But if you have to walk, how will you get back out here? To get us, I mean.”
    “I’ll worry about that after I get to town. My truck is small and might not make it, but Pastor Cliff has a four-wheel drive.” He arched his eyebrows, teasing. “In a pinch, I can commandeer a snow plow.”
    They both smiled at his silliness.
    He was so incredibly brave and she was such a coward.
    “Well, you’re right. We can’t hold out much longer. And you have to be as sick as I am of washing dish towels by hand every day.”
    Laney had long since used her last diaper
and Molly had appropriated soft dish towels and safety pins as replacements. Ethan called her pioneer woman, but the task of melting and boiling ice, washing the towels and hanging them to dry in front of the fireplace had grown tiresome in a hurry.
    Elbows on the tabletop, she sipped at her coffee, savoring the strong, hearty brew. Thanks to the supplies she’d bought when the storm was first predicted neither she nor Ethan had wanted for food. But now the most fragile member of their party was running short of formula.
    “It’s still so cold out there, Ethan.”
    “Yeah. But I’ll be fine as long as I know you girls are safe and snug here.” He rubbed at the scar over his eye, a reminder of how stark and white it had looked that first night when he’d almost frozen. She didn’t want that to happen again. “Before I take off, I’ll bring in another stack of firewood.”
    Molly pushed aside her empty plate, took one last sip of coffee and stood. “I’ll do it. I think there may be another lamp in the cellar. I want to bring that up.”
    The candles and kerosene were running precariously low and if by some chance she was forced to be alone with Laney after dark, she needed light more than ever.
    Before Ethan could insist on going in her place, she threw on a coat and gloves and hurried outside.
    Chin tucked into the fleece-lined parka, Molly scooted through the teeth-aching weather to Aunt Patsy’s storm cellar. At least here, on the south side of the house, the wind was blocked.
    Ice crusts sealed the heavy cellar door. After several minutes of stomping and pounding, they gave way and Molly entered the dim shelter.
    At the top of the steps, she shoved aside an old spider web with the elbow of her jacket and hoped a black widow wasn’t waiting to seek revenge for the destruction of her home. Inside the cellar proper, she felt along the wall until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
    Winter or summer the old concrete storm shelter smelled the same—like a mixture of gym socks and pickle juice. She wrinkled her nose against the smell.
    “There you are.” On a shelf lining the far wall sat a green-globed hurricane lamp along with a collection of empty fruit jars, a