Chapter 9 - The First Snow
By late November, the first true blizzard of the year swept down from Canada, burying Cedar Ridge Farm beneath two feet of pristine, blinding white snow.
The wind howled against the windows of the farmhouse, rattling the glass panes just as it had for fifty winters before. But inside, the fire roared in the brick hearth, casting a warm, amber glow across the braided rugs and the framed family photographs lining the mantelpiece.
Grace sat in her old rocking chair by the fire, knitting a heavy wool scarf while listening to the radio play soft country tunes.
The front door opened with a gust of freezing air, and Daniel stomped his heavy boots on the porch mat, shaking the snow off his canvas coat before stepping inside. His cheeks were red from the sub-zero temperatures, but his eyes were bright, clear, and steady.
“How’s the stock?” Grace asked without looking up from her knitting needles.
“Fat, warm, and chewing their cud like they own the place,” Daniel grinned, hanging his coat on the peg by the door. He walked over to the hearth, rubbing his cold hands together over the flames, then looked down at his wife.
He knelt down beside her rocking chair—not on jagged stones this time, but on the soft, woven wool of the living room rug.
Grace stopped knitting and looked down at him.
Daniel reached out, gently taking her hands in his. He lifted her left hand, pressed his lips softly against her knuckles, and then let his gaze drop down toward the hem of her wool skirt.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked quietly.
Grace traced his jawline with her thumb, a serene, unbreakable smile touching the corners of her lips.
“Only when the weather turns cold,” she said softly. “Which is how I know we’re alive.”
Daniel nodded, pressing his forehead gently against her knee.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the pastures, the barns, and the dark woods beyond the ridge in a blanket of absolute white. The town of Willow Creek had long since stopped whispering about them, returning to their quiet lives with a newfound reverence for the woman who had walked into the dark and brought her family back from the edge of ruin.
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They had lost everything, and they had gained the world.
And as the fire crackled in the hearth and the wind sang its ancient song against the glass, Grace Mercer closed her eyes, knowing that no matter what storms lay ahead in the years to come, her knees—though bruised and scarred—would never have to bend in the dark alone again.
