Free Plundered Christmas by Susan Lyttek Page B

Justin. “It’s just the storm.” But in spite of his efforts to calm the bulldog, our faithful friend kept barking.
    Charlie had taken only a few steps toward the east wing when the front door blew open and crashed into the wall behind it.
    The older man turned to the noise and instinctively headed for the open door to close it, but a shape ran through and knocked him over.
    Whoever or whatever it was, kept going through the house at top speed. Moments later, we heard the rear door open.
    I ran over to Charlie. “Are you OK?” I knelt down next to the man to try and help him up. He tried to push me away, and get up on his own. He made it to a semi-seated position, but then fell back when he tried lifting himself further. He must have hit his head harder than I thought. I put an arm under him to keep his head from hitting the tiled floor again.
    “Who? What?” he managed.
    Meanwhile James along with our alert, and quite correct, canine went over to the front door to sniff it out and latch it. (James latched it and Jelly sniffed out the area to make sure it was all clear.) Then the pair went to the back door past the kitchen and repeated the process.
    “It might be too late for whomever that was,” James said when the pair returned to the great room. “But I always feel better about the situation when the entryways are locked and secured.” I smiled a little at that, remembering dear Mr. Folger calling us the “locking-est people he ever knew.” Of course, he had called us that after trying to break into our house.
    As far as the shape that ran through the house, I had no idea who that might be. Other than William, everyone on the island was accounted for. And I didn’t think William would knock over the old man. Also, he had no cause to be secretive. We expected him here. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But right now, you’re more important. Let’s get you over to that couch.” By encouraging him to rest his weight on my arm, he stood with as much dignity as he could muster and hobbled over to the couch.
    “But the candles…”
    I stopped him. “Tell James and Frank where they are, and they’ll find them. They should check all the windows and doors, too. I feel quite a draft.” I felt a cold breeze hit my back and wished I’d packed more of my winter clothes.
    “It’s not the door. Your husband accounted for both of those.” Charlie pointed across the room once I got him seated. “Someone needs to tend to that fire.”
    Sure enough, the flames had dropped quite a bit and only a red glow let us know that it was still alive and hungry.
    “I’ll do that,” I said. With four years of Girl Scouts in my past, I could tend to a fire. “Aimee, can you help Dad watch our two patients?” While she and her aunt were at odds, I couldn’t think of anything to keep her from helping Charlie.
    “I’ll help, too.” Josie announced.
    Not to be outdone, Justin informed us that as part of a soccer team he had to know how to handle basic injuries.
    Satisfied that all fronts were manned, or “person’ed” as the case might be, I headed over to our current source of warmth and light. It was much warmer on this side of the room, and I wondered why the couches were so far away from the fireplace. Maybe because it was usually too warm for a fire? But still, couches, even huge couches, were mobile and the fireplace was not.
    I sat on the slightly raised hearth, opened the grate and reached for a log. I positioned it across the coals and smoldering pieces of wood, careful not to cover any bit of flame too closely. Fire needs air, my Scout leader would drill into us. Without air, you have no fire.
    Looking over their supplies, I noticed several logs that looked different from the rest. They were lower on the pile, so whoever stacked the wood intended them to be used later. When I touched the end of one, it still appeared to have a residual dampness to it. But its texture, also, wasn’t wood-like. Perhaps this