Free Hattie Big Sky by Kirby Larson

the last few steps. Finally, finally, I reached the barn, gasping and sobbing for air. My face was raw. I tasted the salt of blood trickling down my cheeks. I worked my shawl over my face. It was a frail barricade, but it did help.
    My hands, clumsy in mittens, could not tie the knot at this end. I pried off my mittens and felt as if I’d plunged my hands into a glacier-fed stream. The ache in my joints rocked me back on my heels.
    â€œCome on, come on.” My fingers no longer belonged to my body. They were lifeless wooden sticks at the ends of my hands. “Over, under. Pull it snug.” I nearly had the knot secured when a shrieking gust knocked me to my knees. Again and again, I fought to stand. It seemed hours passed before I finally finished tying the knot. My legs were rags; I leaned heavily on the rope. Left hand, then right hand, then left again. I dragged myself back to the house.
    A small dark object perched at the top of the steps. Mr. Whiskers! We both nearly fell into the cabin, I panting, he mewling. The flimsy wood and tar-paper walls were no match for this wind. It bullied its way through every crack. My eyes warmed and grew runny. Another handful of chips in the stove barely took the edge off. I nailed a precious spare blanket over the door and kept feeding the fire.
    Uncle Chester’s cabin rattled and creaked and moaned and shifted as the wind battered it again and again. It surely could not hold. I pulled on another sweater. I would not leave this cabin. Would not be driven out.
    At one point, I heard—what? A noise. A strange noise riding on top of the wild wind. The noise sounded almost human. And it sounded like my name.
    I shook my head and listened again. Nothing but the screeching of the storm. But there—listen! It
was
a human voice. A child’s voice! I pulled back the blanket, opened the door, and peered out.
    At first, I could see nothing but the wildly swirling snow. “Hello?” I called, my voice instantly sucked up by the wind. I tried again.
“Hello!”
This, screeched at the top of my lungs.
    I heard the voice again. “Hattie. Miz Hattie!” What I saw next brought me to my knees more suddenly than any slap of wind. A large figure fought its way toward the house. Plug. Dear Plug. And hanging to his tail for dear life—literally for dear life—were Chase and Mattie.
    I ran out without a thought for overcoat, hanging on to the rope I’d just strung. “Here, Plug. Here, children,” I screamed, my voice raw. After an eternity, Plug staggered into range. I swept Mattie into my arms and motioned for Chase to take hold of the rope. Head down, he scuffled with snow and wind until he reached it. We made our way, hand over hand, to the cabin. Plug settled himself in the lee of the house, out of the wind.
    Mattie’s hands felt deathly cold as I brought her inside and began to take off her frozen things.
    â€œWhat happened?” I could not disguise the tremble of alarm in my voice.
    Chase rubbed his own purple hands together and stepped closer to the fire. “We were at school and saw the storm coming. Mr. Nelson told us to get on home. I thought we could make it but…” Chase’s voice cracked.
    â€œYou’re safe now,” I assured him.
Thank you, Lord, for that good horse, who led these children out of the storm.
“And what a hero you are—to find Plug and let him lead you here.”
    Chase crumpled to the floor. His shoulders shook with sobs. I turned to distract Mattie, to spare him the further pain of having witnesses to his tears.
    â€œNow, little miss.” I rubbed her feet briskly. “What do I have that will fit you?” By the time I got her dressed in dry things, she looked more scarecrow than six-year-old. But she was content chatting to her doll as her clothes dried by the stove.
    â€œWe’ve got to get Chase warmed up, too.” I surveyed my remaining wardrobe. Not much