Read Online A Warmth in Winter by Lori Copeland - Free Book Online

cared.
    The oars rebelled in his hands, pushing against his palms when he wanted to pull, pulling away when he tried to push. When he finally felt the oars yield to his will, his arms trembled with weakness, having spent all their strength in the struggle.

Chapter Six
    W hen Bobby woke the next morning, he thrust his head out from under the covers and blew out a frosty breath. The fire had died during the night.
    â€œI’m freeeeeeezing!” Brittany said, her teeth chattering. She peeked out through a crack between her pillow and her blankets. “It’s as cold as a dead man’s tongue in here!”
    Bobby shushed her. The grandfather said that all the time, but it didn’t sound nice, especially not when he was lying over there so sick and still.
    Sitting up, Bobby glanced at the man in the bed. He must have gotten up during the night, for now he lay under a blanket. He was curled up in a knot, an odd position for a man so long and tall.
    Bobby shivered as a rush of cold air hit the parts of his body that had been warmed by the covers. He drew the quilts about his shoulders, then realized that the grandfather had only one thin blanket over him.
    With his covers trailing behind, Bobby stood and walked to the rocker, then pulled the knitted afghan off the back of the chair. Walking slowly, he crossed the room and dropped his own quilts, then quickly draped the afghan over the grandfather’s spare figure. When the grandfather was covered, he dove back into his quilts, then crawled to Brittany’s bedroll and huddled against her.
    Her head reappeared from beneath the blankets. “Is it morning?” she asked, shivering.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’s cold.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œColder than an igloo.” Her head vanished beneath the blanket again, and he knew she wouldn’t come out unless he did something to warm the room.
    But what? He’d never started a fire before. The apartment had a furnace, and Daddy had been really strict about the thermostat on the wall. Bobby hadn’t been allowed to touch it no matter how cold the room became because heat cost money and money was something they didn’t have.
    But grandfather’s stove burned wood, and Bobby knew a stack of split logs stood right outside the front door. It would only take a minute to bring in a couple of logs, shove them into the stove, and toss in a match. Then he would shut the door before he or anything in the house had a chance to catch fire.
    He looked again at the sleeping man, hoping for some sign of life, but the grandfather seemed as sleepy today as he had yesterday.
    Taking a deep breath, Bobby wrapped his quilt tighter around his neck, gripped it with one hand, then tiptoed across the cold stone floor. A bitter burst of wind blew into the house when he opened the door, ruffling the pages of the newspapers stacked against the wall. Dropping his quilt, he twice darted in and out, bringing in a short log each time. Shivering without his covers, he carried the logs, one at a time, to the woodstove.
    The polished handle was heavy and the latch tight, but Bobby finally managed to get the door open. A few red embers glowed in the coal dust, and he took that as a good sign. He shoved the logs into the narrow firebox, then looked about for something to start the fire.
    A matchbox lay on the mantel above the fireplace, and a few sticks of pine fatwood stood in a bucket on the stone hearth. He’d watched his grandfather light the fire several times, so he thought he could do it.
    He had to do it.
    With fingers trembling from cold and nervousness, Bobby lit the match, then held it to the end of a piece of fat-wood. After a moment the stick began to blacken and burn.
    From within her woolen cocoon Britt called, “Be careful!”
    Bobby swallowed his anxiety and tried to act as though his heart weren’t pounding.
    When the flame burned steadily, he thrust the fatwood into the stove, making