Page 24 of Winter's Echo
He huffed, warm breath curling past my cheek. We moved forward a few more steps. Then a few more. The wind roared louder, hitting the side of the wagon as it followed our arc. The wheels protested, one dipping sharply before a pair of soldiers grabbed it and pulled it back into line.
I slowed, raising a hand.
“Hold.”
Everything stopped. Not right away, but quickly enough.
I watched the ground ahead. The drift sloped slightly downward, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
I was always watching for it. Bad footing. If the wagon hit that angle, it would tip.
I turned my head. “Bring it tighter,” I yelled over the wind. “Too far out and you’ll lose the wheel.”
Baxley had moved up to my wagon and looked up at me, then at the line I’d chosen. He studied it for just a moment before shifting to correct it without hesitation.
I stepped forward again, clearing a path and adjusting as the terrain required. One foot in front of the other, until the tree was finally behind us. We weren’t clear yet but getting closer.
I exhaled slowly, not trusting the ground enough to relax.
“Keep moving,” I called. “We’re not stopping here, back to the tree line.”
Because in this cold, standing still wasn’t a rest. It was death, and we needed shelter.
I pushed forward, carving a narrow path through the drift, angling us back toward the dark line of trees ahead. They loomed through the snowfall, blurred at the edges, but solid enough to promise some break from the wind.
The horse followed, slower now, his breath coming heavier with each step.
Behind me, the wagon groaned.
“Don’t fight it,” I called over my shoulder. “Let it roll where it wants, just keep it straight.”
A shout answered me — the captain, maybe — but I didn’t turn to check.
Turning meant stopping. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking got you killed out here.
The wind shifted suddenly, cutting sharply across from the east. It hit the wagon broadside, and I heard the wheels protest.
“Hold it!” someone barked.
Too late. The back end lurched, dragging the weight sideways as the snow gave beneath it.
I spun, grabbing the reins hard enough to make the horse rear half a step.
“Easy!” I snapped, more to him than the men. “You don’t get to be spooked now, friend.”
Two soldiers were already bracing against the wagon, boots digging in as they tried to force it back into line. Baxley moved inwithout a word, shoulder to the frame, adding his weight where it mattered.
I saw another soldier moving. He didn’t push. He moved to the wheel and dropped low, gloved hands clearing packed snow from beneath it in quick, efficient movements.
“Lift on my mark,” he called, sharp and steady. “Not before.”
I watched the angle of the wagon, the way it leaned into the drift. Another inch, and it would tip, taking the horse with it.
“Now,” the soldier cried.
They heaved, and the wheel caught. For a heartbeat, everything held, then the wagon shifted back into place with a heavy jolt.
I didn’t wait.
