Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

“Our help is here,” she told Ruth.

“It may be a few minutes before the rest of the winery workers get here. It sounded to me as if they were more interested in dousing the fire than seeking medical attention.”

The telephone buzzed, and Jama rushed to answer it, waving for Tyrell to have a seat as she entered the reception office.

Tyrell stood in the middle of the empty waiting room, watching Jama and thinking about the unprotected hillside at the ranch covered with Norton and Vignoles vines. The Norton were a sturdy strain of native grape, but it, too, was at risk if the weather didn’t change.

He couldn’t help wondering if his brother was setting the bales properly at the base of the hillside. Too close, and the fires could scorch the vines, too far away, and a fortune in precious hay would be wasted.

His thoughts scrambled with tension as he watched Jama juggle calls: Dad and Doriann, life and death, the fragility of existence; Jama and Amy and the lost bond of friendship that Jama grieved after more than four and a half years.

He shook his head, wishing he was wiser about affairs of the heart.

He couldn’t keep his attention from Jama. She was efficient on the phone, patient, which had never been a characteristic of hers when she was growing up. As she listened, counseled, reassured and jotted down appointments, he hoped that only he caught the strain in her voice.

As the calls continued and no patients entered, Tyrell stepped to the back window of the waiting room and gazed up the hillside, below which he knew fields of large, round hay bales were being transported into place for multiple bonfires.

Would these efforts save the vines?

The ranch was Dad’s lifework. Mom’s occasional rival.

Not that Mom would ever say anything about it, but Tyrell had always known that she’d often been lonely, even in the midst of all her children, when Dad was at a co-op meeting that ran late, or in the fields making his rows a little straighter.

Dad had always taken pride in his work. So had Mom. And Dad had spent good, quality time with his kids, and with his wife. They loved him for it. But Tyrell had suspected for years that quality time once or twice a week with her husband might not be enough for Mom. Quantity might also play a part. He knew that it played a part for him. He wanted more than even his happily married parents had enjoyed.

He couldn’t help wondering if that could be part of Jama’s concern about the two of them, as well. Having seen Monty’s obsession with making the Mercer Ranch the best, most productive, most progressive ranch in the Missouri River Valley, would Jama be worried that Tyrell would follow in his father’s footsteps?

Jama would never dream of saying a word against her foster father.

And then Tyrell thought about Heather and Mark. Was Heather simply imitating her father’s example when she worked so many long hours that her daughter was practically being raised by someone else?

“Tyrell? Hello?”

He blinked and turned to find Jama standing behind him, eyeing him with concern.

“You okay?” she asked.

His first impulse was to assure her that everything was fine. But he hated lying. “No. You?”

She shook her head. “Everything okay at the ranch?”

“Daniel’s carrying his cell phone. He can call me with any questions.” Their cousin, Mae, and her husband had a dairy farm near Hermann. Tyrell was counting on her expertise to guide Daniel as she drove the tractor with the bale lift.

“Do you think the bale fires will work?” Jama asked.

“I think it’s our best chance. We won’t light the fires unless the temperature drops below twenty-six degrees. The technique won’t be foolproof, but we might save a percentage of the shoots.”

“Big if?” Jama asked.

He nodded. “How many patients are coming from the winery?”

Jama sank into one of the waiting-room chairs. “Five, according to the call I received about a minute ago. Three smoke inhalations, one possible broken bone, and one of the men has a possible hip dislocation.”

“Ambulance?” He sat down beside her.

“Private vehicle.”

“I could have collected two or three of them on my way here if I’d known transport was needed.”

“I was told it’s chaos at the winery. Two fire trucks are there, and one of the first responders is securing the patients. They should be here before long. If not for the hip dislocation, I’d say we could take care of the rest ourselves. You probably have a lot more work to do at the ranch.”

“Not quite as much as you’d think. Daniel and Mae can handle it.”

“I heard Tom Frey’s trying to hire a helicopter to protect his vineyard,” Jama said.

It would cost thousands of dollars a night to have a helicopter hover over the crops and move the air to keep the frost from destroying them, but the method might be a feasible alternative to the bonfires. However, Tyrell believed that the delicate shoots were less likely to be damaged with heated air than with the strong, uneven blasts of wind caused by rotor blades.

But Tyrell’s mind wasn’t completely on the crops, or the incoming injured, or even on his father.

“You’re thinking about Doriann,” Jama said.

He nodded. “Every time I close my eyes, I can see her hair, the color of sweet potatoes.”

Jama laid her hand on his. “I remember her head poking out of the hay last summer, with the widest, most mischievous grin on her face.”

Tyrell stared down at their joined hands, comforted by her touch.

“If you think about it too much, the fear can eat you alive,” Jama said.

Tyrell nodded. He was trying to think of everything else…anything but his visions of what might be happening to Doriann. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. There was still juice in the battery.

“When she’s found, you’ll be one of the first to know,” Jama assured him.

“Mom knows,” Tyrell said.

There was a swift intake of breath. “How?”

“She saw a TV news alert.”

Jama leaned close enough for him to catch the warm air of her minty breath against the side of his face. “How’s she handling it?”

“She’s unhappy with us for keeping it from her in the first place, and she’s frantic for Doriann.”

Jama stood and walked to the front window, arms crossed over her chest. “Oh, Tyrell, I thought we were doing the right thing.”

“I still think we did.”

“But to find out about it on television?”

“You did all you could to keep that from happening. Stop second-guessing yourself, Jama.” He wanted to get up and join her at the window, to hold her close, and reassure her that all would be well. But would it?

He thought about his brother. “Daniel says Doriann’s still alive.”

Jama turned. “Is that just a statement of hope, or something more?”

“He told me he knows she’s alive.” Tyrell kept his doubts from his voice. Long ago, his sisters had labeled their younger brother the family prophet. Daniel had always had a profound faith, a deep rapport with God, it seemed. Those few times in his life when he’d stated a certain knowledge about something, he had always been right.

And yet Tyrell was afraid to believe him this time. Afraid to trust.

“She’s alive,” Jama said, her faith in Daniel’s word apparent in her voice. “And since she’s alive, there’s hope. And since she’s such a wily little squirt, I think she’ll stay alive.”

“Nice thought.” Tyrell was chagrined at the cynicism in his voice.

Obviously, so was Jama. “Ted Claybaugh would have pulled you off the field for that attitude.”

“Coach isn’t here, and this isn’t football.”

“But remember what he said. ‘Kids, learn the game well, and learn to do it with a strong heart and good ethics, because when you can do that in football, you’ll know how to live right in the game of life.’”