Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

It's begun to snow. Usually I enjoy seeing the gentle flakes and they cause me little aggravation with their accumulation as I seldom travel more than a block or two when I secure provisions. But today is different. Something ominous hangs in the winter air, a darkness and trepidation that well matches my mood. The snow seems to trap me, as it does with the small squirrel I am watching from my window. The frightened creature is as ill prepared for the season as I and scurries about frantically in the deepening snow in search of sustenance. I've tossed him a scrap of bread but I fear it will be inadequate to meet his long-term needs. My time of the month has passed without its usual affliction and I am dire fearful of the consequences of why this might be so. What am I to do if my darling has made a new life within me? My circumstances are without solution and his life would be ruined if the world were to know the truth of our love. And what of the dear creature unborn and unknowing who may dwell within my womb? Surely if it be blessed with even a fraction of the goodness and kindness of its father, the child deserves all the blessings of life; far more than might be offered by this wretch of a woman God may deem to mother it into the world.

The snow began falling before dawn, drifting down with an urgency that heralded a serious accumulation. The darkening sky matched the mood of Bird Song's guests and inhabitants as they woke to a busy Saturday morning, the main day of the ice festival.

Cynthia was troubled with a headache and tried to catch an extra half-hour of sleep as Dean served breakfast to the early risers, Penny, Mick and two of the other climbers. Donnie had scampered down at first light and dropped off his un-separated but translated letters of Annie's notebook, which Dean penned to completion over breakfast. Donnie had pretty well taken over the project as the chores of Bird Song limited Cynthia's time. Fred joined Dean in the dining room, taking up the duty of chatting with the guests, a task Dean was not yet ready to perform after a less-than-complete night's sleep.

Ryland's gear was piled by the door by the time the others were pouring their second cup of coffee. Jerome appeared, overly chipper, talking up the other climbers as if he was a life-long participant in the sport, not a second day novice. The Quincy sisters sauntered down. Effie bubbled over with verbal celebration at the beautiful snow, so much prettier than Boston's slop, while peeking out of every window, and collaring each passing guest to share her unabashed enthusiasm at each limited vista. Sister Claire bitched at the weatherman and anyone else she could blame for 'this horrible stuff ' while shooting daggers at Jerome Shipton and pretending Fred O'Connor hadn't been born. She did attempt to engage an uninterested climber in a conversation about her Great-aunt Annie being one of the founders of the Ouray Woman's Club, back in 1897 and how she helped form the Ouray Library, with her friend, the famous millionaire, of Hope Diamond fame, Tom Walsh. Dean took this to suggest Annie's true past remained a secret to the sharp-tongued woman.