Hours crawled by. Close to midnight, color slowly returned to her cheeks. Her shivering eased. The wind outside began to lose its fury. Ridge’s hands were numb, his back aching, but he refused to loosen his hold.
At dawn, snowplows cleared a path. Sheriff’s deputies and paramedics finally reached the station. They found a broad-shouldered man in black leather slumped against the counter, cradling a small girl wrapped in silver blankets.
“She’s stable,” Ridge told them as they approached. “Core temp’s rising. Just keep her warm. She’s fragile.”
Ava gripped his arm. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said, meeting the sheriff’s eyes.
At the hospital, the truth surfaced. Ava’s father had died three days earlier from an overdose in their unheated house. The furnace had failed. With no one checking on them, the little girl had endured freezing nights alone before wandering into the storm. There were no relatives able to take her.
Ridge stayed at her bedside for three days, sleeping in a chair, bringing stuffed animals and soft reassurances. When social services arrived to move her into foster care, he stood firm.