“Quit your whining, Mal,” he muttered to himself. “Groanin’ won’t fill yer belly. If ya wanna get warm, do somethin’ about it.”
Straightening his shoulders, Malachi lifted his head and scanned the landscape, looking for any hint of a building in the area. A barn with animals heating the air would be best. But there was nothing. Nothing but snow-dusted prairie grass with a few random post oaks sticking their heads up every now and again.
What’d he expect? For a closed carriage to show up with one of them fancy drivers who’d call him sir and ask him where he’d like to go?
Take me to the nearest barn, my good man, Malachi imagined saying. And don’t spare the horses.
With a snort, Mal flipped up the collar of his shirt, stuffed his stinging hands in his pockets, and started trudging east. Gainesville shouldn’t be too far away. That’s where he’d been when he got the brilliant idea to hitch a ride in the third boxcar from the end. Not his best decision. But the fellas already occupying the car had jumped on him pretty fast. The train couldn’t have traveled too many miles from town before he’d been tossed. Surely there’d be a farm or ranch nearby with a barn he could hunker down in for a night or two. All he had to do was find it before full dark hit.
By the time he came across the first structure, Mal was shivering so hard, he could barely keep his balance. The wind pounding him from the north kept pushing him off track, making him fight to walk a straight line. But, hey, at least it wasn’t snowing. That preacher man would be proud of him. He’d just doubled the size of his blessing list.
Mal chuckled, but the expulsion of air turned into a cough. One that made his chest ache. Hunching his shoulders, he ducked his head and turned full into the wind, cutting across a field to shorten his path to the barn.
Light glowed from the windows of the house that stood a short distance away. Smoke blew out the chimney at a sharp angle, as much a slave to the wind as he was. He usually took steps to avoid people, but in this instance, he was too cold to even consider looking for a more suitable hideout. If he could just bed down in some straw for the night and get warm, he could be away before the owners woke up in the morning.
Suddenly thankful for the encroaching darkness, Malachi flattened himself against the far side of the barn and inched his way around until he reached the doors at the front. Opening the one closest to him just enough to squeeze through, he slipped inside and held the door, fighting the tug of the wind in order to close it quietly. The last thing he needed was for the slam of a door to bring the farmer running. Farmers tended to carry shotguns, and Mal wasn’t too fond of buckshot.
He peered through the crack he’d left open and watched the house, ready to make a run for the field, if necessary. But no one came out to challenge him. He released the breath he’d been holding and closed the door the rest of the way. Looked like his blessing list was up to three now. Mal grinned and trudged to the darkest corner he could find.
The smell of hay tickled his nose, but he was too happy to be out of the wind to pay it any mind. With numb, shaky fingers, he managed to undo the buttons on his flannel shirt. He removed it along with the long-sleeved wool undershirt he wore and stretched both over the empty stall door. He tried to undo the laces of his shoes, but his fingers were too stiff to pick the knots free. His feet would have to wait until he regained some feeling in his hands.
He huffed his breath over his cupped hands, then moved into the stall and buried himself in the pile of straw. He lay still for a long time, his bony arms curled in front of his thin chest, his knees pulled up tight. The dampness of his trousers caused his teeth to chatter uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and imagined everything warm he could think of. A roaring fire. A wool blanket—no, not one of those scratchy things. A quilt. A thick, soft, down-filled quilt with lace at the edges like he saw in a shop window once. A steaming bowl of barley soup.
The pang hit his stomach hard. Great. He knew better than to think about food. Now he wasn’t gonna be able to think about anything else. Mal opened his eyes and squinted through the shadows. Maybe there was some feed in the corncrib he’d passed on the way in. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a dinner of field corn pilfered from a bunch of livestock. Awful stuff. Hard and dry, and it always stuck in his teeth. But it would hold back the gnawing in his belly and maybe even let him sleep.
Reluctantly, Malachi unfolded himself and brushed off the straw. He clenched his jaw to still the chattering of his teeth and slowly made his way to where he recalled seeing the crib. One of the horses snorted as he passed and kicked at his stall door.