A Love Made New by Kathleen Fuller Page A

felt frozen, and each inhale was like razor blades in her lungs. Her heart pounded in her chest as she climbed the hill to his house, the rag rugs wet and weighing at least twice as much as they had when she left Irene’s buggy. When she got to his front door, she leaned against it, using her hip to knock on it. He better be home. She waited a moment, then moved her hip to knock on the door again—only to have it give way. She tumbled into the living room and fell against Asa.

    Asa’s eyes widened as Abigail propelled toward him, holding rugs and covered in snow. She slammed into him with such force that he couldn’t steady himself and he landed on his rear end. Abigail hit the floor in front of him, facedown in the rugs.
    He scrambled to his feet and slammed the door against the wind and blowing snow. He’d knocked off work a little early today to clean up the place before she got there, but the weather hadn’t been this bad when he left work. He knelt down beside her. “Abigail! Are you all right?”
    She lifted her gaze to his. Delicate flakes of snow covered her cheeks, her nose, even her lips. “I’m very ready for spring.”
    He wanted to laugh, but her dark expression ended his good humor. “Let me help you up.”
    “I’ve got it.” She moved to her knees and blew a few snowflakes off her lips. Then she stood up, looking a bit bewildered, quite disheveled, and very, very cute.
    He put his hands on his hips. “What did you do, walk over here from Irene’s?”
    She nodded. “It seemed like a gut idea at the time.”
    She was shaking again. And red-faced. He caught the weariness in her eyes. The walk and subsequent fall must have taken a lot out of her. “Give me yer coat and bonnet, and then sit by the fire.” He’d made sure the fire in the woodstove was blazing for her arrival. The house had a cold, empty appearance. It didn’t need to feel cold too.
    He’d been steadily working to repair and clean the house, but some days his heart wasn’t in it. Last fall he’d spent a couple of weeks working on Andrew’s addition, and that had taken time away from the renovation too.
    For once Abigail didn’t argue with him. She took off her coat and bonnet and handed them to him. The skirt of her light purple dress was wet. Although she was cold and looked miserable, he couldn’t keep his gaze off her. Regaining his senses, he grabbed his rocking chair and moved it close to the stove. “Here. Have a seat.”
    She plopped down in the chair, her head hanging, every bit of Abigail-spunk gone. “I’ll hang these up on the banister,” he said. She didn’t respond as he went to the staircase and draped her coat and bonnet over it. He had a pegboard in the mudroom off the kitchen, but her clothes would dry faster in the heat of the living room. He turned and saw the pile of rugs on the floor. They were wet too. There wasn’t enough room for them on the banister, so he asked, “Can I set these over the kitchen chairs to dry?”
    “ Ya. Sure.”
    He took the rugs and hung them over the backs of the two secondhand chairs in the kitchen, thankful he’d recently been able to add them and an old table to his sparse furnishings. When he returned he asked, “Do you want some kaffee ? I can brew a pot real quick.”
    She shook her head.
    He moved to crouch down in front of her and took her cold hand in his. Her fingers were like ice. “Now’s not the time to geh silent on me, Abigail.”
    “I’m tired,” she whispered. “So . . . tired.”
    He knew she didn’t mean just physically. The weeks after he first came back, when he was trying to find a job and had only a ratty sleeping bag to sleep on, were physically and emotionally painful. Forcing himself to get up each morning, to not let his circumstances drag him down, had been difficult. “You can rest here. As long as you need to.”
    Her gaze met his, and he was relieved when he saw a small spark ignited in her eyes. “Why are you being so nice to