The Foundling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 6

Lorri must have watched through the window for him. She rushed outside as soon as they arrived, leaping over a small red bundle lying on the porch. She ran to him, dashing tears from her eyes.

“You were gone all day. I worried.”

He held her to him. “I’m sorry, dear. We tried to hurry, but were over-successful. The dogs ran as fast as they could.”

She pulled away to look up at him.

“The shed is ready. I packed it with snow; the meat will keep overnight.”

Even with only four dogs left, the pack had no trouble pulling the cart. Stan hurried on, toward home.

He reached home near sunset. The dogs he’d sent on ahead had come back quickly, with no indication that anything was amiss. For the first time in two weeks, Stan felt himself relax completely. His wife was safe; home was near. The haul wasn’t bad, either.

Lorri was waiting on the stoop when he led the dogs into the yard. Her eyes widened at the sight of the load as they stopped by the meat shed. She went to unlash the old deerskins covering the game, preventing anything from

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