A Very Special Delivery

the beep, beep of the microwave, Molly grabbed the thick brown mug and rushed back to the stranger in her living room. His head lay back and his eyes were closed, but he opened them the minute she reappeared.
    She offered him the steaming, rich-scented cocoa.
    With a shake of his head, he spoke through chattering teeth. “Too shaky. I’ll spill it.”
    Perplexed, Molly thought for a moment. He absolutely had to get warm—and fast. Ethan would be sick if she didn’t get him warmed up soon. If he fell ill in her house so far from town, she’d be left to care for him and his infant daughter. And for her peace of mind, she wanted him and his baby out of here as soon as possible.
    What he needed was a good hot bath to chase off the chill, but the idea of offering such a personal thing to a stranger was out of the question. The next best alternative was an electric blanket—and she did have that.
    “Will you be okay for a minute?”
    “Sure.” His ice-encrusted eyelids fell shut. His red-blue lips barely moved.
    “I’ll get some blankets, but first let’s move you closer to the fire.”
    Grabbing his ice-coated arm, she pulled as he heaved upward. They stumbled to the chair she’d pulled as close as possible to the blaze. As Ethan collapsed once more, he muttered, “Laney?”
    What a great dad. Even half-frozen, he still worried about his baby. “She’s asleep.”
    Molly gazed down at him for a second, curious to know more about a man strong enough to risk himself for someone else but tender enough to care for a tiny baby girl.
    He was definitely different than most men she knew.
    “I’ll be right back,” she said.
    In winter the back of the big, rambling house was closed off to preserve fuel. A trip into the frigid space was always made in haste, so in minutes, she was back in the living room, loaded with blankets.
    Ethan remained inert, but his chest rose and fell in exhaustion. The ice attached to his hair and clothes had begun to thaw. Small puddles formed around his feet. Damp spots appeared on his jacket and hat. His leather gloves dripped onto his pant legs.
    “You need to get out of that jacket and hat,” Molly said, reaching for the stocking cap. It came away, leaving behind a rumpled mess of brown hair.
    Ethan roused enough to struggle with his gloves.
    “Your fingers are numb. Let me.” Without considering the familiarity of such an action, Molly pulled the stiff, wet gloves from his hands, fretting over the reddened, icy fingers as she reached for the zipper on his jacket.
    At her touch, Ethan’s hand stayed hers. “I got it.”
    Suddenly embarrassed and more than a little self-conscious, Molly whirled toward the pile of blankets. Behind her, she heard the rustle of his jacket as she plugged in the electric blanket.
    “Sorry about the mess.”
    “Don’t be silly.” Molly draped the blanket around his shoulders, adding two others for insulation and an old quilt around his legs. “We’ll have you warmed up in no time.”
    “Appreciate it.” His head fell back against the old stuffed chair that had been her late uncle Ray’s favorite reading spot.
    Gradually, Ethan’s shudders subsided and he grew still. Except for the crackle of burning logs and the constant onslaught of sleet pecking at the windows, the room was unnervingly quiet.
    She wanted to turn on the television, check the weather, but worried the noise might disturb the baby.
    A jolt of fear, as powerful as an electrical shock, ripped through her.
    The baby.
    She had been so preoccupied with the near-frozen Ethan that she’d momentarily forgotten Laney. Was she all right?
    Knees going weak, throat dry as talcum powder, Molly was afraid to look at the makeshift baby bed.
    Her breath grew short and her heart rate accelerated as the beginnings of a panic attack threatened.
    Ethan was in no shape to take care of himself, much less a baby. How could she be so stupid, so incompetent to forget that a baby was in her care after what had happened to Zack?
    “God has not given me the spirit of fear.” Approaching the couch, mind flashing photos of a dead child, she clasped a hand against her throat, panting.
    A pair of midnight-blue eyes blinked up at her from amidst the yellow-and-blue bunny blankets.
    Molly, limp with relief, melted to the floor beside the sofa. Laying her forehead against the cushions, she thanked God that little Laney had suffered no ill effects from her neglect.
    She was still there, attention glued to the