The rumbling of a truck's engine in the distance caught Naomi's attention. Her brow raised. A visitor?

Before she could wonder more about that inner question, she focused again on the teacup sandwiched between her palms. She had filled the cup to its brim, and the Chamomile drink was steaming hot. She couldn't afford to spill heated liquid onto her backhands again. Twice in one week? That would not be good. After all, she still had snow to clear, food to hunt, and firewood to chop.

Sure, Naomi could work with scorched knuckles. Heck, she had done so with them in the past. But it wasn't pleasant for her to do so. It only made those tasks more painful, and she was tiring of pain.

"No one's ever been out this way," she grumbled, through a hint of glee. "How my ears always play tricks on me, this time of year."

Shaking off the idea of a visitor, Naomi focused again on the teacup. Inching it closer to her puckered lips, she kissed them to the cup's edge. Slurping in the hot beverage, she closed her eyes, as the liquid slid down her throat soothing it. She hadn't been one to get a sore throat—   ever. This year, though, one had been scratching at her vocal chords.

Naomi wasn't an old gal; she was only thirty-six. But she felt like an old woman. She acted like a person of advanced age. How could she not? Her back ached daily, her knees buckled constantly, and she shuffled when she walked. That was enough to prod her to curse her days.

Still, a race of excitement surged through Naomi's worn body, when she heard the solid closing sound of what she deemed the door of an automobile. She put her cup of tea, shakily, back down to the tabletop. Amazingly, she hadn't spilled a drop.

Nibbling the color out of her bottom, chapped lip, and gazing about her naturally-lit cabin, Naomi wondered about the door sound she'd heard outside. Then her sparsely-decorated area—with animal skins stretched on a drying rack, several feet from crackling, burning wood in the fireplace—smacked her, mentally, in the face. Cabin simple and drying skins inside her abode had always sat well with her. How would a visitor look upon such uniqueness?

Fidgeting in her rickety-wooden chair, Naomi shook with panic. Go away! she shouted in thought, gaping toward the cabin's front window. Then her curiosity piqued. Someone's coming to see me?

A timid, quivering grin stretched Naomi's line-ridden, angelic face. Then her demeanor fell cold. Sounds in these parts always carried, she knew. Had she really heard a truck's approaching engine? The closing of its door? All a short distance away?

Without thinking more about it, she finger-combed her untamed mane of silver-streaked hair. It had been years since she'd gotten it cut, let alone styled and dyed.

Still, what she presumed an approaching visitor, caused her to want to look nothing like the mountain woman that she'd become. Could Naomi make herself look presentable, though, in time? That wonder didn't seem to matter much to her now. Not as much as the idea of a visitor nearing her front door, anyway. "That" fact made her feel good—a way she had not felt in years.

From her chair, Naomi squinted through the frosting-over windowpanes. Through the shielding winter blizzard outside, her gaze peered. As her look scrutinized, she saw a bundled-up individual heading toward her hidden cabin.

Moments later, Naomi lost sight of the figure. Then she jumped in her chair, when three hard knocks sounded on her front door. Instinctively, she grabbed her rifle that was leaned up against her table's edge.

"Who's there?" she coughed out, from her seated position, holding her rifle at the ready, pointed at the door.

"Naomi Pines?" called a man's scarf-muffled voice. "Christmas delivery for you!"

Christmas delivery?

"Ms. Pines?..."

Managing herself up from the chair, Naomi hollered back, "Yes!" Then she shuffled toward the window, with the barrel of the gun held before her. "I'm coming!" At the window's edge, she, slowly, moved the tattered curtain aside, revealing her stone-fixed expression.

"Mail carrier, ma'am," said the man, noticing her face in the window, his tender eyes studying the riffle. Then he held up a single brown-wrapped, red-yarn bowed box for her to see.

Naomi's scathing eyes looked at the winter-dressed mail carrier on her porch. Then she glanced at what she thought a red, beaten, post-office delivery truck in the snowy distance. Despite Christmas being meaningless to her, Naomi's heart sang here.

As her gaze set on the package in the deliver's hands, she lowered her firearm. She hadn't known anybody for years. Who would be sending her a gift today and why?

*****

It's great to have you reading this part of my wintery Christmas story, friends.

Much thanks!

Just what might be in the package for Naomi? Could it be a wrong delivery?  

In the comment section, type what you're thinking--I'd really love to know. 

Then click the "vote star" and know that I appreciate you doing so!