The Toddler's Tale. Rebecca Winters

to raise her child in an environment of total love, not fear. Max wanted the same thing for them.

      If either he or Chelsea had anything to say about it, Traci would be given that chance. Already Chelsea’s mind was filling with plans she would like to put into action once Max had restored Betsy to her mother.

      While she waited for him to give her more directions, she ate the sandwich he’d brought her earlier. A few minutes later she noticed another fire truck roll up. Three more firefighters began unloading lights and heating equipment with their matchless expertise.

      No matter what it took, Max would make the miracle happen. On that score Chelsea harbored no doubts. He was a man who lit his own fires. When she really allowed herself to think about it, there was no one to compare with him.

      From her perch at the edge of the excavation, she followed Max’s progress to the utility truck. Behind it she spied a couple of television vans. It hadn’t taken them long. It never did, she reflected.

      Before long the scene would turn into a media frenzy, but all she cared about was Traci’s little girl, who needed to be kept warm throughout her ordeal.

      “Chelsea?” Max’s voice called a few minutes later. He had entered the pit. “Try talking to her, and then sing something.”

      She spread the tarp on the ground, then lay down on her stomach so she could extend her head over the edge.

      “Hello, little darling. It’s Chelsea. Come on out of there. Come on, sweetheart. Come to me and your mommy. That’s a girl. We’re right here. All you have to do is crawl closer. Show us what a big girl you are.”

      Another song, “The Happy Wanderer,” came to mind. It was a tune she and her friends used to sing on their excursions into the Jura mountains above the Swiss vineyards.

      “Did you like that, honey?”

      “She’s imitating some of the sounds! Sing the song again! Maybe she’ll start crawling toward me!”

      Encouraged, Chelsea did Max’s bidding. When she ran out of verses, she started again, then switched to “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music.

      “Well, well, well.” The familiar male voice came from the other side of the tape. “The boss is fuming because he hasn’t heard from you since you left for the Lord ranch ages ago. Unless this is a better story, you’re going to have some explaining to do.”