Free Far Horizons by Kate Hewitt

clearing was surely as good as another. Yet he could not shake the feeling that his father had changed locations simply because he wanted to be in charge. Almost out of spite. Still he managed to keep his voice equable as he gave his assent. “All right, then.”
    Sandy began to pace out the foundations with his feet. “We’ll need two good bedrooms, of course, and a great room with a fireplace. A loft above, and of course a root cellar...”
    Allan stared in astonishment, words temporarily deserting him. Most settlers built one room cabins when they first arrived, ten feet by ten feet at the most. There was little time before the onset of winter to build anything else, and grand aspirations could be saved for later. They certainly wouldn’t keep you warm.
    “But it won't be finished before the snows,” he said finally, his voice rising despite his attempt to sound reasonable. He saw Archie whistle and gaze up at the sky.
    Sandy frowned. “We’ll finish it,” he said flatly. He strode away without looking back. Allan sighed in exasperation and began to follow.
    “It’s our farm, then?” Archie said softly. Allan kept walking.
    Since that day, Sandy had become more and more consumed with building their cabin, and making sure it was the finest dwelling on this side of the island. The foundations now included a pantry and a third bedroom. No wonder they had yet to start on the walls.
    Allan had stopped making suggestions weeks ago. He took orders numbly, keeping the smile on his face, hoping that once their cabin was built and the pressure on Sandy eased, things would be different.
    He would feel like a son, not a servant.
    Now, alone on this cool dawn, Allan breathed in the cool, crisp air. With the sunlight dappling the river in silver, the dew as fine as cobwebs strewn in the yellow-gold leaves of the birches above him, he could almost recover his optimism.
    “It won’t be finished.”
    Allan was startled to see his mother standing near him. The walk from the Dunmores' farm was considerable, and he hadn't yet seen her venture far from the safety of the cabin. She was thinner now and paler, pulling her shawl tightly round her shoulders.
    “It might be,” he said.
    “Come now, Allan. We can both see what's before our eyes.” She swept a weary arm towards the unfinished cabin. “It's too big, isn't it? Too grand.”
    “It'll be a pleasing house,” Allan said cautiously.
    “A house of dreams. Perhaps we could've build such a place in a few years, when we knew the way of this land. But now...” Betty shook her head. “Winter's coming on. All we need is something small, to live in through the worst of it. I've heard about the snow here. It's like nothing you've ever seen.”
    “Mother...”
    “What shall we do?” She turned to him, and he was surprised to see strength and concern in her eyes, rather than the fear and worry he’d expected. “I understand what your father is trying to do, Allan. Don’t mistake me on that. I know he wants a proper place, a place like we had before. He wants it for me.” She sighed, biting her lip. “We shall have to ask the Dunmores if we can stay with them through the winter. Perhaps if we help more with their own work... Lord knows, there's much to be done in this place. It won't be easy.” She shook her head and smiled wearily at Allan. “I shouldn't be talking to you like this. Your father has such dreams, Allan, but they're good dreams. They've brought us here, and that's a good thing.”
    “Yes, it is.” A voice clamoured inside him. What of my dreams? My place? With an effort he suppressed that small cry of doubt. There would be time for his dreams later. He could be patient.
    Allan put his arm around his mother’s thin shoulders and pulled her close. “It will turn out well, you’ll see,” he said. “We’ll have a grand place here for you and for all of us.”
    He could almost believe it.
     
    “A letter from MacDougall?” The shipping agent, Douglas,