Free Bitter Harvest by Sheila Connolly Page B

right?”
    “I’ll check on them when I take Max out, which should be sooner rather than later, from the way he’s acting. How about I stoke up the fire, and then take Max out while you rustle up some grub?”
    “That’s sexist—careful or I’ll give you nothing but beans.”
    “You’d regret it later.”
    “I could make you sleep in another room.”
    Seth just shook his head and laid a few more logs on the fire. “And retrieve my cold corpse in the morning.”
    “Oh. I hadn’t considered that. But with these temperatures you’d keep until I figured out what to do with your body.”
    Seth snorted. “Come on, Max.”
    Meg followed them as far as the kitchen. What could she make? Or maybe she should make Seth cook—she knew he knew how. Of course, to be fair she’d have to go out and get the wood and stoke the fire, and she wasn’t about to assume she could handle that. Better to cook. And fast: it was cold in the kitchen.
    The result was sort of a goulashy concoction of beef, tomatoes, and onions, with a bunch of herbs and paprika thrown in. She mixed the ingredients together in the cast iron Dutch oven, which conveniently had little feet on it to hold it over the coals while it cooked. She waited until Seth deemed the coals ready and spread them around so she could settle the pot on top. How long the mess would take to cook was anybody’s guess—she’d just have to keep poking at it. She checked her watch: five o’clock, and already night-dark.
    “Now what?” she asked.
    “You sound like a bored kid. Relax. Is there another bottle of wine somewhere? We can pull up the chairs and huddle in front of the fire and have a drink.”
    “But we did that last night,” she said with a mock whine.
    “Yup, we did. Nobody ever said colonial life was exciting, except for the occasional Indian attack or war. Mostly you worked hard to stay alive, fell into bed, made a few babies, then got up and started all over again. On Sunday you might take some time off for church.”
    “Oh, come on. There had to be some socializing.”
    “Weddings and funerals. Quilting bees. Sharing the harvest chores and celebrating when it was done. I don’t think anyone should romanticize the lifestyle, but it worked, because here we are.”
    “Yes, we are. Just like all those forebears, sitting in front of the fire, grumbling. Soon to be followed by snoring.” She stood up quickly. “I’ll go look for that wine.”
    In the kitchen she found a bottle of red, and collected two glasses—and Lolly’s food, to save herself yet another chilly trip. Back in the front parlor she handed the bottle with a corkscrew to Seth, then refilled Lolly’s dish while he opened the wine. When she was done, Seth handed her a glass.
    “What should we drink to?”
    “Survival.” Meg raised her glass, and Seth echoed her motion.
    Dinner proved better than she had expected, especially after Meg had had the brainstorm to make up a corn bread crust and bake it on top of the stew for the last half hour or so. Or maybe the wine made everything taste better. Either way, she wasn’t going to complain. Stomach full, head swimming slightly, she sat cocooned with blankets in her chair staring at the embers of the dying fire, until she nodded off.
    She half woke when Seth nudged her gently. “Bedtime. I stoked the fire, and Max has done his stuff.”
    She was too sleepy to think of a comeback, so she followed him meekly to their now-familiar nest in front of the fire, where they snuggled in for the night.
    Maybe pioneer life wasn’t for her, but this she could grow used to.

8
    The first thing Meg noticed was the brightness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to tell that something had changed that morning: the sun had come out. She could hear Seth in the kitchen, talking on what had to be his cell phone. No doubt organizing the Granford digging-out process. She wondered if he had enough clout to get her driveway plowed quickly, and then felt ashamed of