Wind howled through the trees, rocked the lodge on its stilts, squealed and blew snow in under the door and around loose windows. Skittering sounds echoed from the walls. Not mice or even the big rat that too often at night showed his red eyes, but mud daubing crumbling with the blizzard and rattling down like loose gravel. The sharp slices of cold, knifing in between logs threatened to dig out Matron’s pen, Effie’s spoons, and throw down Grandma Teegan’s braid.
In the glow of the nearly burned-out logs, Bridget peeked out from where she’d cocooned herself in the buffalo hide close to the fire. Effie, with her bed also pushed to the fire, finally lay still beneath her layers: two dresses, her shoes, her black cloth, the Never Forget quilt, and on top, Rev. Jackdaw’s coat. For hours she’d
