Bitter Harvest by Sheila Connolly Page B

would a robber climb the stairs if there were easy pickings further down? And it wasn’t as though she had a lot worth stealing, but how would a robber know that until he had broken in? It would have been the sense of intrusion, of violation, that would have been harder to live with, Meg thought.
    Did she feel safe here? She wasn’t sure. She had no near neighbors—no one to hear her scream? Stop it, Meg! She lived on a moderately busy street, not a dirt road in the woods, so she wasn’t totally isolated. The police department was no more than a mile away, although the staffing there was pretty thin. And Bree was around most of the time. Funny how simply having another person around made her feel more secure. Would an invader be more intimidated by two women than one? She drifted off to sleep, worn out by shoveling and fighting the chill . . .
    Meg wasn’t sure what woke her. Too dark to see her watch, so she had no idea what time it was. The fire was all but dead, reduced to a few glowing coals. Maybe a log had collapsed, or a knot of sap had popped. She lay still, reluctant to leave the warmth of her cocoon, and listened. She could hear the wind, and it sounded as though it had changed direction. Cold air seeped through the windows.
    There—a thump. At least she thought it was a thump. She might have dismissed it if Lolly hadn’t reared up, her ears alert. Okay, she wasn’t imagining things. Another thump, on the side of the house, the side the wind was coming from. She tried to remember what could have come loose on that side. A flapping shutter? The goats butting their heads against the barn wall, bored silly? No, they usually slept at night. She strained to hear any new sounds, but the thumping seemed to have stopped. Lolly curled herself up more tightly and went back to sleep. And so should she, Meg thought. But she lay awake a while longer, listening, hearing nothing.
    The next time she woke up the room was filled with blazing light: another sunny day. She could hear the drip of water, so the sun must be melting the snow on her roof. Shoot, maybe she should check the attic to see if her roof was leaking, or if there were squirrels or raccoons bumbling around up there—but she really didn’t want to. She had nothing stored up there, and she couldn’t afford to repair or replace the roof right now, so she was happier not knowing. Living in an old house was challenging: there was always something going wrong or just plain wearing out. Although, she had to admit, many of the houses being built today were no better: shoddy materials, too-quick construction, a “slap a coat of paint on it and sell it” mentality. At least her house had been standing for two hundred and fifty years, leaks and creaks notwithstanding.
    Bree wasn’t in her blanket nest, and Meg could hear sounds from the kitchen. Lolly had apparently abandoned Meg in favor of breakfast. Time to get up and face the day. Meg disentangled herself from her blankets, stood up, and stretched. How much longer would she be sleeping on the floor? she wondered. A night or two was an adventure ; much longer and she might be too stiff to move. How long would it take Seth to find and install a new furnace?
    She made a fast trip upstairs to brush her teeth, then came down to the kitchen, where Bree was busy scrambling eggs.
    “Hey, ’bout time you woke up,” she said. “Sleep well?”
    “More or less. Did you hear anything odd last night?” Meg helped herself to coffee from the pot, and sat down at the table. Lolly was taking a bath on top of the refrigerator.
    Bree glanced at her briefly. “Like what?”
    “I’m not sure. Some thumping and bumping. It was late, but it woke me up.”
    “Nope, I didn’t hear anything. But I was kind of out of it. Besides, I’m getting pretty used to odd noises here. That room of mine, I think whoever built it kind of skimped on the construction—I hear lots of weird sounds.” Bree set two plates with eggs and toast