The Meeting Place by T. Davis Bunn

and a half months, already the other women of the village were treating her as a woman, as an equal. “This will be his sixth winter.”
    â€œSo. And not once has he lost a man, not even a horse.” Mrs. Patrick nodded over her needle. “Andrew Harrow is a careful man and a good officer.”
    â€œAnd handsome.” The Widow Riley cackled over her corner of the quilt. “You’ve got quite a prize there, missy. If I’d been fifty years younger, I’d have given you a right run for your money, I would.”
    The cackle was repeated, and Catherine smiled with the others working on the quilt. Such activity was a chance for the village women to meet and talk and draw strength from one another during those months when winter chills mostly kept them indoors. She was not totally sure if she was pleased to be welcomed into the housewives’ circle, rather than relegated to the corner of the hall reserved for unmarried girls. But in her heart she felt a bit of pride. Her life was now inextricably entwined with Andrew’s. The thought made her back straighten just a bit as she plied her needle through the woven fabric. But she did wish there was someone in the group her own age. All the younger wives were also new mothers and had infants at home to take their time and attention. But my turn will come soon , Catherine thought with cheeks turning pink.
    The Edward community great room was a long affair, running almost the entire length of the northern wall of the town hall. A great fireplace flanked the western expanse, large enough for those who were chilled or elderly to step into its warmth. Light flickered and danced from the flames on the faces of the village’s younger children playing games on the floor in front of it.
    â€œWhen is the gallant officer due back, dear?” asked a neighbor who had known Catherine all her life.
    â€œTonight, at the latest tomorrow.” Catherine did not raise her head. She was still learning the complicated stitching, and it required all her attention. Which was not altogether a bad thing, she decided. “He couldn’t be certain with the snows so heavy so soon.”
    â€œSeems sure to stop, at least for a bit.” Widow Riley made a pretense of sniffing the wind, though all that could be detected in the close hall was smoke and melting tallow from the candles. “But not for long, you mark my words. This will be a winter for tales to our children’s children’s children.”
    As though in confirmation, the wind rattled the shutters with another fistful of icy needles. Widow Riley nodded sagely, her fingers finding their own familiar way even as her eyes gazed at the fire. “I remember such a November as this.” The voice, coarsened with age, grew soft. “Seven years of age I was, perhaps eight. Ice formed almost the whole way across the bay, it did, and wolves came down from the hills almost every night, snarling and howling about the lanes like it was their village and not ours.”
    The children looked up from their play. Another old woman, a grandmother who was watching the children, joined them in listening, nodding to Widow Riley’s words. “You were seven. Three years younger than me. I remember it too.”
    Fingers gradually grew still about the edges of the quilt. Widow Riley did not notice, for her own failing eyes had returned to the needle. “Saw my first Indian that winter. Three days after Christmas, it was, I remember it as though it was yesterday and not nigh on seventy years ago.” The crackling of the fire was all that filled the pause.
    â€œThe week before Christmas it had snowed every day, a snow so thick a body could get lost within reaching distance of his own front door,” the story resumed in the quavery voice. “The fort had just been built that very summer. My pappy, he was one of the first English settlers to till this land, he didn’t hold to having