Surely he ’ d realize what she had been through these days. Maybe he ’ d praise her for struggling so hard.
She imagined Al helping her to bed, insisting that he take over completely so she could rest. He ’ d shake his head and say, “ I don ’ t know how you did it! ”
The fire snapped, and the baby started. Emma careful ly laid him in his cradle and then got busy setting the yeast and filling the stove. Back in bed, the pain didn ’ t seem so bad when she thought how w onderful it would be just to lie there and rest and rest and rest when Al got home.
The fire snapped. “ Ah ... good! ” she whispered and snuggled deeper into the covers, blissfully free of pain for the moment . Now, if the baby would sleep a long while....
A gust of wind shook the windowpanes and howled around the corner of the house, and the baby began to cry in earnest. Once more Emma hauled herself out of bed, pulled on her robe, lined the rocker with a comfort er from her bed, and put wood in the stove.
“ I wonder what time it is, ” she said t o herself when she was settled with the baby. No matter. The clock would strike soon and she ’ d know. Emma dozed, till her head fell on her shoulder and woke her.
Now and then the fire snapped and the wind whistled down the chimney. Otherwise all was quiet. Strangely quiet. Suddenly she was alert. Something wasn ’ t right.
She yawned. “ I ’ m half asleep, that ’ s all, ” she told her self. But after she had tucked the baby back in the cradle, she realized what was missing. The clock! It wasn ’ t ticking! It hadn ’ t struck once during the whole time she was up with the baby.
Emma lit a match. I n the flame ’ s flare she saw the hands standing at five after twelve. Never in all her married life had she forgotten to wind the clock before she went to bed. How could she have forgotten tonight? Well, there was nothing for it now but to w ait until Al was home with his pocket watch and could reset it.
The cold wind, determined to creep into the cabin, found a thousand cracks and crevices. Emma shivered and tucked quilts around the children cuddled in the little bed. When the weather got warm, they would sleep upstairs i n the little room Al had lined with boards last summer.
An eerie sound rose above the wind, and Emma tensed. It sounded like wolves. A chill raced up her spine and down her arms. She hadn ’ t heard wolves since they came back from Phillips.
With the comforter wrapped around her, she peered out into the darkness, remembering a winter night when Albert was a baby. Al was away then, too, and those horrible creatures had edged closer and closer to the cabin. Clara Geber was with her that night; she had often stayed over then. If only Clara were with her now.
Emma held her breath and listened again. Nothing but the wind now. Still, she waited by the window. The other time, the wolves had been attracted by their little dog. Poor, little fellow. He had huddled against the door, whining and barking as the drooling, snarling beasts closed in on him, but she hadn ’ t dared open the door to let him in.
She had set lamps in the windows, because she re membered Al saying that wolves would never attack a person with a light. Then she had carried Albert, up the ladder to the cold loft and tried to keep him from crying until the wolves slunk back to the woods, leaving the littl e dog trembling pitifully bet unharmed .
It must have been my imagination, Emma assured herself and hobbled back to bed. How l ong, before day l ight? she wondered, scolding herself over and over for forgetting to wind the clock. How could she have been so ca reless? Now she would have only daylight to go by. She wouldn ’ t even know wh en to put the roast in the oven.
Eventually she slept, waking only when the baby cried again. Objects in the room were faintly taking shape. Must be after six, she estimated.
There was no water for the chickens, she realized when she was ready to do chores.
She imagined Al helping her to bed, insisting that he take over completely so she could rest. He ’ d shake his head and say, “ I don ’ t know how you did it! ”
The fire snapped, and the baby started. Emma careful ly laid him in his cradle and then got busy setting the yeast and filling the stove. Back in bed, the pain didn ’ t seem so bad when she thought how w onderful it would be just to lie there and rest and rest and rest when Al got home.
The fire snapped. “ Ah ... good! ” she whispered and snuggled deeper into the covers, blissfully free of pain for the moment . Now, if the baby would sleep a long while....
A gust of wind shook the windowpanes and howled around the corner of the house, and the baby began to cry in earnest. Once more Emma hauled herself out of bed, pulled on her robe, lined the rocker with a comfort er from her bed, and put wood in the stove.
“ I wonder what time it is, ” she said t o herself when she was settled with the baby. No matter. The clock would strike soon and she ’ d know. Emma dozed, till her head fell on her shoulder and woke her.
Now and then the fire snapped and the wind whistled down the chimney. Otherwise all was quiet. Strangely quiet. Suddenly she was alert. Something wasn ’ t right.
She yawned. “ I ’ m half asleep, that ’ s all, ” she told her self. But after she had tucked the baby back in the cradle, she realized what was missing. The clock! It wasn ’ t ticking! It hadn ’ t struck once during the whole time she was up with the baby.
Emma lit a match. I n the flame ’ s flare she saw the hands standing at five after twelve. Never in all her married life had she forgotten to wind the clock before she went to bed. How could she have forgotten tonight? Well, there was nothing for it now but to w ait until Al was home with his pocket watch and could reset it.
The cold wind, determined to creep into the cabin, found a thousand cracks and crevices. Emma shivered and tucked quilts around the children cuddled in the little bed. When the weather got warm, they would sleep upstairs i n the little room Al had lined with boards last summer.
An eerie sound rose above the wind, and Emma tensed. It sounded like wolves. A chill raced up her spine and down her arms. She hadn ’ t heard wolves since they came back from Phillips.
With the comforter wrapped around her, she peered out into the darkness, remembering a winter night when Albert was a baby. Al was away then, too, and those horrible creatures had edged closer and closer to the cabin. Clara Geber was with her that night; she had often stayed over then. If only Clara were with her now.
Emma held her breath and listened again. Nothing but the wind now. Still, she waited by the window. The other time, the wolves had been attracted by their little dog. Poor, little fellow. He had huddled against the door, whining and barking as the drooling, snarling beasts closed in on him, but she hadn ’ t dared open the door to let him in.
She had set lamps in the windows, because she re membered Al saying that wolves would never attack a person with a light. Then she had carried Albert, up the ladder to the cold loft and tried to keep him from crying until the wolves slunk back to the woods, leaving the littl e dog trembling pitifully bet unharmed .
It must have been my imagination, Emma assured herself and hobbled back to bed. How l ong, before day l ight? she wondered, scolding herself over and over for forgetting to wind the clock. How could she have been so ca reless? Now she would have only daylight to go by. She wouldn ’ t even know wh en to put the roast in the oven.
Eventually she slept, waking only when the baby cried again. Objects in the room were faintly taking shape. Must be after six, she estimated.
There was no water for the chickens, she realized when she was ready to do chores.
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