The storm raged for days.
Samuel watched Abigail as she slept. He frowned. There were few good choices ahead.
Abigail rolled over and opened an eye.
“Sam, please come to bed. It’s late.”
He shook his head. “I need to keep the fire burning. If it goes out, we might freeze to death before morning.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep each other warm. Come. The storm will end tonight.”
He shrugged his shoulders. She might be right. She usually was. And he was beginning to think it didn’t matter. If they survived the night, then what? They would be stuck in their little homestead with no hope of reaching civilization. Or food. Perhaps freezing in their sleep would be better than a slow starvation.
“I know what you are thinking, my dear. Please don’t worry tonight. It will all turn out right. You’ll see.”
The day’s worry evaporated. Samuel realized that he was tired and couldn’t resist any longer. He was asleep before his head settled into the pillow.
They hadn’t seen a soul in weeks, perhaps months. No other English settler had made it so deep into the frontier and the natives tended to avoid them. They reaped very little from the stony soil over the short growing season and Samuel had little success hunting. They had kept themselves fed, but provisions were dangerously low. And then the early snows started to fall. And fall. It wasn’t yet to the New year, and already they were snowed in their tiny cabin. Spring wasn’t yet a distant dream.
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