Josephine McKinley shivered as she watched it, and pulled her knees up closer to her chest. She sat on a large, flat rock at the top of a gentle slope that ran down to a stream. This was a small part of their land that she and Clae had decided to leave unbroken, and it was one of her favourite places to sit. She kept her feet well off the ground, overly cautious of snakes ever since her encounter with a rattler in the barn several weeks before. She pulled her shawl tightly around her. Since her recent illness she never felt comfortable – always too hot or too cold. Clae would be upset if he knew she had sat out here so long, but he was in town and would not be back for some time, and she could not bear another minute alone inside the house. It had taken her much longer than anticipated to recover. The doctor could not tell them why, or whether the fever had done any permanent damage. She was tired of sitting and sewing or tatting. She was tired of thinking of new things to say to Millie and Beth, when they came to visit, or cook, or help with the more strenuous household chores. Harland had been generously supplying Josie with books from his vast collection, but even her favourite poems and sermons seemed dull.
