She spent the better part of it huddled into a blanket on a chair beneath one of the windows, reading the manuscript of Logan’s screenplay in the gray light that fell through the opening. Lunch was a sketchy affair of bread and cold meat washed down with canned juice, icy cold straight from the kitchen cabinet. Afterward, Logan was restless, prowling through the house, checking the water lines to see if they had begun to freeze, draining the hot-water tank against the possibility of its bursting as the water inside turned to ice. This water he set before the fire in every available bucket, pot, and dishpan in preparation for their baths later that night. When that was done, he returned to his place before the hearth, but it was not long before he was on his feet again, dragging on his jacket and gloves, pulling on his cap. Clare looked up in time to see him step through the sliding doors out onto the deck. She frowned a little as his tall shape disappeared into the swirling cloud of snow; then she returned to her reading.
