Bitter Harvest (17 page)

Once inside, Meg pulled the door closed—bad enough that the wind whistled through every crack in the place, without inviting it in. At least the goats had a cozy nook, surrounded by the hay bales. She tucked them into their pen, topped off their water, and poured some feed into their buckets. They dug in happily. Meg latched the gate to the pen securely, then went back to the door, hanging up the leads next to it.

When she pulled on the handle, the door didn’t budge. That was odd, since she had come through it only a few minutes earlier. The lock was a basic hasp and padlock, fairly new, and she knew she’d left the open padlock hanging on its hasp outside. She had the key to the padlock in her pocket. But of course, the key was doing her no good inside the building.

She looked around. The barn dated to the middle of the nineteenth century, Seth had guessed, with various patches and additions since, including the most recent, her apple holding chambers. There was more than one door: in addition to the big ones in the front facing the house, there was one on the wall opposite the one she’d used to come in, and she knew Seth had fixed the lock on that one. She walked over to the smaller door. Yes, it was locked, as it should have been. But worse, there were several feet of snow drifted against it, now frozen into place. Ditto with the big front doors. The only door they had cleared since the blizzard was the one closest to the goat pen—the one that didn’t seem to be working at the moment, and she had no idea why.

She was trapped in the barn, and it was getting dark fast.

Meg wanted to snarl in frustration. She knew she’d left the door unlocked. The best guess she could come up with was that something had fallen against the door while she was inside, wedging it shut. The less appealing alternative was that someone had made a deliberate effort to shut her in the barn. If somebody wanted to harass her, this was going too far. It was cold in the barn, and going to get colder. She rattled the door again, and again it didn’t move. She stifled an urge to kick it, knowing it would do no good.

She stalked to the middle of the barn and studied her surroundings. Surely there was a way out of the old building. She knew the big double doors in the front were solidly blocked by snow. Back door: locked, with three feet of frozen snow against it; a single high window, too small to crawl through. Door leading toward the goat pen: no window at all. It was an old-fashioned door that hung on a track, like a traditional barn door, and was made up of solid planks of wood. It was old, but the planks were thick and still solid—too solid for her to batter her way through. That door had been working fine up until a few minutes ago. What had happened?

It was a moot point. But if the doors were no-go, how else could she get out of the barn? There were windows, of course. The problem was, the ones on the ground floor were all blocked, one way or another: the holding chambers had covered up the ones on either side nearest the front, and the ones farther back were either obstructed by equipment that Meg had no way of moving, or had been shuttered to conserve warmth—and the shutters were locked, too, also with padlocks, from the outside. When she had started keeping equipment and her apples in here, she’d made sure that the barn was as secure as possible, and apparently she had done a good job.

There were windows on the eaves at either end, twenty feet over her head. There was no ladder in the barn—the antique one that had led to the hayloft had crumbled away years ago. Even if she could get up there, she’d have no way to get down on the other side. Scratch the windows.

Meg eyed her tractor. Would it be possible to ram it against one or another of the doors until the door buckled, enough to let her slip through? Except the tractor was old and cranky, and Meg was pretty sure the rusted frame would crumple like paper if she ran it into anything. Plus, she had no idea if it would start in this weather—and the key was inside the house.

Think, Meg, think.
Unfortunately she didn’t like where her thoughts took her. Bree was gone for the night. Seth had said he wasn’t planning to come back until tomorrow when he brought the furnace. That was at least twelve hours away. If she had her cell phone she could call someone, but it was back in the house, safe and sound—and useless.

She had electricity; she could flash the lights to attract attention. Except the barn wasn’t visible from the neighbors’ houses, and the road out front wasn’t very heavily traveled, especially on a cold and icy night like this. No one was likely to notice a light going on and off.

She could set the barn on fire.
Sure, Meg, that’s a great idea
. That would attract attention, no doubt, but it might kill her, not to mention the goats, and would certainly make a mess of the barn, which she kind of needed. And she didn’t have any matches, and she wasn’t sure how she could use electrical wires to start a fire. Another thing her fine education had failed to teach her, along with lockpicking.

So what was she supposed to do? She took inventory: she was wearing a warm coat and gloves. Good. She had water, and, she reminded herself, she had apples: there were a few cases of the varieties that aged well under refrigeration, still stowed in her holding chambers. The biggest problem was going to be the cold, but all she had to do was wait until Seth arrived tomorrow, or Bree came home, whichever came first.

So, how to deal with the cold, without benefit of a heater or a fire?

The answer that came to her made her laugh: the goats. They were coping just fine with the weather. She and Bree and Seth had carefully built them a sheltered corner in the barn, so they wouldn’t be subject to drafts. And they were warm-blooded animals who had to be exuding heat, and some of that heat would be captured in their little nook. Now, how could she take advantage of that?

She approached the stall carefully, and leaned over the railing. “Hi, you two.” Isabel had been lying down, but she scrambled to her feet, and she and Dorcas approached Meg eagerly. “Sorry, no treats. Maybe an apple later? So, listen, do you mind if I share the pen with you?”

The goats didn’t answer, but stared at Meg, their ears flicking back and forth.

“Okay, since you have no objections, let’s give this a try.” Meg unlatched the stall gate and slipped into the pen, latching it behind her again. It measured maybe fifteen feet square, or had before they’d lined it with hay bales for warmth, which reduced the size. Meg was glad to feel that it was perceptibly warmer inside. The goats watched her, curious. What now? She was reluctant to sit on the floor, even though she knew that Bree had replaced the straw that morning. Still . . . If she rearranged the hay bales a little, she could make herself a bench, with bales to lean against. That could work.

When Meg grabbed a hay bale, the goats backed away, startled, although they couldn’t go far. “Don’t worry, I’m just doing a little redecorating. I’ll settle down soon, I promise.” The bale came from the stack that backed against the solid bulk of the storage chambers, and Meg heaved it down to the floor, then repeated that with the one next to it. She’d reduced the floor space, but she now had a seat. Progress.

She sat down. The goats regarded her for a few moments. Then, getting bored, Dorcas turned to help herself to some feed, and Isabel lay down in the opposite corner, keeping an eye on Meg. Meg smiled at them. So far, so good. She was reasonably warm and comfortable. Now all she had to do was wait.

It was a reasonable assumption that a night in the barn wouldn’t kill her, but it was bound to make her miserable. Meg pulled her jacket more tightly around herself, crossing her arms over her chest. Dorcas, after some hesitation, curled up next to her feet.

Meg wondered just what was going on. Okay, she’d been living in Granford just shy of a year. It hadn’t been an easy one, but she’d made some friends, or at least she thought she had. Had she made enemies? What could she have done that would anger someone enough to inspire a harassment campaign against her? Who stood to gain by annoying her? What did they want?

And why now? Well, maybe it took a little time to get to know her—and to hate her. One of her apple pickers? She couldn’t remember any animosity from any of them. Who else was there? She’d been working so hard in recent months that she hadn’t had time to see many other people. And yet, here she was, sitting in a freezing barn talking to goats.
If they could see me now
, she hummed to herself. The goats’ ears twitched. She smiled at them. If someone was trying to drive her around the bend, apparently they’d made a good start.

 

 

It was a
long night. Meg dozed on and off, finding it hard to get comfortable on the prickly hay bales. Her hands were cold, and she tucked them under her armpits; the goats were keeping her feet warm, thank goodness. At one point she got up and helped herself to a snack of apples, washed down with some water. The goats barely stirred as she settled herself again. She listened to the barn creak and groan as the temperature dropped, sounding almost like a living thing. There were no sounds from outside, apart from the light wind. At some point she fell into a deeper sleep, under the watchful eyes of the goats.

She was awakened by the sound of a car door slamming. Seth? She felt clumsy, her feet and hands numb, as she extricated herself from the hay, and the goats, fully awake, milled around in front of her as she tried to force her way past them to open the stall gate. Finally she managed and ran to the front doors, pounding on them. “Hello? Anybody there?”

“Meg?” Seth’s voice. “What are you doing in there?”

“I couldn’t get any of the doors open. Come around to the side and let me out, will you?”

On numb feet she hobbled to the side door and waited impatiently as Seth fumbled with the door. What was taking him so long? She hopped from foot to foot in impatience.

Finally Seth hauled the door open. “How’d you get stuck in there?”

Meg stalked past him, and he followed, after shoving the door shut. She was cold, hungry, and really wanted a bathroom. “I came out to take the goats into the barn. Last night.”

Seth hurried to catch up. “What? You’ve been out here since last night?”

“Yes.” She didn’t need her keys, since she’d left the back door unlocked last night, assuming she’d be back in a few minutes. If someone had trapped her in the barn, had they taken the opportunity to go into the house? “I left the house open.”

“Then I’m going in first.” Seth pushed past her and made a quick circuit of the ground floor. “No one here. Come on in.” Once inside, he grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. “Are you all right?”

“I will be, once I pee and get something hot inside me.” The concern in his face melted her anger; the stress of the night bubbled to the top, and she found herself fighting tears, which Seth was quick to notice. His arms came around her, and for a few moments he just held her. Finally he said, “Why didn’t you call me?”

“No phone,” she said against his chest.

“You couldn’t get any of the doors open?”

She reared back then to look at him. “What, you think I didn’t try? There’s snow piled up against the two I don’t use, and it’s frozen solid.”

He didn’t let go. “Sorry, of course. Should we worry about frostbite or something?”

“No. The goats kept me warm.”

In a perverse way Meg enjoyed the succession of expressions that crossed his face. Surprise, curiosity, and finally, amusement. “You spent the night with the goats?”

“I did. They’re warm, and they don’t snore. We sort of nested. Listen, can I go freshen up, and then we can discuss this? Because I really want to know how that side door got stuck.”

Seth finally let go. “Go! I’ll make some coffee.”

As she hurried upstairs, Meg noted that the inside of the house wasn’t much warmer than the barn. She hoped Seth would have that fixed by the end of the day. She did what she had to do, and picked some straw out of her hair before going downstairs.

Seth had coffee brewing, and he was making oatmeal on the stove. He looked hard at her when she walked in. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I am. And I am pissed off at whoever did this.”

“Did what?” he asked, returning to stirring the pot on the stove.

“Locked me in.”

“You weren’t locked in,” Seth said. “The door was shut but not locked—the padlock was hanging loose on the outside. That pitchfork you use for cleaning out the goat pen was kind of wedged against it. I assumed it had fallen over and gotten stuck.”

Meg shut her eyes, trying to recall what she had seen the night before. It had been dark . . . When had that pitchfork last been used? Bree had used it to clean out the pen, as far as she knew. But Meg couldn’t remember seeing it anywhere outside the door last night. Wouldn’t she have noticed? The handle was light-colored wood, and would have stood out against the weathered barn siding, even in the dim light. “Seth, I don’t think it could have. Bree isn’t sloppy with tools, so she would have left it in the goat shed, or inside the barn, not outside in the snow. Did you see any footprints this morning?”