Until the Harvest Read Online Free PDF Page A

himself.
    “Not bad,” he said, walking into the room.
    Mayfair ducked behind Margaret and smiled shyly past her sister’s shoulder. Margaret blushed in a way that almost made her look pretty. Even with all those freckles. Maybe if she did something with her hair. . . .
    “Lunch is just about ready,” Margaret said, reaching for the radio knob as John Denver came on.
    “Wait, I like this one.” Henry bumped Margaret’s hand as he turned up the volume.
    He listened to the opening lines, then jumped in with “Thank God, I’m a country boy.” By the end of the second verse, Mayfairjoined in. Margaret looked a little surprised but joined her voice to the din with the third verse. They made such a racket, Emily came into the room, saw what was what, and added her soprano. They were all dancing and carrying on by the time the last notes died away. Henry wished for his own fiddle so he could play another chorus or two.
    Emily flicked off the radio as laughter replaced the music. Mayfair positively glowed, Margaret looked more relaxed than Henry thought possible, and for a moment he forgot he was mad at the world.
    “Well, now, that was a fine way to start our lunch off,” Grandma said. “You’re all good singers, though I can’t say much for your dancing.” They laughed some more. “Henry, go wash up, and we’ll have us some of this fine potato soup Margaret has cooked up.”
    As Henry scrubbed his fingernails with a soapy brush, he let the pleasure of singing in his grandmother’s kitchen sink in a bit. He almost wished he could stay here. He didn’t care if he ever saw the Simmons boys again. He could quit school for good and run his grandmother’s farm. She had the chickens, and they could get a pig to raise come spring. Maybe even a milk cow. Now that would be good. Margaret probably knew how to make butter—she seemed like the kind to have a knack for those sorts of things.
    Henry stopped scrubbing and dropped the brush in the sink. He rinsed his hands and dried off. But then again, his mother needed him. And anyway, all that taking care of animals would be a lot of work. And it would definitely tie him down. He’d end up losing the chickens to foxes, the pig would get foot rot, and the cow would go dry. Farming was a whole lot of trouble, and he reckoned life was hard enough. The heck with John Denver and his stupid song.
    As he dragged back into the kitchen, Margaret dished upsoup and put bowls on the table, along with a loaf of warm soda bread and a jar of peaches that probably came from the tree down at the cold spring. Well, the world didn’t much suit him at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy lunch.
    As they sat, Emily folded her hands and bowed her head. Margaret and Mayfair did the same, but Henry didn’t feel like bowing before a God who would take his father. He watched the women as his grandmother said grace.
    He had the feeling Margaret wasn’t all that into praying, either, but Mayfair seemed completely absorbed. She clasped her hands and her thumbs almost touched her nose. She squinched her eyes as Emily thanked God for the food, the hands that prepared it, and finally for Henry, who had been such a help. Henry wanted to bat the prayer away as if it were a cobweb drifting over his face, but he sat still out of respect for his grandmother.
    Once the prayer ended, Henry tasted his soup. Man, it was good. Rich and buttery. He broke off a hunk of bread and slathered it with apple butter. Margaret might not be a barrel of laughs, but she sure could cook.
    “Oh, it does my heart good to see a man eat after he’s worked all morning.” Emily patted Henry’s arm. “Your grandfather was lean, but he’d eat a whole pan of biscuits if I let him. He’d even pass up dessert for biscuits and jelly. That man could eat.”
    Henry thought his grandmother looked almost as proud as she would if she’d just said, “That man saved a child from a burning building.”
    Grandma