He fed the chickens, scattering grain across the snow-dusted yard, and made sure the sheep’s water trough wasn’t iced over. The animals seemed uneasy, shifting restlessly as if they sensed the storm coming. Henry worked quickly, the chill nipping at his fingers even through his gloves.
Once the animals were settled, Henry turned his attention to the woodpile. As he trudged through the knee-deep snow toward the back of the lodge, he muttered under his breath about the cold. When he reached the woodpile, he frowned.