Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,34

stand out against the darkening sky. There are a series of logs and stumps ringing the fire, as well as a smattering of chairs and a bench or two.

The scent of woodsmoke fills the air, while Ruth Shipley and her other children set up a buffet table a little ways off.

And that table is stacked with food. I’m waiting in line with Leah, plate in my hand. Even from this distance I can see pulled pork and brisket sliders (a word I’d never heard until my first Shipley bonfire.) There are twice-baked potatoes. And coleslaw and cornbread and macaroni and cheese with bread crumbs toasted on top. And pickles and olives and carrot sticks and peppers with a creamy dip.

There’s a carved ham, too. And if Audrey’s feeling frisky, there might be spicy Indian lentils over cumin-scented rice, or fried pumpkin fritters.

Later will come the apple pies. Ruth’s will have cranberry in them. Leah’s have a crumb topping. I love them both so much that it’s hard to choose. I might need a small slice of each one.

“Looks pretty great, doesn’t it?” Leah asks, reading my mind.

“It looks amazing.” And I mean that literally. The casual abundance is shocking to me. “Do you still have food dreams?” I ask her.

She turns to squint at me. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Oh.” Now I feel ridiculous. “At the compound I used to dream about food. And it looked sort of like this—a table heaped with good things. I still have those dreams once in a while.”

And, hey, there’s a nice essay topic for composition class. I’m mining all my lowest moments for that class. I hope my crappy childhood is worth an A.

Leah puts an arm around my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I was hungry. Isaac used to sneak me extra food, anyway. I didn’t have the same experience. And anyway, these days my big concern is keeping it down.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.” She laughs. “Enough about me. How are your classes? Is Dylan still helping with the math?”

“He is,” I tell her as my gaze flits toward him on the other side of the bonfire, where he stands with Isaac and Keith, his friend from high school and Burlington housemate. They’re all holding instruments. Isaac plays the banjo, and Keith plays the guitar.

“What about the rest of your classes? How are they going?”

“It’s… going,” I say carefully. And this isn’t what I really want to spend my Saturday night discussing.

“Do you need more help?” she worries. “You could ask the Dean for some official tutoring support.”

“Maybe,” I stall. “But that would take up time. And I’m already pressed for time. There’s so much homework and so many pages of reading.”

Dylan lifts his fiddle to his chin, and I’m saved from further conversation as Isaac begins to pluck at his banjo. The three of them launch into a fast, raucous tune. A party song.

Leah and I reach the front of the line, and I fill my plate to the sound of Dylan’s playing and the crackle of the big fire. I load it up, taking care not to forget a napkin or a fork.

All the seats around the fire are already taken, but I don't mind standing so long as I can hear the music.

Dylan looks happier now. This isn’t the grim Dylan who played beside his father's grave earlier today. He looks loose and cheerful. It may have something to do with the weed I smelled earlier, wafting from the backside of the cider house. Or the beer in the keg that Keith hid in the blackberry bushes by the chicken coop.

Everyone is watching them play, including a row of local girls seated on a long log by the fire. They all have plates on their knees and adoring smiles on their faces. The swarm is how I’m used to thinking of them.

I still feel guilty for contributing to his blowup with Kaitlyn. Then again, there are always more Kaitlyns. They’re drawn to him like the moths that are already flitting too near the bonfire.

Dylan and his merry crew bring a song to a raucous conclusion. Isaac lets out a whoop when it's over, his dark eyes sparkling over his bushy beard.

“More!” hollers one of the girls on the log.

“Time for eats,” Keith says. “But maybe later, hot stuff.”

“Why don't you two play gigs in Burlington?” asks Debbie.

She’s the girl who used to show up most frequently in the passenger seat of Dylan’s truck. And the backseat, too, according to