the bottom.
With a sigh, Lenny nodded toward the bustling chicken coop. A generous-hearted girl indeed, to take pity on her.
Collecting the eggs, she dropped three. She simply couldn’t find the strength in her attractively clawed hands to get the eggs safely from the nest boxes to the woven basket hanging from her arm.
Feeding the chickens was her favorite chore. That feeling when dumping the grain onto the floor, and then when she left... Oh, blessed victory. From the sheer volume of the animals’ grouching, it was apparent she’d need to help with these chores earlier in the day from then on.
In the house, she kicked off her high button leather shoes, which now lacked polish and smelled suspiciously of whatever came from the south end of a northbound horse, and slumped into the chair closest to the fireplace with a loud groan. Every muscle and bone ached, from her swelling ankles to her pounding head.
She had never worked so hard in her life. The blisters on her hands had long since broken and now weeped, her south end was sore from the saddle, and her shoulder, likely seven shades of purple from shooting that day.
She glared balefully at the barren stove. Desperate for the day to be at an end, she ate a carrot and a stale piece of bread then escaped to the restful sanctuary of her room. When her head finally hit the pillow, she was already well on her way to sleep.
* * * *
Lenny woke her early the next day, no doubt trying to train Maggie’s internal clock to recognize dawn as its new waking hour. Good luck with that. She valued sleep in the mornings and on this one, more than any other, her body ached for more. Every muscle hurt and her hands throbbed where numerous blisters had emptied themselves in the night.
Lenny made a mystery salve that soothed them a little, but the pain returned with the slightest motion. Until the simplest task had become excruciating, she’d never truly appreciated how much one used their hands.
Stiffly, she stoked the fire and laid a healthy portion of bacon into an iron skillet. When the fragrant strips of meat were steaming on a pair of dented metal plates, she cooked shredded potatoes and beans in the grease and admired the two small mountains of food she’d made. Maybe she could fend for herself after all.
The more she moved, the better her aching muscles felt. The minute she stopped for a rest, however, they constricted and begged to remain perfectly still. Like a snake on a cold day, growing slower with the bite of the chill.
Her motivation was Garret. And when she forgot him for even a moment, Lenny only had to sign “bull” and anger flared, enticing her to work harder, and for longer. She’d show him how wrong he was about her.
Remembering the ingredients to the new breakfast she’d made that morning proved confusing. She ripped three pieces of paper from her beloved journal and, in great detail, wrote instructions for the meals. In hopes that Garret would never find them, she hid them in the bottom of a kitchen drawer. That ghastly man didn’t need any more ammunition against her.
While she’d been writing, Lenny had studied her with an amused expression. If only she could explain to the Indian girl that she would learn to help with the ranch to the best of her ability, but she’d do it on her terms. She wasn’t about to change the fundamentals of what made her Maggie for anyone, man or woman.
With a feverish appetite, she devoured the hot meal and after cleaning up and wrestling her thick hair into a bun, set out to do chores. When the animals had been fed, Lenny pointed to the saddles and brought the horses in from the corral. It took three painful heaves to sling the saddle over Buck’s burly back, but at least she remembered about tightening the cinch this time.
Another imaginary trail through the wilderness, following Lenny on her paint Indian pony. The establishment of a routine was a welcome one. This ride led in a wide loop around the
With a sigh, Lenny nodded toward the bustling chicken coop. A generous-hearted girl indeed, to take pity on her.
Collecting the eggs, she dropped three. She simply couldn’t find the strength in her attractively clawed hands to get the eggs safely from the nest boxes to the woven basket hanging from her arm.
Feeding the chickens was her favorite chore. That feeling when dumping the grain onto the floor, and then when she left... Oh, blessed victory. From the sheer volume of the animals’ grouching, it was apparent she’d need to help with these chores earlier in the day from then on.
In the house, she kicked off her high button leather shoes, which now lacked polish and smelled suspiciously of whatever came from the south end of a northbound horse, and slumped into the chair closest to the fireplace with a loud groan. Every muscle and bone ached, from her swelling ankles to her pounding head.
She had never worked so hard in her life. The blisters on her hands had long since broken and now weeped, her south end was sore from the saddle, and her shoulder, likely seven shades of purple from shooting that day.
She glared balefully at the barren stove. Desperate for the day to be at an end, she ate a carrot and a stale piece of bread then escaped to the restful sanctuary of her room. When her head finally hit the pillow, she was already well on her way to sleep.
* * * *
Lenny woke her early the next day, no doubt trying to train Maggie’s internal clock to recognize dawn as its new waking hour. Good luck with that. She valued sleep in the mornings and on this one, more than any other, her body ached for more. Every muscle hurt and her hands throbbed where numerous blisters had emptied themselves in the night.
Lenny made a mystery salve that soothed them a little, but the pain returned with the slightest motion. Until the simplest task had become excruciating, she’d never truly appreciated how much one used their hands.
Stiffly, she stoked the fire and laid a healthy portion of bacon into an iron skillet. When the fragrant strips of meat were steaming on a pair of dented metal plates, she cooked shredded potatoes and beans in the grease and admired the two small mountains of food she’d made. Maybe she could fend for herself after all.
The more she moved, the better her aching muscles felt. The minute she stopped for a rest, however, they constricted and begged to remain perfectly still. Like a snake on a cold day, growing slower with the bite of the chill.
Her motivation was Garret. And when she forgot him for even a moment, Lenny only had to sign “bull” and anger flared, enticing her to work harder, and for longer. She’d show him how wrong he was about her.
Remembering the ingredients to the new breakfast she’d made that morning proved confusing. She ripped three pieces of paper from her beloved journal and, in great detail, wrote instructions for the meals. In hopes that Garret would never find them, she hid them in the bottom of a kitchen drawer. That ghastly man didn’t need any more ammunition against her.
While she’d been writing, Lenny had studied her with an amused expression. If only she could explain to the Indian girl that she would learn to help with the ranch to the best of her ability, but she’d do it on her terms. She wasn’t about to change the fundamentals of what made her Maggie for anyone, man or woman.
With a feverish appetite, she devoured the hot meal and after cleaning up and wrestling her thick hair into a bun, set out to do chores. When the animals had been fed, Lenny pointed to the saddles and brought the horses in from the corral. It took three painful heaves to sling the saddle over Buck’s burly back, but at least she remembered about tightening the cinch this time.
Another imaginary trail through the wilderness, following Lenny on her paint Indian pony. The establishment of a routine was a welcome one. This ride led in a wide loop around the
Similar Books
