Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) by Ruth Glover

ill.
    “A’ reet, laddies,” Robbie said now, his stomach growling, and his nose twitching in response to something savory cooking on the range and spilling its good smells across the yard. His supper prepared for him and nicely served—that was another bonus for Robbie, a reluctant housekeeper and a careless cook.
    Of course, he excused himself, he had so little equipment—one pot, one bread pan, one baking pan, a can opener, a coffeepot, a teakettle, two enameled cups (no saucers), two tin plates, three sets of flatware, one mixing spoon, a tin washbowl that doubled for washing the dishes and, rinsed well, for mixing bread, a tin pail, a milk skimmer and—that was about all. There was no flatiron, hence the unironed clothes. There was no dustpan; dirt was simply swept out the door. No bathtub; he used the galvanized washtub over which he and Allan occasionally spent miserable hours attempting to do laundry.
    Yes, this alliance with Alice Hoy not only had its advantages to come but its advantages now; Robbie knew that. He knew, too, that, unless some sort of miracle happened or science devised a way to safely open the human body and excise tumors and cancers (it was happening some places, but certainly not in the bush), Alice Hoy was not long for this world. And, being a gentle person and dear in her own way, Robbie was not selfish enough to want her farm at the price of her life.
    But, he argued, the outcome was beyond his help, the end result was certain. Someone, someone had to take on the task as Alice outlined it, painfully and reluctantly, yet with a certain desperation. And it might as well be him, Robbie Dunbar. In fact, he secretly exulted over the tremendous opportunity providence had thrown his way, like a bone to a dog, all undeserved, but yearned for and dreamed of.
    Supper, when the milking was done and the chores finished, was fried chicken, with potatoes and gravy and fresh bread.
    “I caught the hen,” Barney boasted, “and held it while Mama chopped its head off.” You couldn’t learn too young, on the homestead. Squeamishness was a luxury that could not be afforded.
    “Brave lad!” Robbie praised. “An’ was it ye and yer brother been hoein’ in the garden the day?”
    “Just me,” Barney said, while Billy explained, “Mama says I pull up too many veg’bles. But I hunted eggs, didn’t I, Mama? Didn’t I?” And he looked anxiously toward his mother.
    Alice stretched a thin hand and tenderly pushed back a lock of the fair hair that tumbled over the young brow.
    “You certainly did,” she said, and the little face glowed. “And you fed the chickens, too. You were a great help today.”
    “And I brought in wood, didn’t I, Mama?” Barney, too, looked to his mother for approval and touch.
    “Fresh bread,” Robbie commented, helping himself to a second slice. “How did you manage that?”
    “Molly came today and asked what she could do. Bread making is one thing I dread—it’s heavy work for weak muscles,” and Alice smiled. “So she got it as far as the pans before she left. It was no trouble then to bake it.”
    “She’s the one that’s goin’ to marry the vicar?” Robbie, the newcomer and rare-church-attender asked.
    “Vicker!” Barney laughed uproariously. “Vicker! She’s going to marry Parker Jones—”
    “Pastor Jones,” his mother corrected, and Barney subsided.
    “We don’t know that she’s going to marry him, Rob. But they both act as if it’s on their minds. But Molly would be helpful and kind anyway; it runs in the family. The Morrisons were a tremendous help and encouragement when we first arrived. Molly does have good qualities for a minister’s wife.”
    Robbie refilled his glass (not an enameled cup, he appreciated), and said, casually, “Oh, say, I’ll have to get Allan to fill in for me here tomorra night.”
    “Oh?” Alice asked a little anxiously. Her concern for the farm was great, her concern for the future of her boys even greater.