Hattie Big Sky by Kirby Larson Read Free Book Online

provided this good supper, and for keeping me safe thus far. Mr. Whiskers thanks you for the mouse. Amen.”
    I dug in, spoon clinking against the plate. The stew tasted of sage and carrots and hope. The flavor lingered on my tongue long after the plate was empty. I let Mr. Whiskers lick it clean while I sliced Perilee’s strudel. It was even more delicious than it smelled. I shook my head thinking of Perilee’s trouble trying to trade in town. People were gosh-darned thickheaded sometimes.
    A rhythmic rasping told me Mr. Whiskers was sound asleep. It’d been a long day. I dipped a few ladles of warm water from the stove’s reservoir into the largest enamel bowl, then dropped in a bar of soap and rolled it into a lather. I quickly washed up my few dishes, then ladled clean water over each item to rinse off the suds. The dishes rested briefly on a clean flour-sack towel while I dug another out of my things. Never let it be said I let my dishes air dry! When everything was set to rights, I turned to making ready my bed.
    Because of the tight quarters—the whole house would have fit in Aunt Ivy’s parlor—the bed had been hinged to the wall. I pulled the bed down. Uncle Chester’s bed linens were fit for rags and barely that. I briskly made it up using the one set of sheets I’d brought. Within minutes of my banking the fire, the inside temperature took a huge step down the ladder. “Hope we don’t turn into icicles,” I said to Mr. Whiskers. He jumped up on the bed.
    I pulled off my skirt and blouse and yanked on a flannel nightgown, singing at the top of my lungs to keep warm. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching off to war!” Bellowing and marching in place, I blew out the lamp and hopped into bed. After a few minutes, I hopped right back out. I added several layers of clothes, a hat, and two pairs of socks. Finally, with Mr. Whiskers curled at my feet, I warmed up enough to fall asleep.
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    I woke, bleary-eyed and hungry. And cold.
    I started out of bed, then snagged the quilt to wrap around my shoulders. “Brrr!” I bounded across the cold floor to the stove. “I could chisel out the air in here and use it for ice in my lemonade next summer!”
    â€œMeow.” Mr. Whiskers scrabbled his way under my blankets and made a nest for himself in my bed.
    â€œDon’t get any ideas.” I blew on last night’s embers in the stove. “I’ve got to fold that up so there’s room to move.” I jumping-jacked to the chip barrel and tossed a handful onto the embers. “Let’s get something warm inside us. Quick!” I grabbed the coffeepot. Then I remembered: the water was outside, the very cold outside. I began to bundle up. “Lesson number one: bring in a bucket of water each night for coffee in the morning.”
    Mr. Whiskers purred his agreement.
    Any cowboy passing by at that moment might have fallen off his horse had he seen me step out the front door. Dressed in every stitch of clothing I could find, I suspect I looked like Mattie’s rag doll, shuffling my way down the icy steps and across the snowy yard to the well.
    The inside of my nose stung as I breathed in the icicled air. My eyes watered so much I could barely see the pump handle. To stay warm, I jiggled from one foot to the other. It was too cold to think. All the jiggling was reminding me of something else rather important.
    I’d run out to the necessary the night before, right before bed. It had seemed a long way then, and it was even longer now—and certainly no warmer. I’d gotten awfully spoiled at Aunt Ivy and Uncle Holt’s with their indoor plumbing. One more thing to get used to in Montana. I quickly used the facility, slipped off my mittens to grab a piece of the Monkey Ward catalog to dry off, and hiked up my underthings.
    I hurried back to the well and began to pump. It took a significant amount