Hattie Big Sky by Kirby Larson Read Free Book Online Page A

of muscle—how had Chase with his little eight-year-old arms managed?—but soon I had a bucketful. That hot cup of coffee was one step closer!
    I tried to let go of the pump handle…and couldn’t. My naked hands, damp with the morning air, were firmly connected to the metal.
    â€œOuch!”
My gyrations made my freezing hands raw and sore. And I was still stuck. Now my feet were tingling and itching with the cold, too. I imagined them puffed up and black inside my boots. My teeth chattered hard enough in my head to loosen each and every one.
    I was probably going to be the first homesteader ever to die from extreme stupidity. An image of my skeleton being discovered come spring spurred me into action. I began to tug and twist with renewed fervor.
    â€œHey there, Miz Hattie,” a young voice called out. “Whatcha doing?” Into view rode Chase. He was astride one of the horses from Karl’s wagon team and leading a large, boxy horse and a brown cow with white spots.
    â€œOh, hello, Chase.” If I hadn’t been stuck to the pump handle, I would’ve thrown myself down the well rather than bear this humiliation. “I seem to be in a pickle.”
    He slipped off his horse and tethered him to the well bracing. “Mama keeps an old mitten tied to the handle,” he said. “In the winter.”
    â€œYes, well, that’s a wonderful idea, but…” The sentence hardly needed finishing.
    Chase ran inside and fetched the small bit of water left in the stove reservoir. He poured it slowly over my hands.
    â€œOh!” The sudden warmth sent shooting pains into every knuckle and joint. My hands slipped free, and I tucked them under my arms. “That hurts.”
    Chase picked up the bucket and took my arm. “Come on inside, Miz Hattie. You better get warmed up.”
    I fell against my lard can chair, a frozen, useless lump, while this eight-year-old boy bustled around my shack. He stoked the fire, put coffee on, fed Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk, and fetched me another pail of water to fill the reservoir.
    â€œHave you had breakfast?” I asked him, a mug of coffee finally cradled in my hands.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œWell, I haven’t. Can you eat a second?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, I flipped open the pamphlet Mr. Hanson had tucked in with my purchases. Put out by the Royal Baking Powder Company, “Best War Time Recipes” was packed with ways to cook to save flour, eggs, and such, what with the war on. I measured two coffee mugs of buckwheat flour into a bowl, stirred in four spoonfuls of Royal Baking Powder—the only kind Aunt Ivy ever used—and half a spoonful of salt.
    â€œCould you please reach two tins of milk from that shelf there?” Chase handed them to me, and I added the milk slowly to the flour mix, as the recipe said.
    I licked my fingers and touched them to the greased frying pan heating up on the stove.
Sssss.
“It’s sizzling all right!” I stuck my stinging fingers in my mouth. One thing I could make was flapjacks. Soon a stack rose on each of our plates, and we ate.
    Warm, full, and humbled, I pushed back my plate. “So your mama ties a mitten to the pump handle,” I said. “Anything else I should know before I do some other foolish thing?” Somehow, I didn’t feel such a failure talking with Chase this way. I prayed he didn’t tell Karl and Perilee what a featherbrain their new neighbor was.
    Chase relished his role as teacher and, for the next hour, showed me this trick and that of homestead life. “Use the juniper sparingly,” he said after peeking in my kindling barrel. “It’s hard to come by.” When we’d finished my hearth and home lesson, he took me out to the barn and helped me get Violet and Plug settled.
    â€œDo you know how to milk a cow?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s one thing I do know how to do,”