of muscleâhow had Chase with his little eight-year-old arms managed?âbut soon I had a bucketful. That hot cup of coffee was one step closer!
I tried to let go of the pump handleâ¦and couldnât. My naked hands, damp with the morning air, were firmly connected to the metal.
âOuch!â
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.
âHey there, Miz Hattie,â a young voice called out. âWhatcha doing?â Into view rode Chase. He was astride one of the horses from Karlâs wagon team and leading a large, boxy horse and a brown cow with white spots.
âOh, hello, Chase.â If I hadnât been stuck to the pump handle, I wouldâve thrown myself down the well rather than bear this humiliation. âI seem to be in a pickle.â
He slipped off his horse and tethered him to the well bracing. âMama keeps an old mitten tied to the handle,â he said. âIn the winter.â
âYes, well, thatâs a wonderful idea, butâ¦â 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.
âOh!â The sudden warmth sent shooting pains into every knuckle and joint. My hands slipped free, and I tucked them under my arms. âThat hurts.â
Chase picked up the bucket and took my arm. âCome on inside, Miz Hattie. You better get warmed up.â
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.
âHave you had breakfast?â I asked him, a mug of coffee finally cradled in my hands.
âYes, maâam.â
âWell, I havenât. Can you eat a second?â 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, âBest War Time Recipesâ 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 Powderâthe only kind Aunt Ivy ever usedâand half a spoonful of salt.
âCould you please reach two tins of milk from that shelf there?â 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.
âItâs sizzling all right!â 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. âSo your mama ties a mitten to the pump handle,â I said. âAnything else I should know before I do some other foolish thing?â Somehow, I didnât feel such a failure talking with Chase this way. I prayed he didnât 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. âUse the juniper sparingly,â he said after peeking in my kindling barrel. âItâs hard to come by.â When weâd finished my hearth and home lesson, he took me out to the barn and helped me get Violet and Plug settled.
âDo you know how to milk a cow?â he asked.
âThatâs one thing I do know how to do,â