Something New by Joanne Bischof

Author:Joanne Bischof [Joanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joanne Bischof
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

C H A P T E R 8

__________

With afternoon light spilling through the window, Wren checked on the stew that bubbled on the stove. She fetched the wooden spoon, gave the rich broth a careful stir, then returned the lid on the Dutch oven.

Footsteps overhead declared that Tate was up—and restless. Quickly, she set the spoon aside, and was just adding more wood to the fire when a loud crash made her jump. It was followed by a groan and a scuffle. Lying in the bedroom doorway, Destry tipped his head to the side and quirked an ear. Wren stepped out in bare feet to see what all the commotion was.

“Tate Kennedy, what are you doing up there?” she called out.

“Ow,” Tate groaned again. “Just a moment. . .”

Hands to hips, she stared up at the loft opening until he appeared and started down.

“What was that noise?”

“I might have broken a chair that I shouldn’t have been standing on.” He lowered himself the last rungs.

“What were you doing on a chair?”

“I was trying to see out of that upper window.”

“What for?”

“To see how far I could see.”

“Are you insane?”

“No. Just not used to being bedridden.” He rubbed his shoulder even as he apologized for the chair. “I promise to fix it.”

She rolled her eyes and motioned him to the table, where the twins were waiting. “Like the time you nearly sank us in that boat you were supposed to have fixed?”

“I fixed the boat. Afterward.”

“How about the time you got us lost on your hunt for the James River?”

The twins’ large eyes moved from Wren to Tate in rapt curiosity.

“We weren’t lost. We were just taking our time getting home.” Winking at the boys, he sat.

Wren fought a smile as she followed suit. Mama said grace and, when she finished, served Tate two pieces of fried fish. Wren scooped him a mound of creamy turnips, followed by two hot biscuits. Then she dished up plates for the twins and noticed their empty cups.

“Oh, the milk.” Wren plunked the serving spoon back into the turnips. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped out and down the lane to the springhouse, where she ducked inside the hut. Built into the hillside over a spring, the structure held air, cool and still. The floor was uneven stone with a trough down the center that filled from the earth. Round cheeses and winter vegetables lined shelves. Pale butter was packed into stout crocks.

Wren lifted the lid off a large crock that sat half-submerged in the water. Dipping a ladle into the milk stored there, she poured several servings into a quart jar. The glass chilled instantly. Slipping from the small stone hut, she started for the house and was just steps from the door when she heard Mama and Tate talking in easy tones.

“And when will you head off?” her mother asked.

“Probably sometime in the next couple months. Hopefully sooner.”

Wren’s feet slowed.

“It will be a good time of year to travel.”

Then Tate’s voice. “It will be.

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