The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn by Benton Lori

Author:Benton, Lori [Benton, Lori]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-73150-0
Publisher: Random House Inc.
Published: 2014-04-15T06:00:00+00:00

Shoulders aching, Tamsen shifted the lid aside and tilted the churn toward the firelight to check her progress. Instead of lumps of gathered butter, a disheartening puffy mess floated in the milk.

The churn was an old one, stored in the Allards’ barn until the family’s cornhusking a week past, which Tamsen and Jesse and neighbors from down along Stony Creek attended. Janet had wiped the churn clean of cobwebs and presented it to Tamsen who, after watching Bethany dash gallons of milk into butter, thought it a task she could accomplish without strict supervision.

She might have been a tad too optimistic about that. Hearing a sound, she raised her head to listen. Bethany was hallooing the cabin. After fitting the lid back in place, Tamsen grasped the dasher and resumed churning until the girl’s slight form shadowed the doorway.

“Thought you might’ve waited till I got here.” In seconds the girl was at Tamsen’s side, pale braid swinging in the firelight. “How long you been at it?”

“Nigh on an hour.”

“You ought to be long done. Let’s have a peek.” Bethany took the dasher from her grasp, removed the lid, and bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Your cream’s too warm. It won’t firm up. You need cold water. Be back in a shake.”

The girl snatched up a bucket from the hearth, then hurried out. Back so quick she must have sprinted to the creek, she poured water into the churn and took up the dasher. “Let’s see can I make it come right.”

“That’s kind of you. I could use a rest.” Tamsen kept her tone bright as she relinquished the stool, drawing a brief twist of Bethany’s lips and a dimming of her pleasure in catching Tamsen on the edge of domestic disaster. Again.

In the past two weeks, Bethany had arrived at the cabin in time to save Tamsen’s first attempt at soap making, candle dipping … the list was long. On those occasions when nothing needed salvaging, the girl could be counted on to arrive armed with a gathering basket and a rifle as long as she was tall. She’d taken Tamsen into the woods to harvest late cherries, rose hips, persimmons, ginseng (’sang, she called it), walnuts, hazelnuts, hickory nuts, chinquapins—all while keeping up a running chatter on their preparation and uses.

Once she’d shot a turkey.

At times this relentless onslaught of proficiency did make Tamsen feel embarrassingly obtuse. And at times, it mattered.

“Your butter’s ready for rinsing.”

Tamsen started. She hadn’t noticed Bethany leave off churning and come to stand beside her at the table, where borrowed butter molds waited.

“Think you can manage getting it into the molds?”

Tamsen forced a smile. “Of course.”

Bethany frowned, openly dubious. “I only ask because—”

“Because you are determined to make me look incapable in Jesse’s eyes.” Tamsen instantly regretted the words. Though she’d spoken calmly, Bethany stepped back, blue eyes flashing.

“I am determined to do no such thing. And if’n I was, I needn’t try …” Bethany let her words trail, defiance freezing on her face.

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