Stitched with Love Collection by Tracey V. Bateman

Author:Tracey V. Bateman [Bateman, Tracie V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-62029-698-1
Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2004-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4

You did what?”

Brigit’s father turned and faced her, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

She studied his face. Was that slightly confused expression also slightly faked? “No, you didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I certainly meant to.” He sounded sincere, but a mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away.

She shook her head. What was she going to do with him? “When is he coming over?”

Mr. Streeter stepped out of the doorway before answering. “Tonight.”

Tonight?

Brigit took a mental survey of what was on hand. It was a very quick survey: they didn’t have much at all.

She slumped into the chair. There were some women in town who were quite adept at taking a chicken, a carrot, and a sprinkle of seasonings and coming up with something delicious. She wasn’t one of those women. If she couldn’t boil it, it didn’t get cooked.

Why had her father done this? He knew how limited her culinary skills were. If he were really trying to marry her off, he had chosen an odd way of advertising her assets.

There was no ignoring her predicament, though. Her father had really done it this time. With a sigh, she pulled herself out of her chair and checked to see what was possible for a dinner.

She grumbled to herself as she gathered together a pile of vegetables. It certainly wasn’t much, and it definitely wasn’t going to be fancy.

The Farnsworths weren’t going to be eating thick stew with carrots and potatoes cut into large chunks because Brigit didn’t have the patience to dice them into tiny cubes. No, they’d be served food with French names that she couldn’t pronounce on dishes that she didn’t dare touch for fear she’d break them.

Here she’d be serving stew on heavy mismatched plates with chips in the sides. The delicate china that had been her mother’s had long ago been discarded, the victim of her father’s inept washings.

Why hadn’t he asked her before he invited the minister to dinner?

She muttered as she chopped potatoes and sliced carrots. Griped as she cut up the chicken. Complained as she shoved wood into the cookstove and heated the small kitchen area to an unbearable temperature.

But even as she did so, part of her was rejoicing.

He was coming back!

She smiled at the unpeeled carrot she was holding. Had ever a vegetable looked so beautiful? How could its brilliant orange coloring develop like that underground? Had there ever been such a miracle as a carrot? She almost hated to scrape the skin off it, but into the pot it must go.

If only she had some of those seasonings she’d heard the women at church talk about. She’d never paid any attention to those discussions. Salt and pepper were all she and her father ever used.

The liquids began to burble in the pot. It would be awhile before it would be ready. She had time to turn Fulton out to graze one last time before evening. She didn’t like to have him out after sunset. The mosquitoes were getting fierce at dark, even this early in the season.

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