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“Oh, yes, ma’am!”
The joy in Mary Alice’s eyes warmed Ruth. “Skedaddle, now, and get your work done. I’ll call you when I’m ready to start the pie.”
“Skedaddle?”
“Yes, it means ‘go on.’” Ruth waved her hands.
“Oh, I know, ma’am. My pa says that. Says he learned it in the war. I’ve…never heard anyone else use it, is all.”
“Why, yes, Mary Alice, it is from the Civil War. I read it in a book and started using it.”
Garth Mackenzie had been in the war? He must be older than she thought. He didn’t look much older than thirty or so. His eyes, though. They told a different story. Goodness, what those eyes must have seen.
She had no business, but she had to ask. “How old is your pa, Mary Alice?”
“He’s thirty-six, ma’am.”
Thirty-six. Fourteen years Ruth’s senior. Strange that she cared.
“My ma was thirty when she died. She had the consumption.”
“I’m very sorry you lost her, Mary Alice.”
“My baby brother died first.”
“Oh.” Ruth touched trembling fingers to her lips. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Yes. He was four, and he died first. Then ma.”
“My goodness.” Ruth’s heart ached for the child. And for her father.
“We don’t talk about them much.”
“I understand.” Ruth suddenly felt warm and uncomfortable. Not usually at a loss for words, she had no idea what to say. Her father would know. As a preacher, he was used to ministering to the grieving. She’d ask him at home tonight what she might do for this lonely little girl. For now, though, she had chicken pie to prepare.
“Mary Alice, go on and do your chores. Then we’ll make the pie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ruth’s thoughts wandered to handsome Garth Mackenzie as she dressed the chicken and cut it into pieces. Losing a child and a wife—she couldn’t imagine the pain. Her sister, Naomi, had lost her firstborn a year ago. It had devastated her, but she still had her husband and daughter. If she had lost her husband as well… Ruth shuddered to think of it. Naomi and her family had since moved to Minnesota. Ruth often wondered if her beautiful sister’s face still paled with loss.
She sighed, went to the basin, and rinsed her hands. Taking two cups of flour from the pantry, she mixed in some lard and made a crust for her pie. As the dough rested, she chopped carrots and onions and sautéed them in a pan with some more lard and some flour. She’d found no sage or other herbs in the pantry, so the onion would be the only flavoring for the pie. She inhaled the spicy aroma. It would still be delicious.
* * *
Garth stopped at the rain barrel outside the lean-to and scrubbed the grime from his hands and forearms. Perspiration stung his eyes. He’d worked hard today mending the roof on the barn. Damn place was falling down around him, it seemed. Always something to be fixed. As if he didn’t have enough work trying to make a decent crop. No sons to help him with his work, either. And no wife to cook and clean for him. To hold him at night and take away the stress of the day. No soft flesh for him, only nightmares.
Inhaling deeply, he splashed some of the warm water on his face. Lord above, this day was hot. He inhaled again. What was that? Chicken? Onions? His mouth watered, and his stomach let out a rumble. Hungry, he was. Seemed he was always hungry. Mary Alice, bless her heart, wasn’t much of a cook. Only seven when Elizabeth passed, she hadn’t had the chance to learn much about cooking yet. Or housekeeping, for that matter.
He walked through the lean-to and into the small kitchen. Mary Alice was bent over the cookstove, pulling a steamy pan out of the oven.
“Careful, child. You’ll burn yourself.”
“I’m fine, Pa.” She looked up at him, her pretty eyes beaming. “Surprise for supper. Don’t it smell good?”
Garth eyed the steaming concoction, tan gravy bubbling out of the golden crust, and inhaled once more. It sure as shootin’ did smell good. Damn good. “What is it, Mary Alice?”
“It’s chicken pie, of course.”
