jug. He popped the cork from the narrow mouth and held out the jug to her.
Emmaline stared at the homey vessel. Desire to quench her thirst battled with distaste at placing her lips on a spout that had previously been used by someone else. She pressed her palms to her stomach.
He bounced the jug and gave an encouraging nod. “Go ahead, Miss Emmalion. It be ginger watuh. You can drink much as you wan’ an’ no matter how hot ya been, yore tummy’ll hold it down jus’ fine. No need for worries.”
But she sucked in her lower lip and locked her fingers together.
Understanding dawned across his face. He drew himself upright and spoke with great dignity. “I’s sorry, Miss Emmalion, that I gots no cup to pour the watuh in.” His wiry brows formed a brief V before smoothing out. “Reckon a lady like yo’self couldn’t be drinkin’ from no jug.”
He replaced the cork and thumped the jug back under the wagon seat. Turning, he said, “But if you’s still needin’ a drink, I could tote you on to our place. Tildy’ll fix you up with a cool cup o’ watuh, an’ you could rest a spell outta the sun.”
Shamed yet uncertain why, Emmaline nodded. “That . . . that would be quite nice, thank you.” She allowed Ronald to assist her onto the wagon seat. He tossed her bag in the back as if it weighed nothing, then climbed up beside her. She scooted to the opposite side of the rough-hewn bench seat, giving him plenty of space.
Flicking a diffident grin in her direction, he slapped the reins down on the mules’ glistening backs. “Git up now, Fern ’n’ Frank.” After several more brisk whacks with the reins, the mules finally leaned against the rigging, and the wagon rolled forward.
Tildy slung the bucket of wash water across the soft mounds of soil that made up her garden plot. It sure felt good to have all the seeds in the ground. She smacked her lips, anticipating the first tomatoes and green beans stewed together in an iron skillet and seasoned with chunks of squirrel or rabbit. The prairie could be harsh, but it lent its bounty, too, and Tildy appreciated every offering.
She glanced toward the road and frowned. Where was that Ronald? He’d promised to restring her clothesline as soon as he got back from delivering the repaired plow to the Sorensons’ place. She shook her head, glaring at the sky. “Lawd, I hates to be complainin’, ’cause I knows You meant the wind for good, but it sure can cause us troubles, too . . .”
She needed to get the sheets hung before they dried in a rumpled mess in the basket. Plucking the line from the ground where it lay like a lazy snake, she shook the dust from it. Should she fetch a stool, climb up, and reattach it herself? Heaven only knew when that slow-moving man of hers would return. She lifted her apron to wipe her brow, and when she lowered it she spotted a rise of dust from the road. Finally!
Dropping the line, she trotted forward to meet the wagon. “You git to jawin’ wit’ the Sorensons an’ forget where you live?” Then she spotted Emmaline, and her aggravation with Ronald fled. “Why, you brung Miss Emmalion for a visit! Git on down here, honey!”
Ronald assisted Emmaline to the ground, and immediately Tildy wrapped her in a hug. “Mm-mm-mmm, you look as bedraggled as a tomcat at sunrise.” She gave the younger woman a gentle nudge toward the house. “Git in the shade, chil’, an’ splash yo’ face wit’ watuh from that barrel.”
Emmaline eagerly scooped water from the barrel that sat next to the front door and doused her face and neck. Water spattered the front of the girl’s dress, leaving dark splotches behind.
Tildy shook her head. Foolish English girl, wearing dark material in this heat. “You cain’t be wearin’ black in the summertime. That sun’ll plumb roast you to nothin’.”
Emmaline shot her a sharp look, but she didn’t argue.
Clucking her tongue, Tildy pointed to the open doorway of the house. “Now let’s git
Emmaline stared at the homey vessel. Desire to quench her thirst battled with distaste at placing her lips on a spout that had previously been used by someone else. She pressed her palms to her stomach.
He bounced the jug and gave an encouraging nod. “Go ahead, Miss Emmalion. It be ginger watuh. You can drink much as you wan’ an’ no matter how hot ya been, yore tummy’ll hold it down jus’ fine. No need for worries.”
But she sucked in her lower lip and locked her fingers together.
Understanding dawned across his face. He drew himself upright and spoke with great dignity. “I’s sorry, Miss Emmalion, that I gots no cup to pour the watuh in.” His wiry brows formed a brief V before smoothing out. “Reckon a lady like yo’self couldn’t be drinkin’ from no jug.”
He replaced the cork and thumped the jug back under the wagon seat. Turning, he said, “But if you’s still needin’ a drink, I could tote you on to our place. Tildy’ll fix you up with a cool cup o’ watuh, an’ you could rest a spell outta the sun.”
Shamed yet uncertain why, Emmaline nodded. “That . . . that would be quite nice, thank you.” She allowed Ronald to assist her onto the wagon seat. He tossed her bag in the back as if it weighed nothing, then climbed up beside her. She scooted to the opposite side of the rough-hewn bench seat, giving him plenty of space.
Flicking a diffident grin in her direction, he slapped the reins down on the mules’ glistening backs. “Git up now, Fern ’n’ Frank.” After several more brisk whacks with the reins, the mules finally leaned against the rigging, and the wagon rolled forward.
Tildy slung the bucket of wash water across the soft mounds of soil that made up her garden plot. It sure felt good to have all the seeds in the ground. She smacked her lips, anticipating the first tomatoes and green beans stewed together in an iron skillet and seasoned with chunks of squirrel or rabbit. The prairie could be harsh, but it lent its bounty, too, and Tildy appreciated every offering.
She glanced toward the road and frowned. Where was that Ronald? He’d promised to restring her clothesline as soon as he got back from delivering the repaired plow to the Sorensons’ place. She shook her head, glaring at the sky. “Lawd, I hates to be complainin’, ’cause I knows You meant the wind for good, but it sure can cause us troubles, too . . .”
She needed to get the sheets hung before they dried in a rumpled mess in the basket. Plucking the line from the ground where it lay like a lazy snake, she shook the dust from it. Should she fetch a stool, climb up, and reattach it herself? Heaven only knew when that slow-moving man of hers would return. She lifted her apron to wipe her brow, and when she lowered it she spotted a rise of dust from the road. Finally!
Dropping the line, she trotted forward to meet the wagon. “You git to jawin’ wit’ the Sorensons an’ forget where you live?” Then she spotted Emmaline, and her aggravation with Ronald fled. “Why, you brung Miss Emmalion for a visit! Git on down here, honey!”
Ronald assisted Emmaline to the ground, and immediately Tildy wrapped her in a hug. “Mm-mm-mmm, you look as bedraggled as a tomcat at sunrise.” She gave the younger woman a gentle nudge toward the house. “Git in the shade, chil’, an’ splash yo’ face wit’ watuh from that barrel.”
Emmaline eagerly scooped water from the barrel that sat next to the front door and doused her face and neck. Water spattered the front of the girl’s dress, leaving dark splotches behind.
Tildy shook her head. Foolish English girl, wearing dark material in this heat. “You cain’t be wearin’ black in the summertime. That sun’ll plumb roast you to nothin’.”
Emmaline shot her a sharp look, but she didn’t argue.
Clucking her tongue, Tildy pointed to the open doorway of the house. “Now let’s git
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