Read Online Desert Angel by Pamela K Forrest - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pamela K Forrest
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what was in each. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t being nosey. After all, she couldn’t cook without knowing what the kitchen contained, could she?
One entire cabinet section was filled with dishes. March carefully picked up a plate and traced the delicate flowers and vines painted on the white surface. She discovered a small chip along the edge, but it in no way detracted from the beauty of the china.
The sunlight through the open window sparkled on the edges of cut-glass bowls, reflected onto the white walls, and turned them into a tapestry of rainbows. Struck by the incredible beauty, she put her hands behind her back so that she wouldn’t be tempted to touch, afraid that she would accidentally drop something and break it.
She found more cooking utensils, wooden bowls, and stoneware jugs than she had ever seen in her life. The shelves closest to the fireplace held iron cooking pots and skillets, while still others held foodstuff in bags, boxes, and cans. Some of the labels had a picture of the product inside, but most were just written words, and she felt denied of some of the magic because she couldn’t read the label. What wonderful treat was stored inside the tinned can? Some new and exotic treat? Something as common as beans? Short of opening the can, there was no way for her to know.
Shaking the cans did little to help determine their contents. The picture on one drew her like a magnet. Picking it up reverently, her mouth watered and she licked her lips, her finger lightly tracing the picture of a bright pink peach.
“Oh, Jamie, they’re wonderful,” she whispered to the sleeping baby. “I had one once, and it was better than a peppermint stick. It was so sweet, the juice ran down the side of my chin.” With a sigh, she reluctantly replaced the can on the shelf, but turned the picture so that she could see it whenever she looked up. “They’re so expensive. I’m sure your pa wouldn’t be pleased if I ate them.”
Kindling had been laid in preparation for the morning fire in the fireplace, a marvel of modern convenience. The andirons held a generous amount of wood, and two hooks could be moved so that the cook wouldn’t have to reach over the fire to stir a pot.
A removable iron rack sat a comfortable distance above the wood, the perfect place for keeping things warm or for something that needed to cook slowly. And wonder of wonders, in the stone wall was an oven for baking bread and cakes.
Excitement rippled through her. This was so much better than cooking out in the open in all kinds of weather. She wouldn’t have to worry about lighting a fire with wet kindling or keeping it going when rain threatened to smother it. No more trying to keep warm when winter winds blew up her skirt, or worrying about a stray spark blowing away and starting a grass fire.
March struck a match and held it to the kindling. When it had caught the flame, she turned to look for the coffeepot. The only cabinet she hadn’t explored yet was a strange-looking iron one that sat between the two doors on the side wall. Painted black with pretty red trim, it was a large, boxy chest on four legs with a small door in the front. She spied the coffeepot sitting in the middle of one of the iron rings on top.
Holding it under the faucet, she raised and lowered the pump handle with delight. When the fire was burning brightly, she threw some coffee beans into the pot and put it on one of the hooks, swinging it directly over the flame.
“It’s just amazing, Jamie.” She grabbed a bowl and the ingredients to assemble biscuits. “Imagine me, March Evans, cooking in a kitchen like this. Why, I’ll bet those ladies in the city don’t have it this good.
“And the food,” her eyes turned longingly toward the can of peaches. “I’ve never seen so much food, except in the mercantile. It may be just a little short on meat, but maybe your pa goes hunting every couple of days.”
The peaches beckoned enticingly.
One entire cabinet section was filled with dishes. March carefully picked up a plate and traced the delicate flowers and vines painted on the white surface. She discovered a small chip along the edge, but it in no way detracted from the beauty of the china.
The sunlight through the open window sparkled on the edges of cut-glass bowls, reflected onto the white walls, and turned them into a tapestry of rainbows. Struck by the incredible beauty, she put her hands behind her back so that she wouldn’t be tempted to touch, afraid that she would accidentally drop something and break it.
She found more cooking utensils, wooden bowls, and stoneware jugs than she had ever seen in her life. The shelves closest to the fireplace held iron cooking pots and skillets, while still others held foodstuff in bags, boxes, and cans. Some of the labels had a picture of the product inside, but most were just written words, and she felt denied of some of the magic because she couldn’t read the label. What wonderful treat was stored inside the tinned can? Some new and exotic treat? Something as common as beans? Short of opening the can, there was no way for her to know.
Shaking the cans did little to help determine their contents. The picture on one drew her like a magnet. Picking it up reverently, her mouth watered and she licked her lips, her finger lightly tracing the picture of a bright pink peach.
“Oh, Jamie, they’re wonderful,” she whispered to the sleeping baby. “I had one once, and it was better than a peppermint stick. It was so sweet, the juice ran down the side of my chin.” With a sigh, she reluctantly replaced the can on the shelf, but turned the picture so that she could see it whenever she looked up. “They’re so expensive. I’m sure your pa wouldn’t be pleased if I ate them.”
Kindling had been laid in preparation for the morning fire in the fireplace, a marvel of modern convenience. The andirons held a generous amount of wood, and two hooks could be moved so that the cook wouldn’t have to reach over the fire to stir a pot.
A removable iron rack sat a comfortable distance above the wood, the perfect place for keeping things warm or for something that needed to cook slowly. And wonder of wonders, in the stone wall was an oven for baking bread and cakes.
Excitement rippled through her. This was so much better than cooking out in the open in all kinds of weather. She wouldn’t have to worry about lighting a fire with wet kindling or keeping it going when rain threatened to smother it. No more trying to keep warm when winter winds blew up her skirt, or worrying about a stray spark blowing away and starting a grass fire.
March struck a match and held it to the kindling. When it had caught the flame, she turned to look for the coffeepot. The only cabinet she hadn’t explored yet was a strange-looking iron one that sat between the two doors on the side wall. Painted black with pretty red trim, it was a large, boxy chest on four legs with a small door in the front. She spied the coffeepot sitting in the middle of one of the iron rings on top.
Holding it under the faucet, she raised and lowered the pump handle with delight. When the fire was burning brightly, she threw some coffee beans into the pot and put it on one of the hooks, swinging it directly over the flame.
“It’s just amazing, Jamie.” She grabbed a bowl and the ingredients to assemble biscuits. “Imagine me, March Evans, cooking in a kitchen like this. Why, I’ll bet those ladies in the city don’t have it this good.
“And the food,” her eyes turned longingly toward the can of peaches. “I’ve never seen so much food, except in the mercantile. It may be just a little short on meat, but maybe your pa goes hunting every couple of days.”
The peaches beckoned enticingly.
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