Redeeming-Love-By-Francine-Rivers

R E D E E M I N G L O V E
straightened and brushed his hands on his pants. “I’m pulling up weeds.
They’re choking everything else. I haven’t had time to work out here. One of
the things I’ll ask of you is tending the garden. When you’re ready.”
He picked up the basket and nodded toward the hills. “There are other
foodstuffs growing wild. Chicory, mustard, and miner’s lettuce mostly. I’ll
teach you what to look for. Down the creek a half mile are blackberries.
They come ripe in late summer. There are blueberries a half mile up the hill.
We’ve got apples and walnuts as well.” He handed her the basket. “You can
wash those vegetables in the creek.”
She did what he told her and came back to the cabin. Michael showed
her how to peel and pare them and left her to it. The meat was boiling in the
pot over the fire, and he took an iron hook and slid the pot to the outer edge
of the fire. “Stir it once in a while. I’m going out and see to the stock.”
The stew didn’t seem to be boiling fast enough, so Angel slid the pot
back over the fire again. Then it boiled too fast, and she slid it away. She
hovered, stirring and sliding, sliding and stirring. The heat and work were
draining. She brushed the damp strands of hair back from her forehead. Her
eyes smarted from smoke.
Michael came in with a bucket of water. He slammed it down, sloshing it on
the floor. “Watch out!” He caught her arm and yanked her back from the fire.
“What’re you doing?”
“Your skirt’s smoking. In another minute, you would have been in
flames.”
“I had to get close enough to stir the stew!” The pot lid was banging, the
meal boiling over the side and hissing on the red coals. Without thinking,
she grabbed the handle. She yelped, swore vilely, and snatched the hook
down again.
“Easy!” Michael warned, but she was in no mood to listen. She yanked
too hard and dislodged the bar. It clanged and the pot fell, dumping the
contents. The fire hissed and sputtered violently. A cloud of smoke billowed
and filled the cabin with the horrible stench of burning stew.
She couldn’t even do this right! Angel threw the iron hook into the fireplace
with the mess and sat in the willow chair. Leaning forward, she held
her aching ribs.
124