Redeeming-Love-By-Francine-Rivers

F R A N C I N E R I V E R S
Michael opened the two windows and the door, and the smoke began to
clear.
Teeth clenched, Angel watched a piece of venison go up in flames. “Your
dinner’s ready, mister.”
He tried not to smile. “You’ll do better next time.”
She glared up at him. “I don’t know anything about cooking. I don’t
know a weed from a carrot, and if you set me behind your plow, you won’t
have a straight furrow worth planting.” She stood. “You want me to work.
Fine. I’ll work. The only way I know how. Right there,” she said, pointing at
his bed. “Right now, if you like, mister. If the bed doesn’t suit your fancy,
how about the floor, or your stable, or anywhere else you’d like? Whatever
you want, just let me know!”
He let out a breath. “It was only a pot of stew, Mara.”
She seethed with frustration. “How did a saint like you pick me? Are you
testing your faith? Is that it?” She swept past him and went outside.
She wanted to run away but couldn’t. Every step hurt. She barely made it
to the field before she had to stop and get her breath. He had jarred her
when he pulled her away from the fire, and she hurt all over; but the physical
pain was nothing to her own self-disgust and humiliation. She was stupid!
She didn’t know anything! How was she going to manage on her own if
she couldn’t cook a simple meal? She didn’t even know how to build a fire.
She didn’t know anything necessary to survive.
You’re going to learn.
“Oh, no, I’m not! I’m not asking for his help. I’m not going to owe him
anything.” She clenched her burned hand into a fist. “I didn’t ask him to
come back. I didn’t ask for any of this!”
She went down to the creek to soak her hand and nurse her grievances.
125