Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
I’m tired of just existing.
I glance up at my handsome husband. His expression is calm and cheerful, but I worry he won’t like what I’m about to ask. “What if we lived somewhere else, Murr?”
“Where?”
“The place where we found the cattle?”
He considers this. “Not long flight. We take cats? Dottie?”
“Of course. We’d take everyone. Dogs, cats, ladies, whatever we want to bring with us.”
He shrugs. “Then we go.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Dakota home,” he says simply. “Murr home with Dakota, with cats. Dakota with cows, Murr with cows.”
“Well, not directly with the cows,” I say, stifling a giggle. My heart fills with love for him. “And it doesn’t have to be there. If there’s somewhere you’d rather be that’s more comfortable, we can go there. I just want to think about the future for a change. I’m tired of living day to day. I want to settle down and stay somewhere. Really stay.”
He pauses. “But not…fort?”
“No, not a fort. God no.”
“Good.” He looks relieved, and I laugh all over again. “Fort smell terrible.”
“I thought you said you could live anywhere,” I tease, getting to my feet and moving into his arms.
Murr pulls me close and nuzzles at my throat. “Murr live in fort with Dakota, if Dakota want,” he murmurs. “Cut off nose, too.”
I snort with amusement. “Guess we’ll just have to find somewhere else. I like your nose.”
“Murr like Dakota nose, too.” And he kisses the tip of it.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
DAKOTA
I hum to myself as I put a log into the stove and heat the cast-iron skillet. The theme song from Little House on the Prairie plays in my head, and I’m tempted to pull out an apron and go full-blown pioneer. But breakfast is just eggs and tan coffee-water, so there’s not really a need to cover my clothing. I wait for my cast-iron skillet on the stove to warm up, and as I do, I crack eggs.
God, I love eggs.
Even more than the coffee, they feel like a daily luxury. The coffee is sad and watered down, a constant reminder of what used to be, but the eggs are fresh and delicious every day, courtesy of the chickens we now have on the farm. We have them for breakfast every morning, and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of them. I don’t care how poopy the chicken coop gets or how many times they peck our hands as we pull out the eggs every day. Chickens are magical.
Our flock was initially small—three hens and a rooster that showed up at the barn a few days after we’d moved to the farmhouse. While Murr and I had worked on transporting cats slowly to the new house, Rabbit had worked on catching chickens and repairing the old coop. The chickens were easy to persuade with a bit of food and settled in. It was so hard not to eat the first eggs they laid, but after a few months, we had a flock. Last month they started really laying eggs like crazy and haven’t stopped.
We are currently in egg heaven.
I’ve pored through old cookbooks, trying to find recipes that involve eggs and no flour. I do miss bread, but having eggs makes things easier. The How to Farm guidebooks say that chickens stop laying in the winter (which surprised me) so we’ll feast while we have them and go heavy on red meat when they stop.
It’s nice to plan ahead for the future. I impulsively crack a few more eggs and then dice some summer squash into the mix. Maybe we can make a quiche? That’d be nice.
Rabbit cuts through the kitchen, a laundry basket in her arms. Kermit rests atop the folded blankets in the basket as my daughter sets it down. “Did you know the cats have been nesting in the guest room?”
“Have they? I didn’t check.” I pull a tiny tomato out of our veggie basket and chop it up, too. “Mommy nesting or just regular nesting?”
“Mommy nesting,” Rabbit says. “Shortcake had kittens in there. Four of them. All over the nice clean blankets.”
I grimace. Kittens have been a bit of a problem with so many cats. We’re in talks with a vet back at the fort to discuss what to do for the future, but for now, we keep getting more kittens. The fort has been taking some of the cats that have proven themselves as mousers, and Gwen has talked about taking some of the cats to Fort Shreveport, her home fort, because they have a rodent problem.
Murr is happy to keep all of them here, of course, but we need to be practical. I eye my daughter. “You know what that means.”
“Oh, I know,” my daughter says in a harried voice. “Laundry for Rabbit. I hate laundry.”
“You’d hate it even more if Jonah didn’t come this weekend,” I singsong, whipping eggs like I’m Betty Crocker.