Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,15
really thorough.” I scan her ingredients list, and the prices beside them. She’s right. Other than the goat’s milk, everything is dirt cheap. “Wow. Okay. So when do you want to try this? It’s already October. We’d have to hustle if we want to sell them for the holidays.”
A big smile breaks across Chastity’s face. “Well, tomorrow is Friday. I could buy sugar and vanilla before Spanish class. We could make a test batch tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow.” I close the folder and hand it back to her. “All right. Why not? We’d have to leave right after classes. You can ride home with me, but you’ll have to stay until Sunday afternoon when I’m ready to drive back.”
“That’s fine with me,” she says quickly.
“Okay, it’s a deal. Fun project, Chass. I hope this works.”
“It will,” she says, looking pleased with herself. Chastity’s eyes really sparkle when she’s happy. “I mean—this will be my first batch of caramel ever. But I have a good feeling.”
“What if it won’t firm up?” I have to ask. “What if we make a whole vat of milky goo?”
“Then we’ll freeze it and call it ice cream?”
“Guess what? I thought about making goat’s milk ice cream. But you need big commercial freezers and those cost a lot more than a twenty-five pound bag of sugar.”
“Then we better get it right on the caramels.” She zips her backpack.
“Cool. I better run.” I get up and drop a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smells like lemons. “See you tomorrow. Pick you up at four?”
“I’ll be ready,” she says.
I carry my tray off to the dishwashing window. And as I glance her way on my way out of the room, she makes an awkward motion with her hand.
Strangely enough, it looks like a fist pump.
Six
Freshman Composition
Section 4
Title: Hungrily
Author: Chastity Campbell
I grew up on a cattle ranch. But I wasn’t allowed to eat a steak until I was a nineteen-year-old runaway, and two thousand miles from that place.
Honestly, that’s really all you need to know to understand my story. But you wanted two pages, so I’ll give you the ugly details.
Where I grew up women worked in the kitchen and the men never set foot in there. When dinner was over, my stepfather got up and left the table without a backward glance at his dirty plate.
And if he ever left a scrap of something on it, one of his many children would grab it and shove it in his mouth in no time flat.
One night every year, the menfolk (we actually used that word) who worked the ranch held a steak dinner to congratulate themselves on another auction of steers. I guess that sounds normal enough until I add that none of the wives were invited to this dinner. Or the daughters.
But—as I mentioned above—the men of Paradise Ranch don’t do their own cooking. And why would they? My stepfather has five wives.
On steak night they did their own outdoor grilling. (Because that’s somehow different? More manly.) But the daughters spent the day slicing potatoes and creaming spinach. And it was the daughters who carried in the steaming casseroles and the beans and the warm rolls with real butter. We set all these glorious foods on the long tables, where the men were seated with bowed heads.
And then we stood back against the walls of the dining hall while our divine pastor said his lengthy prayer. It lasted five minutes at least. Maybe ten. That’s how long I stood with my back pressed to the wall, inhaling the scent of meat that I would never taste.
When he was finally done with the windy men-only prayer, the men fell on all that delicious food like a pack of wolves. And I still wasn’t excused. It was my job to circle the table pouring water and refilling baskets of rolls.
And I’m ashamed to say that I actually looked forward to this annual humiliation. Because it was an honor to be chosen to serve. I was first picked to serve at fourteen, and then again at fifteen. I was so proud. And for what?
My only reward was attention. The whole time I circled that table with my icy water pitcher, refilling their cups, they eyed me the same way they looked at the food. The same way they eyed the fattened steers on the way to auction.
Hungrily.
Seven
Chastity
“Oh my God. Is your seatbelt on?” I ask Dylan. I’m gripping the steering wheel of his truck with two slightly sweaty hands.