Free Prairie Rose by Catherine Palmer

show me around?”
    “I thought you knew how to light a stove.”
    “I do. But … this is your home. You built it. Please, I’d like you to show it to me.”
    He looked down at her, his jaw tight. She saw a flicker of some emotion cross his face. And then he stroked a hand down the door.
    “Walnut,” he said. “You won’t find a harder wood in these parts. Took me three days to build.”
    “And the hinges?” Rosie said. “They’re leather. They look strong.”
    “Deer hide.”
    “I can’t imagine anything that could break down such a sturdy door.”
    She gave him a bright smile as she walked inside. But there, her heart sank further. Darkness shadowed the cavernous room. A filmy cobweb stretched across one corner. A dank, musty smell mingled with wood smoke permeated the air, and the few pieces of furniture stood around on the uneven dirt floor like lonely soldiers.
    “Here’s the stove,” Seth said, striding across the room. His head nearly touched the low ceiling. “I’ve only had it a couple of weeks. I reckon it could use a good cleaning.”
    Rosie swallowed at the sight of the large sooty stove with its rusted pipe and blackened burner lids. Half-afraid of what she might find, she gingerly opened the oven door. A brown mouse lifted its head, gave a loud squeak, and jumped out at her feet. Rosie gasped and leapt backward as the mouse fled across the floor with Chipper racing after it.
    “Mr. Hunter,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. “Have you ever used this stove?”
    He took off his hat and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, uh, not exactly. I figured I’d get Sheena over here one of these days to teach me how to work it.”
    Rosie brushed off her hands. If there was anything she knew, it was cooking and cleaning. Maybe God could use her to set up this household—if only for little Chipper’s sake. In fact, the more she looked around the place, the easier it was to imagine what she could do with it. Scrub the table. Air out the mattress. Polish the stove.
    “I built this table out of pine,” Seth was saying. He stroked his hand down the three smooth boards of the long trestle table. “And the chairs. If you know anything about caning …”
    “I do,” Rosie said, studying the four seatless chairs. Obviously, Seth had been using a set of stumps assembled around the table for his perch. Those would have to go.
    “And here’s the bed.” He cupped the ball on top of the foot post. “It’s got a straw mattress. No bugs.”
    Rosie inspected the frame. To her surprise, the bed revealed skilled craftsmanship—its joints solid, its pegs tight, and its posts carefully carved, sanded, and polished. Curious, she returned to the table. It, too, displayed even planing and careful joinery. The chairs—though they lacked seats—stood level and rigid. And in the center of each chair’s back a design of flowers and scrolls had been carved.
    “You did this work?” she asked, straightening. “You built these things?”
    Seth shrugged. “My uncle taught me carpentry. I always liked working with my hands.” Before she could marvel aloud at the handiwork, he turned away. “See what you can do about that stove, Miss Mills. I’ll be back in a few minutes with some meat.”
    “Eggs, too, please!” she called after him. “If you have any.”
    As he disappeared through the door, Rosie let out a breath. “Well, Chipper,” she said softly, “here we are at home. How do you like it?”
    “I hate it.” He picked up a potato from the basket at his feet and hurled it across the room. “Hate it, hate it, hate it!”
    Rosie gathered the little boy in her arms and held him tightly as he began to sob. Never mind what Seth Hunter wanted, she thought. This child needed love—and she intended to see that he got it. If not from his father, then from her.

    Seth decided Rosenbloom Cotton Mills’s real name should have been Twister. The skinny little gal was a regular cyclone around the