Free Hattie Big Sky by Kirby Larson Page A

was appropriate for an eight-year-old boy. I held up my flannel nightgown.
    â€œI’d rather freeze to death,” he said.
    â€œDon’t blame you.” In a far corner, I’d made a neat stack of Uncle Chester’s clothes. Much too large for me to wear, I’d thought to use the shirts for a quilt and pants for a rag rug but was now very glad I hadn’t. The pride—and survival—of an eight-year-old boy depended on a flannel shirt and pair of man’s wool pants.
    The clothes were a bit sniffy, but then, from my meager experience with Chase, it seemed that eight-year-old boys could be a bit sniffy themselves. “Perfect fit,” I proclaimed.
    With both children in dry clothes, my thoughts turned to feeding them. “Have you ever had milk coffee?” I asked.
    â€œMama don’t ’low us to drink coffee,” said Mattie. “Do you think she’s worried about us?”
    â€œShe knows how clever you are,” I said. “That you’d find a safe place to weather this storm.” That seemed to comfort her.
    â€œShe let me drink coffee last harvest,” Chase bragged.
    I nodded. “Well, milk coffee’s what my mama used to make me when I was little.” I poured some milk out of the pail and into a small kettle and set it on the stove to warm. “Even littler than you, Mattie. So I suspect it will be okay with your mama.” I took three mugs off the shelf. “Now, what do you think about something to go with this coffee?”
    â€œWe don’t need anything,” answered Chase.
    â€œYes, please,” answered his more truthful sister. “And Mulie’s hungry, too.”
    I sliced up some bread. “This isn’t too bad with lots of jelly,” I said, setting plates before the kids. Bread making was not one of my more highly developed skills. They both ate bravely, without comment. Perilee had raised them right.
    â€œSay, have either of you ever played Five Hundred?”
    Mattie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” said Chase.
    I got out my one deck of cards and explained the rules. “Mattie and I will be partners,” I said. “So watch out, Chase!”
    The game went on fast and furious. I was amazed at how quickly Chase picked it up. The boy had a knack for numbers. And his memory! He tracked nearly every card played.
    â€œYou must be the star pupil of your class,” I said in amazement.
    He shrugged. “I do all right.”
    I took the cards and shuffled them. We had played Five Hundred all afternoon. “Do you want to play a different game?”
    â€œLet’s play I Wish,” said Mattie. “I’ll start.” She chewed on her lip. “I wish I had a doll made of china, like Sarah Martin.” She patted Mulie’s bedraggled yarn hair. “So Mulie would have a friend.”
    â€œI wish for cinnamon rolls every day,” Chase said. He laughed.
    I leaned back on my lard bucket chair. “Well, I guess I wish it was spring and I could start planting wheat.”
    Chase perked up. “First you plant flax, then the wheat. Karl says maybe end of April.”
    â€œThat’s not a wish,” scolded Mattie. “That’s work.”
    â€œYou’ve got me there.” I could imagine what a disappointing wish that would be for a six-year-old, but I had to plant crops. It was part of proving up. Part of my dream of having a place of my own. November was mere months away; the clock was ticking. Here it was the middle of February and I hadn’t set one fence post or plowed one foot of dirt. I’d had to content myself with reading about it in that book Miss Simpson gave me.
    â€œYou can wish for anything,” Chase said. “There are no rules. Mama said.”
    â€œYour mama sure is smart.” I added a precious scoop of coal to the stove.
    The children got quiet—so quiet I could hear the coal hissing.
    Mattie clapped her