Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 Read Online Free PDF

Kyler had fastened onto the back of the wagon. Julia, Polly, and Hope had the same job, but they rarely found as much wood as I did—all three of them put together. They weren’t spoiled exactly, and they weren’t lazy. They just didn’t spend any time figuring.
    If I saw a stand of cottonwoods with limbs hanging out over a creek, I’d go look, figuring that a lot of people would pass it by, not wanting to get their feet wet looking for deadwood. Or I’d tie the Mustang loosely to a plum thicket and get scratched up crawling to find deadwood at its center.
    â€œI am getting pretty good at finding firewood,” I said quietly one morning.
    Mrs. Kyler nodded. “Indeed you are. But you know what you’ll be picking up for the cookfire before much longer, don’t you?” She was stirring the eggs—the pork fat was beginning to snap and sizzle.
    I wrinkled my nose. “Buffalo dung. That’s what I heard Polly telling Julia. Is it true?”
    She nodded. “You look for the dried-out ones. It won’t be any worse than dry cow manure, I’m sure. It’s just grass, after all.”
    I made another face, and she winked at me. “I have gloves you can borrow, and a bag. You won’t have to touch it much.”
    I smiled at her, then turned back to the fire. I moved the skillet to place a Y-shaped piece of wood on the flames. The skillet didn’t want to sit flat when I put it back. Mrs. Kyler handed me a smooth flat stone—part of her kitchen. I set one side of the skillet on it and let the new little log take the rest of the weight.
    â€œYou’re a good hand to have on the journey,” Mrs. Kyler said.
    I blushed and mumbled a thanks.
    â€œAre the girls being nicer to you yet?”
    The question caught me off guard even though it shouldn’t have. I had noticed her watching her granddaughters when I was close by. They almost never said a word to me, just ran off together, giggling and skipping if they weren’t tired. When we had covered a lot of miles, they walked slower, their heads close together and whispering.
    I looked at Mrs. Kyler. The short answer was no, they were less nice with every passing day. “They’re fine,” I fibbed. “We don’t play much because I don’t have time, always taking care of the Mustang. And you know they’re busy with all their chores, too.”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them,” she said.
    I didn’t answer. I was pretty sure I had puzzled out why the girls didn’t like me—but I didn’t want to tell Mrs. Kyler. It was partly because I was a stranger and they were protective of their friendships. They didn’t want me wiggling my way in between any of them, trying to act like I belonged. But it was more than that. There were two other reasons.
    I think I scared them in an odd way. I was an orphan. I was a walking example of their own worst worries—especially on this journey, no one knowing what was going to happen, who might not make it to the end.
    I knew they were jealous of me, too, in a way. After all, I got to spend a lot more time with their grandmother than they did lately because they were as busy with chores as I was—in their own families’ camps. They saw me laughing with Mrs. Kyler, joshing and teasing while we worked.
    â€œI can insist they include you more,” Mrs. Kyler said.
    I came out of my thoughts and shook my head vehemently. “They’ll really hate me if you do that,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
    Mrs. Kyler tilted her head and stared at me a moment before she went back to tending the skillet. “I feel like I should give them a talking-to,” she said quietly.
    â€œPlease don’t,” I begged. But then I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to make things worse by sounding so desperate about it.
    â€œI have something for you,” Mrs.