Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) Read Online Free PDF Page A

young and unmarried or widows, were actually inundated with offers of marriage.
    “Mostly that’s true. We just happen to have imported one recently . . . she’s visiting relatives, and . . .”
    Herbert’s voice trailed off, and he gave his attention to the horse, for it was quickening its pace.
    “Ah, I’ve said too much now,” the man finished. “Anyway, Parker Jones—that’s the preacher—can take care of himself. I think. As for Miss Molly Morrison—never fear but what she can take care of herself, too.”
    With that Herbert let the horse go and, knowing it was nearing home, it stepped out briskly, causing the buggy to bounce rather alarmingly.
    Tierney clung to the side of the seat, silent for the moment, reflecting on the events of the day. First, meeting her prospective employer and finding him wonderfully acceptable;meeting Molly Morrison and finding her friendly and approachable; and last—wonder of wonders—running full tilt into the man who had filled her dreams, waking and sleeping, ever since she had lowered her hemlines. Forgotten for the moment was his final, strange reaction to her presence in Bliss.
    It was all too much. Tears, of weariness, incredulity, relief, and inexpressible joy welled up in her eyes.
    “Here,” Herbert Bloom said kindly—apparently understanding, and sympathetic—and handed her a big red bandanna handkerchief.

W hoa there, Daisy!”
    Daisy stopped chewing her cud long enough to look around, perhaps with disgust, at the rather inept fumbling taking place in the area of her nether quarters.
    She was a new acquisition on the Dunbar homestead and, if cows have memories, could remember the expert milking of her former owner. And if cows sigh, certainly she heaved a big one. Daisy, it was clear, recognized a novice, had little or no patience with the unskilled bungling she was being subjected to, and shifted again impatiently.
    With a sigh of his own, Robbie tucked his head into the cow’s flank in proper style, reached again for the turgid teats, and started over.
    Why , he wondered, and not for the first time, did I agree to keep the beast here rather than Allan’s place? It had seemed anovelty, of course, and, craving butter—having gotten by with slatherings of bacon grease on his bread, if anything—Robbie had gladly (poor, foolish lad!) taken the cow into his care when he might just as well have let Allan have the privilege. In fact, he thought now, rather sourly, he should have insisted on it.
    Ping ping— the milk gave a few splashes into the pail clutched between his knees, even suggested the beginning of a satisfying froth. Robbie flexed his cramping fingers and, with another soothing word to the long-suffering Daisy, continued his task. Chores, morning and evening, for Robbie Dunbar, were becoming routine. What had seemed like a richly gratifying experience in the beginning was fast becoming a tyrannical master.
    It wasn’t only the milking; it was the further work of caring for the stuff that, in bottles, seemed so soothing and innocent, giving no hint of the work and worry it gave its producer. Herkimer Pinkard, a neighbor, stopping by one evening when Robbie was settling down to milk, had grinned and asked, “Do you know why cream costs more than milk?” and continued, “Because little bottles are harder for the cow to sit on.” Oh that it was that easy!
    After milking, there was straining the milk and putting it in flat pans that allowed for easy skimming after the cream rose, as it did unfailingly, astonishing as it seemed. Eventually there was enough cream so that mouth-watering, sweet butter could be churned out, worked free of buttermilk, washed, salted, and shaped into acceptable pats or pounds, adding its delightful flavor to meager fare. There was nothing like a good helping of butter soaking into a baked potato, dripping from pancakes, or melting on a warm biscuit.
    But the work to obtain it didn’t end with the milking and the