“Shit, Glyn!”  Dob stood up and Glyn turned around to see the potatoes were on fire.  She started to grab the skillet handle with her bare hand but as her fingers started to close, the hot iron warned her, singing her palm and she wrapped her apron around it, managing to move it to a cold burner where the fire stopped quickly.  She set about saving what potatoes she could and dumped out the blackened remains.

She managed to cook the rest of the meal without burning anything else, and it was devoured quickly and in silence, and then they all set out on their next rounds, leaving Glyn alone.

On most days this moment filled her with relief and a little envy.  Relief at the quiet; the short but definite respite before dinner when she would clean the dishes, the pots and pans, then set about her own morning chores.  The envy was for the cowboy’s job.  She longed to ride with them.  It was hard work, especially this time of year with the cold.  But it was outdoors on horseback, across the plains, the cold biting your lungs, the landscape stark and beautiful.  Rounding up, fixing up, and surveying the creatures and fields they’d been looking after all their lives.  She longed to be one of them, but even caretakers need caretakers.  And that was her job.  If she didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.
[excerpt from The Rancher's Wife, originally published at Blue Penny Quarterly]