This is only part of the story, I haven't finished it yet. This is also my first story so please critique as much as needed.

Vashoa stared out over the large space, empty, except for some shrubs and rivers she called home. She had lived on the prairies of South Dakota since she was a baby, all fifteen hard years of her life.

Vashoa started back to the old, ramshackle farmhouse where she dwelt with her ma and grandma. They couldn't do all the chores themselves, not with grandma almost ninety-five and ma with a baby on the way. There was plowing, planting, trading, milking, churning, and feeding the animals to be done. She sighed, wishing there was someone to ease the long hours, someone to laugh and play with in spare time. But there was no one. The nearest town was a days journey away, she couldn't abandon her duties just to talk and see sights. Reaching the door, she paused to collect her thoughts. Then, grabbing the cold handle, she pushed into the house.

Instantly, Vashoa was met with the smell of bread. Ma must be baking already, she thought. She grabbed the milk pail and stool and headed out to the barn. She settled herself down to the steady plink of the milk hitting the pail. When the pail was full, she lugged it back to the house and pored some of it into the churn and skimmed the rest.

Pumping the churn up and down, Vashoa tried to remember the last time she had seen her pa. Unless she counted dreams, she hadn't seen him since she was seven, after the burial. Her pa had gone hunting, when an unexpected blizzard blew through. It lasted three months, so terrible, she couldn't see a lantern a foot away. Spring had come at last, much to everybody's relief. But pa hadn't. Two years later, another hunter had found him, dead, rifle in hand, with bear wounds on him. Ever since then, Vashoa, who was his "hunting helper", had hunted to feed the family. Finishing the butter, she put it on a platter and salted it, then put it in the icebox. Time to feed the animals, and gather the eggs.