“I didn’t travel eighty miles to run home.”
“We’ll see.”
Then he opened the kitchen door.
And Evelyn discovered why four cooks might have abandoned Thorn Ridge.
Grease covered the stove.
Broken plates lay beneath cabinets.
The wash basin overflowed with dishes.
Blackened pans had been thrown into corners.
Flour, bones, ashes, potato peelings and substances Evelyn preferred not to identify coated almost every surface.
A dead mouse lay inside a bread bowl.
The smell could have frightened vultures.
Men gathered behind her.
Waiting.
Evelyn said nothing.
She placed her mother’s recipe book on the cleanest corner available.
Rolled up her sleeves.
And reached for a bucket.
That was when somebody muttered from the doorway:
“Another Harper fool.”
Evelyn stopped.
She turned.
And found Boone Mercer staring at her.
That was how it began.
For the next six hours Evelyn scrubbed.
Nobody helped at first.
So she began throwing things out the door.
Pans.
Broken chairs.
Rotten food.
A boot.
Three empty whiskey bottles.
One dead rat.
Finally a skillet sailed through the doorway and struck cowboy Samuel Pike squarely in the shin.
He yelped.
Evelyn appeared behind it.
“If you’re standing there doing nothing, you can carry water.”
The men laughed.
Pike stared at her.
Then, astonishingly, picked up two buckets.
By sunset, five cowboys were working.
By nightfall, the kitchen smelled of soap instead of decay.
At seven-thirty, Evelyn set dinner on the tables.
Beef stew.
Fresh biscuits.
Fried potatoes.
Apple preserves she had brought from home.
Twenty-one men sat down.
Nobody spoke after the first bite.
Evelyn stood near the stove.
“Well?”
A cowboy named Red Morgan closed his eyes.
“Ma’am, if anybody makes you leave, I’ll shoot him.”
Laughter exploded through the room.
Even Dawson smiled.
Only Boone remained silent.
He sat at the end of the table, watching her.
After dinner, he approached the stove.
Evelyn tensed.
Boone removed his hat.
“Your father ever talk about this place?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then somebody made sure of that.”
Before Evelyn could question him, Jack Holloway entered.
Jack was younger than Dawson, perhaps thirty-two, with dark hair, gray eyes, and an easy manner that contrasted sharply with the ranch owner’s severity.
“Boone.”
Again.
That warning.
Boone put on his hat.
As he passed Evelyn, he whispered:
“Keep that book close.”
Then he left.
Jack watched him go.
“Don’t let Boone frighten you.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Should.”
Evelyn turned.
“Why?”
Jack smiled.
“Because everybody else is.”
During the following week, Thorn Ridge began to change.
Men appeared at meals early.
Boots were scraped before entering.
Someone repaired the broken kitchen window without being asked.
Pike built Evelyn a shelf.
Red Morgan found wildflowers near the creek and put them in a tin cup on her table, then denied all knowledge of them.
Even Dawson’s attitude softened.
