Something in her tone changed the air.
Not because it was loud.
Because it contained no uncertainty.
Wendell looked toward Gideon.
“Boss?”
Gideon glanced at Martha.
Three days married.
He barely knew her.
He should probably have intervened.
Instead he remembered eating Wendell’s half-raw biscuits that morning.
“You heard my wife.”
Wendell stared as though Gideon had shot him.
“After eleven years?”
“You’ve been drunk three times this week.”
“Four,” Martha corrected.
Everyone looked at her.
She shrugged.
“I count.”
Wendell grabbed his hat.
“You’ll starve without me.”
Martha stepped into the cookhouse.
“No.”
She tied on an apron.
“We won’t.”
Then she opened the carpetbag she had carried from St. Louis.
For the first time, Gideon understood why it had been so heavy.
Inside were small waxed packets.
Peppercorns.
Dried sage.
Thyme.
Mustard seed.
Cinnamon.
Nutmeg.
Dried apples.
Honey.
Coffee beans.
Cloves.
Dried onions.
Preserved lemon peel.
Several stoppered bottles.
Elias stared.
“Ma’am… were you planning to open a restaurant?”
Martha rolled up her sleeves.
“I was planning not to eat badly.”
Then she looked at the men gathered outside.
“You.”
She pointed at Sam Boyd.
Sam looked behind himself.
“Me?”
“How many deer did you bring in yesterday?”
“Two.”
“Bring me the backstraps.”
She pointed at another man.
“You—potatoes.”
Another.
“Wood.”
Another.
“Get those onions before they rot.”
Within ten minutes the cookhouse had transformed.
Knives chopped.
Fire crackled.
Bread dough rose beneath cloth.
Venison browned in iron pans with onions, sage, and cracked pepper.
Potatoes simmered.
Bones roasted for gravy.
Martha mixed dried apples with honey, cinnamon, and a handful of something Gideon couldn’t identify.
At first the men watched for entertainment.
Then the smell began drifting across the ranch.
By four o’clock, nobody was talking about leaving.
By five, cowboys invented reasons to pass the cookhouse windows.
At six, Martha rang the dinner bell.
Thirty men practically stampeded through the door.
The meal silenced them.
Not immediately.
At first there were chairs scraping, plates filling, forks clattering.
Then quiet.
Complete quiet.
Men ate.
Venison tender enough to cut with a fork.
Potatoes roasted in dripping and herbs.
Bread with golden crust and soft centers.
Thick gravy.
Beans with molasses and mustard.
And finally apple cobbler served steaming from cast-iron skillets.
Elias Boone took one bite of cobbler and closed his eyes.
“Lord.”
Someone laughed.
Another cowboy whispered, “I ain’t tasted anything this good since my mother died.”
Gideon looked toward Martha.
She stood near the stove, arms folded, pretending not to hear.
But he noticed her swallow.
The Mercer brothers unpacked their saddles that evening.
Sam Boyd decided Taggart’s wages could wait.
Tillman asked whether breakfast would involve biscuits.
Martha said yes.
He announced he was staying.
It should have been a perfect victory.
Then Jebediah Rust leaned back in his chair.
Jebediah was twenty-eight, handsome in the careless way that had allowed him to forgive himself for being cruel.
He had been with Red Canyon only nine months.
