Jared felt something move inside him that he had not allowed himself to feel for months.
Hope.
Within two weeks, Ironwood changed.
Martha showed the men how to boil brine into salt.
They repaired the smokehouse chimney.
They constructed racks.
Jared traded three horses for two half-starved hogs and a wagonload of bruised produce.
The hogs were fattened on scraps that merchants were happy to give away.
Martha smoked rabbit, venison, fish, and pork.
She experimented until the meat could survive days in a saddlebag without spoiling.
Then she made Billy take samples into Oak Haven.
The first order came from a mining camp twenty-seven miles west.
Thirty pounds.
The second came from a stagecoach station.
Fifty.
Then a hotelkeeper bought one hundred pounds.
The following week a railroad supply agent tasted Martha’s peppered smoked venison and asked,
“How much can you produce?”
Martha answered without blinking.
“How much can you buy?”
The man smiled.
That evening, she showed Jared a piece of paper.
He read the figure twice.
“Three hundred pounds a week?”
“For twelve weeks.”
“We can’t fill that.”
“We can.”
“With what cattle?”
“We don’t slaughter your cattle.”
“Then where does the meat come from?”
“Hunters.”
Martha had already thought of it.
Small farmers and hunters throughout the county were killing deer, rabbit, elk, and hogs but lacked reliable markets.
Ironwood could buy from them cheaply, cure the meat, and sell it at a premium to mines, freight companies, and railroad crews.
Jared slowly looked toward the smokehouse.
Its chimney released a thin blue ribbon into the evening sky.
“You planned this from the beginning.”
“No.”
“But you knew—”
“I knew food.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking.”
She met his gaze.
For a heartbeat, Jared saw something in her face.
Fear.
Then it disappeared.
“I knew hungry men,” she said quietly. “That was enough.”
Grant Fletcher arrived three days later.
His black carriage looked absurd among Ironwood’s battered wagons.
He stepped down wearing a charcoal suit, silver watch chain, polished boots, and the smile of a man inspecting something he believed already belonged to him.
Grant was fifty-eight, handsome in a cold way, with iron-gray hair and pale eyes.
Jared met him in the yard.
“You’re early.”
“Am I?”
“Payment isn’t due until November fifteenth.”
Grant smiled.
“I enjoy seeing my investments.”
His eyes moved toward the smokehouse.
Men were carrying sacks inside.
“Busy suddenly.”
“We’ve found another line of business.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Something about his tone made Jared uneasy.
Then Martha emerged from the ranch house carrying a ledger.
She stopped.
Grant Fletcher stopped too.
For one strange second, neither moved.
Jared noticed the blood drain from Martha’s face.
Grant’s smile vanished.
“Martha.”
Jared turned sharply.
“You know her?”
Martha’s fingers tightened around the ledger.
Grant recovered first.
“Of course. Miss Higgins lived in Denver for a time.”
Martha spoke in a voice Jared had never heard before.
“Mr. Fletcher.”
Grant took one step closer.
“I was told you’d gone east.”
“I did.”
“And now you’ve returned.”
“Yes.”
“Married?”
Martha’s chin lifted.
Grant looked at Jared.
Something almost amused flickered behind his eyes.
“Well.”
He adjusted his cuff.
“That is unexpected.”
Jared felt suddenly excluded from his own yard.
“How do you two know each other?”
Martha answered first.
“I kept books for one of his companies.”
Grant smiled again.
“Briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“Long enough to learn that figures tell stories men would rather keep secret,” Martha said.
Silence.
Grant’s eyes hardened.
Then he laughed.
“Well, Sanders, perhaps you’ve acquired something useful after all.”
Martha flinched.
Jared stepped forward.
“You’ll speak respectfully to my wife on my land.”
Grant’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Interest.
“Your wife.”
“Yes.”
Grant studied Jared for several seconds.
Then he looked at Martha.
