The pot hit the center of the table with a heavy wooden thud.
Nobody spoke.
Steam rose slowly through the lantern light, carrying the smell of beef, onions, potatoes, pepper, and something green Wyatt Calder could not identify.
Twelve hungry ranch hands went completely still.
That alone was remarkable.
These were men who had spent the entire afternoon arguing about fence posts, cattle prices, the weather, horses, women, government land policy, and whose turn it was to clean the bunkhouse stove.
Silence was not among their natural talents.
Avalene Calder stood beside the enormous black cooking pot with a ladle in one hand.
She looked nervous.
Most people probably would not have noticed.
Her face remained composed.
Her brown hair had been pinned into a practical braided bun.
Her charcoal-gray dress was covered by a plain cream apron, though a streak of flour still marked one sleeve.
But Wyatt saw the way she gripped the ladle.
He had known her only three days.
He was already learning where she hid fear.
Higgins, the foreman, stared into the pot.
“What is it?”
Avalene looked at him.
“Stew.”
Dobs leaned sideways for a better look.
“That ain't bunkhouse stew.”
Avalene frowned.
“What is bunkhouse stew?”
Halfpint answered immediately.
“Water with regrets.”
Several men laughed.
Higgins pointed his spoon at the youngest ranch hand.
“Show some respect.”
Then Higgins looked at Avalene.
“He ain't wrong.”
Wyatt stood at the head of the table.
His hat remained on because he was too tired to remember he was indoors.
He had spent ten hours working the western fence where spring runoff had softened three posts enough that thirty cattle had discovered freedom.
His shoulders hurt.
His hands were cracked.
He had eaten a cold piece of bread for lunch.
The smell coming from Avalene’s pot felt almost unfair.
He sat.
The others followed.
Nobody moved.
Wyatt looked at them.
“What?”
Higgins cleared his throat.
“Waiting on you.”
Wyatt understood.
His mother had always said grace.
After she died, nobody had officially taken over.
Sometimes Higgins did it.
Sometimes Wyatt.
Sometimes everyone simply began eating before admitting they had forgotten.
Wyatt removed his hat.
The table quieted again.
“Lord, thank you for this food.”
He hesitated.
His eyes moved toward Avalene.
She stood near the pot rather than taking the empty chair beside him.
“And for the hands that made it.”
Avalene lowered her eyes.
“Amen.”
The men repeated it.
Then the ranch house became dangerous.
Twelve spoons moved toward the pot almost simultaneously.
“Easy,” Higgins warned.
“I have another pot,” Avalene said.
Every head turned.
Halfpint looked ready to cry.
Wyatt almost smiled.
Bowls filled.
Bread passed.
Metal spoons scraped against enamel.
For the first minute, nobody said anything.
Wyatt took one bite.
Then another.
The beef had been cooked until it barely needed chewing.
Potatoes had absorbed the gravy.
Carrots were sweet.
There was enough black pepper to warm the mouth without hiding anything.
The green flavor came from dried thyme.
His mother had used thyme.
Wyatt stopped.
For one terrible second, the dining room disappeared.
He was twenty-five again.
His mother was standing beside the stove.
His father was alive.
Rain struck the windows.
There were only seven ranch hands then.
His mother was telling everyone to leave room for pie.
Then the memory passed.
Wyatt set down his spoon.
Slowly.
Avalene saw him.
Something in her face tightened.
“You don't like it?”
Every ranch hand looked at Wyatt.
Dobs actually stopped chewing.
Wyatt looked at his wife.
“It’s good.”
Avalene waited.
Wyatt had the strange sensation that those two words mattered too much.
So he added:
“Very good.”
Higgins lowered his spoon.
“Mrs. Calder.”
Avalene looked at him.
“I have worked on this ranch twenty-two years.”
“Yes?”
“I ate your mother-in-law’s cooking.”
Wyatt looked at him sharply.
Higgins ignored him.
“I thought when she passed, the Lord had decided this ranch had eaten enough decent meals.”
A few men nodded solemnly.
Avalene did not know whether to laugh.