One cookhouse that smelled as though several generations of grease had formed a territorial government.
Molded bread.
Rancid beans.
Flies.
A stove coated in soot.
Knives dull enough to insult vegetables.
Hattie stood in the doorway.
Jeb waited.
Finally:
“Well?”
She turned.
“When did your last cook die?”
“He didn’t.”
“That is disappointing.”
Jeb laughed.
“Higgins ran.”
“Why?”
“Men threatened to throw him in the horse trough.”
Hattie looked inside again.
“Reasonable.”
Several ranch hands gathered outside.
One whispered something.
Another laughed.
Hattie ignored them until a lanky cowboy named Wyatt stepped forward.
He was twenty-six.
Too confident.
Too skinny.
Always smiling when he should not.
“Boss.”
Jeb looked at him.
Wyatt nodded toward Hattie.
“You bring us a cook or the whole butcher shop?”
The men erupted.
Jeb’s hand moved toward his belt.
Hattie was faster.
She walked inside.
Came back carrying the largest cast-iron skillet she could find.
Then slammed it against the porch post.
The crack silenced every man.
Hattie held it at shoulder height.
“My name is Mrs. Coulter.”
Thirty men watched.
“I weigh two hundred eighty pounds.”
Wyatt swallowed.
“And every ounce of it knows more about feeding hungry men than you do.”
Nobody laughed.
“First man who jokes about my waist doesn’t eat.”
She raised the skillet slightly.
“Second man gets introduced to this.”
Wyatt removed his hat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Hattie pointed toward the wash trough.
“Dinner at six.”
“Wash your hands.”
For the next four hours, Iron Ridge Ranch witnessed an occupation.
Hattie threw out spoiled food.
Scrubbed counters.
Sharpened knives.
Ordered two ranch hands to haul water.
Sent another for onions.
Found salted pork.
A quartered elk.
Potatoes.
Dried sage.
Pepper.
Molasses.
Flour.
Lard.
Jeb entered once.
Hattie handed him a broom.
He stared.
“You know this is my ranch?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Your ranch is dirty.”
He swept.
At six exactly, Hattie struck the triangle.
Thirty starving men arrived.
Steam rolled from a pot of thick elk stew.
Roasted potatoes filled two pans.
Biscuits covered the table.
Brown gravy smelled like something half the crew had forgotten existed.
Nobody joked.
Nobody talked much at all.
Forks.
Spoons.
Tin plates.
That was it.
Jeb stood near the doorway watching.
For months, Iron Ridge had felt like a place waiting to die.
Men argued.
Work slowed.
Equipment broke and stayed broken.
Meals became another complaint.
Then, for twenty minutes, everyone ate.
At the end, Wyatt approached Hattie carrying an empty plate.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
He removed his hat.
“Mrs. Coulter.”
“Wyatt.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me several.”
The crew laughed.