Wyatt nodded solemnly.
“Finest supper I’ve eaten in years.”
Hattie held out the plate.
“You asking for seconds?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Apology accepted.”
Something changed after that.
Not everything.
Ranches did not recover because of biscuits.
But men worked differently when supper mattered.
They came in on time.
They washed.
They stopped stealing food from the pantry because Hattie made it clear thieves could cook their own meals.
The cookhouse became a center.
News traveled through it.
Arguments softened there.
Injuries were noticed.
Fatigue became visible.
Hattie learned thirty names before Jeb expected her to.
Then thirty appetites.
Wyatt hated cooked carrots but ate them because she watched him.
Old Amos could not chew tough meat.
She cut his portion smaller without announcing why.
A young hand named Eli sent half his wages to his mother and often skipped breakfast to save supplies.
Hattie found out and began leaving “extra” biscuits where he could discover them without embarrassment.
Jeb saw all of it.
He also saw things he had missed.
Men with cracked boots.
A leaking bunkhouse roof.
Two horses losing condition despite the amount he supposedly spent on grain.
That last part mattered.
Hattie noticed first.
One evening she watched the remuda feeding.
Then walked into Jeb’s office.
He sat over the books.
“Your horses are thin.”
He looked up.
“Dry year.”
“You bought enough grain.”
“So?”
“So they should not be thin.”
Jeb leaned back.
“You telling me how to feed horses now?”
Hattie placed both hands on his desk.
“I’m telling you numbers.”
He looked down.
She had brought his monthly accounts.
“Three hundred and eighty dollars in grain.”
“Yes.”
“Again the next month.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“What’s your point?”
“You’re paying nearly twice what Oak Haven charges.”
Jeb frowned.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Clem buys wholesale.”
“Then your wholesale man is robbing you.”
Jeb’s expression darkened.
“Careful.”
Hattie met his eyes.
“I am being careful.”
“Who handles feed?”
“Clem.”
“Who checks invoices?”
“Me.”
“Against what?”
He went silent.
Hattie nodded.
“Exactly.”
Jeb stood.
“He’s been with me nine years.”
“That is not a number.”
“He kept this ranch together after my father died.”
“Still not a number.”
Jeb’s jaw tightened.
Hattie remained calm.
“I am not telling you Clem is stealing.”
“I’m telling you your grain costs are wrong.”
“That deserves checking.”
Jeb hated it.
She could see that.
Not because he disliked truth.
Because checking someone you trusted felt like betrayal before any betrayal had been proven.
Hattie understood.
Her husband had taught her that.
Before cholera took him, he owned a freight company in St. Louis.
Small.
Respectable.
Hattie kept the accounts.
Once, a driver accused another of stealing.
Her husband wanted the man fired immediately.
Hattie checked the ledger.
The money was missing because a client paid into the wrong account.
No theft.
No ruined livelihood.
Numbers had protected an innocent man.
Another time, numbers had done the opposite.
A clerk everyone liked had been quietly taking cash for eleven months.
Hattie found that too.
She told Jeb:
“Checking is not accusation.”
Jeb looked at her.
“It feels like it.”