“Feelings are not bookkeeping.”
That sentence irritated him for two days.
Then he rode to Oak Haven himself.
He returned after dark.
Hattie was closing the pantry.
Jeb entered.
Face hard.
“You were right.”
She waited.
“Feed price is nearly half.”
Hattie nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Valley Transit owns the contract.”
“Who owns Valley Transit?”
“Nathaniel Barrows.”
That name filled the room.
Barrows.
Jeb’s rival.
His would-be buyer.
The man who had offered to purchase Iron Ridge twice in the last year.
Both offers were insulting.
Jeb had refused.
Hattie asked:
“Why does Clem buy from him?”
Jeb did not answer.
Not because he could not.
Because he did not like the possible answer.
The next morning, Hattie inspected the new grain delivery.
One sack smelled wrong.
She opened it.
Dark kernels.
Discoloration.
Fungal growth.
Hattie called Jeb.
He came.
“What?”
She held out grain.
“Don’t feed this.”
“Why?”
“Ergot.”
Jeb stared.
“You sure?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
Her husband’s freight business had carried grain.
She had seen contaminated rye and feed make animals sick.
Jeb called one of the older hands.
The man confirmed it.
The shipment could have damaged the remuda.
Winter without healthy horses would cripple Iron Ridge.
Jeb stood very still.
His voice dropped.
“Clem ordered this.”
Hattie looked at him.
“Yes.”
“He knew?”
“We don’t know.”
“I’ll ask.”
“No.”
Jeb turned.
“What?”
“You confront him now, what happens?”
“He tells me.”
“If he’s innocent, perhaps.”
“And if he’s guilty?”
Jeb’s hand moved toward his belt.
“He tells me eventually.”
Hattie stepped close.
“You shoot everybody you distrust?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because I don’t cook for corpses.”
Despite himself, Jeb smiled.
Then stopped.
“What do you suggest?”
“Proof.”
He looked at her differently.
Not cook.
Not employee.
Partner.
That changed something in him.
Hattie saw it.
So did the men.
Over the following week, Jeb found reasons to enter the cookhouse more often.
He claimed coffee.
Hattie knew he could pour coffee himself.
He claimed to inspect meat inventory.
He knew nothing about kitchen inventory.
He stood near her while she cooked.
Watched her knead dough.
Watched her command the room.
Sometimes simply watched.
One afternoon, Hattie caught him.
She stood beside a pot of stew outside the cookhouse, skillet in one hand.
Jeb leaned against a post.
Arms crossed.
Hat low.
Looking directly at her.
Hattie placed one hand on her hip.
“If you keep staring like that, Mr. Callahan, your men are going to forget there’s supper.”
Several ranch hands at the table behind them immediately pretended they had heard nothing.
Jeb did not look away.
“Let them starve five minutes.”
Hattie’s eyebrows rose.
Jeb stepped closer.
“I’ve spent three weeks pretending I hired you only for the cooking.”