Then:
“Boss ordered himself a winter cushion.”
Several men laughed.
The ranch owner turned.
Silence hit the yard instantly.
The woman stepped forward before he spoke.
“Which one of you cooks?”
Nobody answered.
She looked around.
“Which one?”
A ranch hand pointed toward another man.
The second man looked betrayed.
“He did today.”
The woman nodded.
“Good.”
She walked toward him.
“What did you make?”
“Beans.”
“For supper?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Coffee.”
The woman looked toward the ranch owner.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
He pointed toward the house.
She lifted her carpetbag.
“I’ll need the pantry keys.”
The foreman spoke.
“I keep those.”
The woman turned toward him.
“Then bring them.”
His eyebrows lifted.
The ranch owner almost smiled.
The woman entered the house.
The ranch owner followed.
The kitchen stopped her dead.
A cracked sack of flour leaned against the wall.
Grease coated half the stove.
A basket of potatoes contained several rotten ones.
Dishes sat in cloudy water.
Salt pork hung too close to heat.
Two onions had sprouted.
Mice had found one grain bin.
The woman looked slowly around.
“You weren’t exaggerating.”
“No.”
“You live like this?”
“I sleep here.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
The ranch owner accepted the insult.
Fair.
The foreman arrived with keys.
The woman opened the pantry.
Then stopped.
Shelves nearly empty.
Beans.
Dried apples.
Salt.
Coffee.
Cornmeal.
Several potatoes.
Three onions.
Half a sack of flour.
A small piece of beef.
She turned.
“When did supplies arrive?”
“Tuesday.”
“Today is Thursday.”
“Yes.”
The woman stared.
“This pantry was filled Tuesday?”
The foreman shrugged.
“Supposed to be.”
“According to who?”
“Invoice.”
The woman looked toward the ranch owner.
“Where?”
“What?”
“The invoice.”
The foreman answered.
“Office.”
The woman closed the pantry.
“Bring it.”
The foreman did not move.
The ranch owner looked at him.
“Bring it.”
The older man left.
The woman opened a second cupboard.
Found marrow bones.
Some dried herbs.
Two jars of preserved tomatoes.
She began pulling things out.
The ranch owner watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeding your men.”
“With what?”
She looked at him.
“What you have.”
Within an hour, the kitchen changed.
Not transformed.
Organized.
The woman put the sound flour aside.
Discarded what was spoiled.
Started stock with marrow bones.
Cut the last beef thin.
Added onions.
Potatoes.
Tomatoes.
Beans.
Seasoning.
Cornmeal became thick cakes fried in bacon fat she found saved in a crock.
She sent one ranch hand to bring carrots from a root cellar.
Another for milk.
A third for firewood.
None argued after she handed them tasks as though she had been doing it for years.