Elias looked forward again.
“Thirty-two sacks flour.”
“How many men?”
“Twenty-two ranch hands.”
Margaret nearly laughed.
“That is not enough.”
“I know.”
“Beans?”
“Twelve sacks.”
“Salt?”
“Plenty.”
“Dried meat?”
“Some.”
“Root cellar?”
“Needs work.”
“Smokehouse?”
“Needs more.”
Margaret folded her hands.
“You’re in trouble.”
Elias’s jaw moved.
“I know that too.”
“Why did you write for a wife instead of a foreman?”
“I already have a foreman.”
“Then why did you write?”
He did not answer immediately.
Wind moved dust across the road.
Finally:
“Because the ranch house has been empty for nine years.”
Margaret looked at him.
He kept his eyes on the horses.
She understood there was another answer beneath that one.
She did not ask.
Black Hollow Ranch appeared beyond a low ridge.
Margaret expected something smaller.
The property spread across miles of dry grass.
Long timber house.
Smokehouse.
Bunkhouse.
Barn.
Two corrals.
Equipment sheds.
A small orchard trying desperately to survive the heat.
Men moved slowly through the yard.
Too slowly.
Hunger makes strong men economical.
Margaret saw that before the wagon stopped.
The ranch hands came to look.
One whistled quietly before another elbowed him.
Margaret ignored both.
Elias unloaded the trunk.
“You can rest.”
“No.”
“You traveled four days.”
“I sat four days.”
She looked toward the house.
“Show me the kitchen.”
He frowned.
“Now?”
“Unless you plan to feed twenty-two men dust.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Inside, Margaret understood why Black Hollow was failing.
Not immediately.
Immediately, she saw a respectable kitchen.
Large stove.
Long worktable.
Pantry.
Shelves.
Barrels.
Hooks.
Several cast-iron pots.
Then she began opening things.
The first flour sack was tied badly.
The second showed insects near the seam.
The third had been placed against a damp wall.
Margaret turned.
Elias stood behind her.
“Who stores flour here?”
“Cook quit.”
“When?”
“Three months.”
“Who replaced him?”
“Men take turns.”
“That explains the crime scene.”
His eyebrow rose.
Margaret moved on.
Potatoes.
Half rotting because they had been stacked without airflow.
Onions stored too close to moisture.
Dried beans in a barrel without a proper lid.
Three jars with loose seals.
A crock of rendered fat already sour.
She opened the smokehouse.
Then stopped.
“Dear God.”
Elias stiffened.
Good beef hung blackened at the edges.
Heat had been too high.
Several pieces had hardened outside while remaining improperly cured within.
Waste.
Terrible waste.
Margaret turned.
“Who smoked this?”
“Caleb.”
A young ranch hand near the door straightened.
“I did exactly what Mr. Mercer told me.”
Margaret looked at the older man beside him.
Foreman.
Gray beard.
Tired eyes.
Ben Mercer.
He raised both hands.