“How do I feed them?”
“Reduce herd consumption by moving the weaker non-breeding animals first.”
“To market?”
“To smokehouse.”
His eyes lifted.
Margaret continued.
“Butcher selectively.”
“Preserve properly.”
“Render every ounce of fat.”
“Keep bones.”
“Trade hides.”
“Dry whatever vegetables remain.”
“Repair the cellar.”
“Measure portions.”
“Record everything.”
Elias stared at her.
“How much?”
Margaret slid another page forward.
He read.
Then again.
“That’s less than I expected.”
“Because you don’t need more money yet.”
“What do I need?”
Margaret met his eyes.
“Discipline.”
A man like Elias Blackwood was not accustomed to being told he lacked discipline.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Margaret wondered whether she had crossed too far.
Then he pulled out the chair opposite.
“Show me.”
Respect arrived before affection.
Margaret trusted it more.
For two weeks, Black Hollow transformed.
The smokehouse became her first campaign.
Outside beneath the eaves, strips of beef hung at measured distances.
Heat lowered.
Airflow improved.
Salt recorded.
Dates written.
No guessing.
At the butcher’s table, Margaret worked beside men who initially looked at her large hands as though they could not imagine them capable of precision.
They learned.
She could separate fat by quality with two cuts.
She could calculate portions in her head.
She knew which bones made broth and which produced poor flavor.
She ordered organs saved.
Nothing wasted.
One morning, Ben Mercer watched her fill a crock with rendered fat.
“Never seen anybody run a kitchen like a bank.”
Margaret kept ladling.
“Most men think kitchens run on recipes.”
“They don’t?”
“They run on arithmetic.”
Elias heard from across the table.
He smiled.
Not much.
Enough that Margaret noticed.
The ranch men began gaining strength.
Bowls became thicker.
Bread returned every other day.
Dried vegetables appeared in stew.
Work pace improved.
Caleb stopped giving away his entire meal.
He still slipped bread to younger hands.
Margaret allowed it once he ate his own portion first.
Her reputation changed.
At Pine Ridge, people who had laughed began asking questions.
“Is it true Black Hollow has meat hanging wall to wall?”
“Is it true she found two hundred dollars missing from the feed accounts?”
“Is it true she can make soup from bones already boiled once?”
The answers were exaggerated.
Mostly.
Margaret did not care.
What she cared about was the way Elias began coming into the kitchen after everyone slept.
Not for food.
For the ledger.
At least that was what both pretended.
They sat across from each other at the long table.
Oil lamp between them.
Numbers.
Sacks.
Weights.
Sometimes their hands met reaching for the same page.
The first time, Elias moved away quickly.
The second, Margaret did.
The third, neither did.
Nothing happened.
That was the problem.
The air simply changed.
One night Elias looked toward her.
Margaret had been adding figures.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
He looked at the ledger.
“Winter.”
Margaret smiled.
“Coward.”
His eyes returned to hers.
Something dark and warm moved through them.
She immediately looked down.
Not because she disliked it.
Because she liked it too much.
Three days later, the smokehouse table became impossible.
The afternoon sun lay bright over the yard.
Mountain ridges sharp against blue.
Meat hung beneath the timber eaves.