“Depends on the buyer.”
“If I sell to you?”
“I keep running my land. Probably combine grazing.”
“And the workers?”
“I keep most.”
“Most.”
The rancher nodded honestly.
“Some positions overlap.”
“And the house?”
“Whatever you want.”
The cook looked toward the kitchen.
Then the porch where she had eaten bread.
“No.”
The rancher did not argue.
She stood.
“I don't want out.”
A slow smile appeared on his face.
“Good.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You wanted the ranch.”
“I wanted you to decide before anyone convinced you that you couldn't handle it.”
The cook looked back at the ash.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
His certainty irritated her.
“You answered too quickly.”
“I've watched you manage half of it for years.”
“That was kitchen work.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
The rancher leaned against the desk.
“Who told the late owner the winter hay purchase was short?”
The cook said nothing.
“Who caught the feed merchant charging twice for the same wagon?”
She remembered.
“Who warned everyone the lower bridge would wash out?”
She looked away.
“Who kept three hired men from leaving during the influenza winter because you made sure their families had food?”
The cook's throat tightened.
The rancher continued.
“Who could tell you right now how many sacks of flour are in the pantry?”
“Six full. One open.”
“How many sides of bacon?”
“Eleven.”
“How many breeding cows?”
She hesitated.
“Eighty-three unless the foreman sold more without recording them.”
The rancher nodded.
“You've been managing this ranch for years. They just called it cooking because that made everyone comfortable.”
The cook stared.
No one had ever put it that way.
The rancher gathered the burned scraps.
“Tomorrow we find the books.”
“How?”
“We begin with the people who think you're too foolish to look.”
The next morning, the patriarch's family packed.
Not gracefully.
Trunks thudded down stairs.
Children cried.
Adults muttered.
The patriarch refused breakfast.
His daughter-in-law came into the kitchen alone.
The cook was making coffee.
“I am sorry.”
The cook did not turn.
“For what part?”
The woman flinched.
“Yesterday.”
“That is broad.”
“For not saying anything.”
The cook placed grounds into the pot.
The daughter-in-law continued.
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My father-in-law frightens people.”
The cook looked over.
“He frightens me too.”
The woman seemed surprised.
The cook continued.
“Courage does not mean you weren't frightened.”
The daughter-in-law lowered her eyes.
“I know.”
“No. You know now.”
The words were sharper than the cook intended.
She sighed.
“I'm sorry.”
“You don't owe me comfort.”
“No.”
The daughter-in-law looked toward the doorway.