The granddaughter wrote from Helena asking whether she and her mother could attend.
The cook stared at the letter.
The patriarch's daughter-in-law had separated from her husband after the trial.
She had taken the children and found work in town.
The cook wrote back.
Yes.
They arrived the morning of the feast.
The granddaughter was taller.
She ran toward the cook, then stopped abruptly.
“Can I hug you?”
The cook smiled.
“Yes.”
The child hugged as much of her as she could.
The mother approached more slowly.
“Thank you.”
“You warned me.”
“I should have done more.”
The cook looked at her.
“You did what you could when you finally chose to.”
The woman nodded.
They went inside.
The dining room had changed.
The long table remained.
But every chair was sturdy.
Some broad.
Some narrow.
Two had arms.
Several did not.
A bench ran along one wall.
Another table stood nearby for children.
No one chair looked more important than the rest.
The late owner's head chair remained.
But it was no longer at the head.
The cook had placed it halfway down the table.
The rancher noticed.
“Why there?”
She looked at the chair.
“Because I no longer need furniture to prove ownership.”
He smiled.
“That's annoyingly wise.”
“You'll survive.”
He hesitated.
“I brought something.”
The cook looked suspicious.
“What?”
He handed her a small wooden box.
Inside was a carved spoon.
Nothing expensive.
Beautifully made.
She looked up.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“It is crooked.”
The rancher looked offended.
“It is handmade.”
“Crooked by hand.”
He tried not to smile.
She ran one finger along the carving.
“Thank you.”
The rancher shifted.
“There is more.”
“Oh?”
He looked toward the room.
People were still outside.
For once they were alone.
“I've been trying to decide how to ask something.”
The cook's heart changed rhythm.
She pretended to inspect the spoon.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Probably.”
He sat opposite her.
“I do not want your ranch.”
She looked up.
“I know.”
“I do not want your money.”
“I know.”
“I don't want to run your house.”
“That is fortunate.”
“I don't even particularly want your coffee.”
She laughed.
The rancher smiled nervously.
“But I find I want to be wherever you're making it.”
The cook stopped laughing.
He continued.
“I want mornings where you tell me my accounts are wrong.”
“They are.”
“I want evenings where you complain about my boots by the door.”
“They're filthy.”
“I want you telling me not to fix things until you ask.”
“That took you months to learn.”
“I am slow.”
The cook's eyes filled.
The rancher looked at his hands.