She could have taken meat.
Vegetables.
Gravy.
Nobody had forbidden it.
But suddenly touching the feast felt impossible.
She turned toward the door.
The dining room seemed to expand around her.
She became aware of every step.
Every creak beneath her.
Every breath.
Every pair of eyes pretending not to watch.
As she reached the doorway, the patriarch said to someone beside him, not quite quietly enough:
“At least the porch won't break.”
Laughter followed.
The cook kept walking.
If she turned around, she might say something she could never retrieve.
If she stayed, they would see her cry.
She refused them that.
The front door was heavy.
Cold air struck her immediately.
Snow had begun again.
Fine, dry flakes drifted across the porch.
The cook had not brought her coat.
Her apron and wool dress offered little protection.
Going upstairs meant passing the dining room again.
She could not.
Not yet.
A broad low bench stood against the log wall.
The late owner had commissioned that too.
The cook lowered herself carefully.
The wood was freezing.
Her breathing was heavier than usual.
She rested the plate across her lap.
Behind her, through the dining room window, twenty people began eating.
She heard knives against plates.
Glasses clinking.
Someone praising the venison.
Someone asking for more gravy.
A child laughing.
Warm yellow light filled the room.
The cook stared at two slices of bread.
She had kneaded them before sunrise.
Her hands had shaped them.
She tore off a piece.
Tried to swallow.
Could not.
Tears finally came.
She wiped them away quickly.
There was nobody on the porch to see.
At least she thought there wasn't.
Then boots crunched across the yard.
The cook looked up.
A man emerged through the falling snow.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair under a weathered hat.
Short brown beard.
Heavy charcoal coat.
Leather gloves.
He carried a saddlebag in one hand and a packet tucked beneath his opposite arm.
The neighboring rancher had been gone for nearly three weeks.
The late owner's oldest friend.
He stopped halfway to the porch.
His gaze landed on the cook.
Then the plate.
Then the window behind her.
The warmth left his face.
He climbed the steps.
“What happened?”
The cook looked down.
“Nothing.”
He glanced through the window.
The patriarch was carving another slice of venison.
“That doesn't look like nothing.”
“I am having supper.”
“Outside.”
“Yes.”
“In snow.”
She tried to smile.
“It's refreshing.”
The rancher did not smile.
He looked at the flour on her apron.
The grease near her sleeve.
The burn mark by one pocket.
“You cooked.”
She nodded.