He was around twenty-five, freckled, thin, and obviously unable to conceal thoughts before they reached his face.
“You cook for eighty?”
Lena brushed snow from her coat.
“Do you eat for eighty?”
Ben blinked.
Nathaniel looked away, hiding amusement.
Lena continued.
“Show me the kitchen.”
The kitchen was a disaster.
Lena stopped in the doorway.
Nathaniel stood behind her.
She did not move.
“What?”
“You said you had a kitchen.”
“I do.”
“No.”
She stepped inside.
“This is a crime scene.”
Dirty pots.
Flour spilled beneath shelves.
Grease on walls.
A bin of potatoes sprouting in one corner.
Knives dull enough to insult vegetables.
A stove with two cracked lids.
An enormous kettle blackened beyond recognition.
Lena turned.
“You feed people from here?”
Nathaniel looked around.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
“How many have survived?”
He smiled.
“Most.”
Lena took off her coat.
Rolled her sleeves.
Nathaniel watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving your ranch.”
“Tonight?”
“Your men need supper.”
“Beans.”
“No.”
“They're already soaking.”
“Throw them to the pigs.”
Nathaniel looked delighted.
Lena pointed.
“You.”
He straightened.
“Yes?”
“Find me two helpers.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Someone who can chop.”
“Someone who can follow orders.”
“Not necessarily the same person.”
Nathaniel turned toward the door.
Lena called:
“And Mr. Reid?”
He looked back.
“Salt.”
“What?”
“Your bread criticism offended me.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“Bring salt.”
Within twenty minutes Lena had two helpers.
Ben.
And a quiet older ranch hand named Amos whose left hand was missing two fingers but whose knife work was excellent.
She inventoried the pantry.
Potatoes.
Onions.
Carrots.
Salt pork.
Beef bones.
Dried beans.
Flour.
Cornmeal.
Molasses.
Apples.
Cheese.
Milk.
Butter.
Enough spices to prove somebody once cared.
Lena looked toward Nathaniel.
“Where did these come from?”
“The original cook.”
“What happened to him?”
“Died.”
She paused.
“Oh.”
“Seven years ago.”
“And nobody organized this since?”
Nathaniel looked toward the ceiling.
Lena sighed.
“Out.”
“What?”
“Out.”
“This is my kitchen.”
“Not until March.”
His eyebrows rose.
Lena pointed toward the dining hall.
“Go prepare seventy-eight men for the possibility that food may taste like something.”
Nathaniel smiled.