Everett pointed at the provision estimate.
“Mrs. Lawson, the owner believes this can be reduced by fifteen percent.”
Henrietta looked over the top of her spectacles.
“Which fifteen?”
He blinked.
“The total.”
“That is not an ingredient.”
“Well, perhaps less meat.”
“How much less?”
Everett hesitated.
Henrietta waited.
The silence became uncomfortable.
Good.
She had discovered decades earlier that silence was an excellent tool when somebody expected a woman to become embarrassed first.
Everett finally said, “I’m not sure.”
“Then go back and become sure.”
He shifted.
“The owner simply feels eight dollars per rider per week is excessive.”
“Then the owner may ride the herd himself.”
Everett almost smiled.
Henrietta did not.
He straightened.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She pointed at the figures.
“Seven men.”
“Fourteen days.”
“Early winter.”
“Two night watches.”
“Thirty-eight cattle expected to arrive thin.”
“You want men awake, warm, and strong enough to manage animals that will already be half-spooked by cold.”
“Yes.”
“Then feed them.”
Everett looked at the sheet again.
Henrietta leaned back.
Her chair was wide.
Solid.
Cross-braced beneath the seat.
Caleb had built the first version nearly thirty years earlier after watching a poorly made chair crack beneath her.
This was the third.
He had reinforced it so unnecessarily that Henrietta once accused him of trying to construct a bridge.
Caleb had answered that bridges tended to be useful.
She had kept the chair.
Not because it was sentimental.
At least that was what she told everyone.
Everett cleared his throat.
“The owner says another outfit quoted six dollars.”
Henrietta nodded.
“Use them.”
He looked surprised.
“You don’t want the contract?”
“I want contracts that make sense.”
“We can’t control what another company promises.”
“If they can feed seven men for six dollars, excellent.”
“If they cannot, those men will know before the owner does.”
Everett studied her.
People sometimes arrived expecting the famous Henrietta Lawson to bargain desperately.
They had heard Caldwell-Lawson was smaller now.
They knew the long trail business had contracted.
They thought age made people hungry for relevance.
Henrietta had already spent too much of her life being treated as though hunger made dignity negotiable.
She would not do it to others.
Everett folded the sheet.
“I’ll speak to him.”
“Good.”
He reached the office door.
Henrietta added:
“And Mr. Sloan?”
He turned.
“If he tells you to cut coffee, quit.”
Everett laughed.
Henrietta remained serious.
“He’ll lose men by noon.”
The young representative left smiling.
Caleb’s voice came from the adjoining room.
“You’re getting soft.”
Henrietta looked toward the doorway.
Caleb Lawson leaned against the frame with a cane in one hand.
His beard was mostly white now.
The black cowboy hat still appeared whenever he left the house, though Henrietta had informed him repeatedly that a seventy-year-old man did not need to dress as if he might suddenly be asked to lead three thousand longhorns north.
He ignored her.
He had become slower over the past few years.
The old shoulder injury from the trail bothered him in damp weather. His left knee had joined the rebellion. His hands remained strong but stiff.
Henrietta knew every change.
She tried not to watch too closely.
Caleb hated being watched for weakness.
She understood too well to make a habit of it.
“Soft?”
Henrietta asked.
“You told him to quit.”
“That is career advice.”
“You used to throw invoices at people.”
“I have matured.”
Caleb walked into the office.
“You threw one at Jenkins.”
“He deserved several.”
Caleb sat across from her.
“That young man had no idea who he was talking to.”
Henrietta returned to her paperwork.
“He knew my name.”
“That’s different.”