He backed away.
Caleb said:
“You ride center tomorrow.”
“No weapon.”
“You sleep where I can see.”
“At Cimarron station, you’re off the outfit until Jenkins answers.”
Jasper spat into dirt.
Henrietta returned to serving table.
The goat had begun cooling.
She picked up knife.
“Anyone still hungry?”
Every man raised plate.
Even Caleb.
That was the night he finally took his first bite.
He chewed.
Then looked at Henrietta.
She waited.
“Well?”
Caleb swallowed.
“I was wrong.”
She raised eyebrow.
“About goat?”
“About several things.”
A few cowboys laughed.
Henrietta cut another portion.
“That sounds almost like an apology.”
“It is.”
“Be more specific tomorrow.”
He smiled.
She gave him extra tortilla.
That was all the mercy he earned.
The next week was harder.
The trail crossed country where water came inconsistently and the herd grew restless under heat.
Jasper rode where Caleb could watch.
His resentment became almost physical.
Henrietta kept the letters in a flour sack beneath false bottom of her trunk.
Caleb wanted to carry them.
She refused.
“You lose them in river and I’ll kill you.”
“I ride better than you drive wagon.”
“You insult my driving?”
“Constantly.”
“You hit three holes today.”
“Texas has three holes.”
“All under your wheel.”
Their arguments had changed.
Less sharp.
More familiar.
Caleb began eating near the wagon after the others settled.
Not every night.
Enough that men noticed.
Henrietta noticed them noticing.
She did not care.
Mostly.
One evening Caleb asked:
“Why cooking?”
Henrietta looked up from kneading dough.
“Because people eat.”
“That is philosophical.”
“You asked badly.”
He sat on overturned bucket.
“Why trail cook?”
“Money.”
“Again.”
She sighed.
“My husband died four years ago.”
Caleb’s face changed.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“What happened?”
“Pneumonia.”
“He ran a small boarding kitchen in Amarillo with me.”
“We were not rich.”
“We were comfortable.”
“After he died, landlord raised rent.”
“I kept it another year.”
“Lost.”
Caleb looked at her hands.
“And since?”
“Railroad kitchens.”
“Ranch camps.”
“Harvest crews.”
“Anything with stove.”
“You like it?”
Henrietta considered.
“Yes.”
“I like feeding people when they shut up long enough to taste first.”
Caleb smiled.
“Understandable.”
She rolled dough.
“My grandmother said cooking was easiest way to discover whether man was fool.”
“How?”
“Feed something he claims to hate.”
“If he refuses before tasting, fool.”
Caleb looked toward empty plate.
“And if he takes five days?”
“Slow fool.”
He laughed.
Henrietta smiled.
“Why trail boss?”
she asked.