His son leaned closer.
“Railroad men like cheap.”
“They also like not being sick.”
His smile vanished.
“You accusing us of something?”
“No.”
She looked at the cheese.
“I’m describing moisture.”
She left.
The boarding-house owner bought none of the merchant’s cheese.
But another saloon did.
Then a small hotel.
The homesteader’s sales slowed.
Four days remained.
She counted her money again.
Thirty-nine dollars and twelve cents.
Still seventeen seventy short.
The wagon driver stood near the table.
“What if you ask the boarding-house owner for advance?”
“No.”
“She knows you’ll deliver.”
“No.”
“Creamery?”
“No.”
“Me?”
She looked up.
He shrugged.
“I’ve got six dollars.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because borrowing to pay borrowing is how I got here.”
He sat.
“Then what?”
The homesteader stared at her grandmother’s book.
What had she missed?
Three barrels of sour milk had created the first money.
But milk produced more than cheese.
Whey.
Gallons of it.
She had dumped much into a trench.
Some fed chickens.
Egg production had improved slightly.
But there was too much.
Her grandmother’s book.
She turned pages.
Whey bread.
Whey vinegar.
Brined vegetables.
Pig feed.
No time.
Then another note.
Boil sweet whey slowly with cream. Gather albumin curd.
A second cheese from whey.
Small yield.
Ricotta in another tradition, though her grandmother did not use the name.
The homesteader looked toward the buckets.
Not enough to solve seventeen dollars.
But maybe.
Then another idea.
The railroad camp.
They needed food.
Not just cheese.
Bread.
She had flour.
Not much.
The boarding house already supplied meals.
Could she sell whey directly to the bakery?
No.
Then the orchard.
Apples.
Small.
Undersized.
Not enough fresh value.
But vinegar?
Too slow.
Apple butter?
Sugar required.
Dried apples?
Time.
She walked outside.
Looked at the smokehouse.
Cheese.
What else could take smoke?
Nothing useful.
The wagon driver followed.
“You look dangerous.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s what I mean.”
Then a wagon rolled into the yard.
The boarding-house owner climbed down.
Unusual.
She rarely visited now.
The homesteader wiped her hands.
“What happened?”
The owner looked irritated.
“Your competitor happened.”
The merchant’s cheap cheese had spoiled overnight in the saloon cellar.
Two men vomited.
No deaths.
Probably contamination or improper cooling.
Rumor moved faster than certainty.
Now townspeople were suspicious of all fresh cheese.
Including hers.