Carefully now.
“What?”
the homesteader asked.
The boarding-house owner said nothing.
She moved another step.
The merchant frowned.
“Don’t tell me you’re interested in buying that.”
The boarding-house owner ignored him.
She stared at the curds.
Then at the homesteader.
“Do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Pull the spoon through.”
The homesteader did.
White curds gathered against one side.
Yellow whey opened around them.
The boarding-house owner’s expression changed.
Not delight.
Calculation.
She ran the largest boarding house in Alderton.
Twenty-three rooms when every bed was filled.
A long dining room.
Two hired cooks.
Rail surveyors stayed there.
Freight men.
Drummers.
Land agents.
Contractors.
And, beginning the following week, nearly thirty railroad workers expected while a spur line was surveyed through the valley.
“What are you thinking?”
the homesteader asked.
The boarding-house owner looked toward the merchant.
He was no longer smiling.
Then back toward the vat.
“My cheese supplier sent word yesterday.”
“And?”
“Broken wagon axle outside Cheyenne.”
“How long?”
“Ten days. Maybe twelve.”
The merchant interrupted.
“You have cheese in the store.”
“Six wheels.”
“I can get more.”
“From where?”
He paused.
She knew the answer.
Nowhere close enough.
The boarding-house owner looked into the vat again.
“How much milk is there?”
The wagon driver answered.
“Near a hundred gallons.”
She looked sharply at him.
“All spoiled?”
“Soured.”
The distinction was small.
Important.
The driver continued.
“The creamery owner kept the barrels shaded until yesterday morning. They turned during the road delay.”
The homesteader looked at him.
“What delay?”
The driver seemed uncomfortable.
The merchant’s son stopped smiling for half a second.
The homesteader noticed.
“What delay?”
she repeated.
The wagon driver rubbed the back of his neck.
“Bridge traffic.”
“What bridge?”
“The west crossing.”
“That adds six miles.”
“I know.”
“Why did you take it?”
He looked toward the supply merchant.
That was answer enough to make the yard quiet.
The merchant lowered his handkerchief.
“Careful.”
The wagon driver looked away.
The homesteader felt something colder than anger.
But she did not chase it.
Not yet.
The milk mattered more.
She dipped two fingers into the curd.
Pressed.
Smelled.
The sourness was sharp but clean.
No rancid grease.
No putrid rot.
Acid.
Heat.
Time.
Her grandmother’s voice returned.
If the milk has gone pleasantly sour, child, don't curse it until you’ve warmed it.