Instead, for the first time since he rode into her yard, he looked concerned.
The homesteader turned toward the wagon driver.
“Get wood.”
He grinned.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The merchant spoke sharply.
“You’ll poison somebody.”
The homesteader met his eyes.
“If I do, you can tell everyone you warned me.”
His son laughed nervously.
The merchant did not.
He stared at the vat another moment.
Then turned.
“Eleven days.”
The homesteader lifted the spoon again.
“I heard you the first time.”
He walked toward his horse.
His son followed.
The boarding-house owner lingered.
“One more thing.”
The homesteader waited.
“No charity.”
“What?”
“If I buy, I buy because it’s good.”
The homesteader nodded.
“That’s the only way I’d sell it.”
For the first time, the boarding-house owner smiled.
“Tomorrow morning.”
She left.
The yard became quiet.
The wagon driver returned carrying an armful of split cottonwood.
He dropped it beside the vat.
Then looked down the road where the merchant disappeared.
“You saw that.”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve told you.”
“Yes.”
He removed his hat.
“The merchant stopped me in town.”
The homesteader’s grip tightened on the wooden spoon.
“What did he want?”
“Said he had crates for the west settlement.”
“You haul for him?”
“Sometimes.”
“He knew you had milk?”
“He saw the barrels.”
“What happened?”
The driver exhaled.
“He paid me double to take his crates first.”
The homesteader stared.
“You knew the milk might turn.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I needed the money.”
Honest.
Ugly.
Better than an excuse.
“How long did it add?”
“Four hours.”
“Then the bridge was blocked.”
“Another two.”
“Why didn’t you turn back?”
“Creamery owner told me if it soured, bring it here anyway.”
The homesteader looked toward the vat.
“He knew?”
“He said your grandmother taught you dairy work.”
“She did when I was a child.”
“He remembered you asking about his discarded skim last spring.”
The homesteader thought back.
She had asked once.
Casually.
Whether he fed leftover skim to hogs.
The wagon driver continued.
“I think he figured you might find some use.”
She looked at him.
“And the merchant?”
The driver’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know whether he expected me to bring it here.”
“But he came.”
“Yes.”
“Before you arrived.”
The driver nodded.
That mattered.
The homesteader turned toward the place where the merchant had stood.