“That’s disappointing.”
The homesteader smiled.
He smiled too.
Then became serious.
“You really have eleven days?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-six dollars and eighty-two cents.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Store debt?”
“Mostly.”
“What else?”
“Feed.”
“Flour.”
“Two sacks of seed.”
“Nails.”
“Lamp oil.”
“Medicine last winter.”
She looked toward the dry orchard.
“I had planned to sell apples.”
The driver followed her gaze.
“There aren’t many.”
“No.”
“How much cash?”
“Nine dollars and eighteen cents.”
He whistled.
She glared.
“Helpful.”
“Sorry.”
They sat.
Then he asked:
“If this works?”
She calculated.
“If I sell forty pounds tomorrow at twenty cents, eight dollars.”
“You need more than eight.”
“I know.”
“If she takes the full one-eighty?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Still not enough.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the press.
“So what’s the plan?”
She stared into darkness.
“Tomorrow.”
“What?”
“The plan is tomorrow.”
That was all she had.
He nodded.
“Fair enough.”
At three in the morning, they turned the first cheese.
At five, salted again.
At six, the homesteader slept for forty minutes in a chair.
At seven, she woke because a rooster screamed near the porch.
The wagon driver was already standing over the first wheel.
“Well?”
She pressed it.
Firm.
Not fully aged.
Not a cellar cheese meant for winter.
But a young pressed sour-milk cheese.
Sliceable.
Salty.
Tangy.
She cut a narrow piece.
Smelled.
Tasted.
Her first reaction was relief.
Her second was criticism.
“Too wet.”
The wagon driver ate the remainder.
“It’s good.”
“Too wet.”
“I’d eat it.”
“You eat beans from a can cold.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
She cut another sample.
Salt.
Tang.
Cream.
Not delicate.
But with bread, ham, potatoes, or beans?
Useful.
She looked toward town.
“Harness the wagon.”
The boarding-house owner tasted the first slice at eight forty-three.
The homesteader stood in the boarding-house kitchen while two cooks watched.
The owner chewed.
No expression.
Chewed again.
The homesteader hated her immediately.
Not because the woman was unkind.
Because she had the face of someone who understood bargaining.
The owner swallowed.
“Another.”
The homesteader cut one.
The older cook took a piece without permission.
The owner glared.
“What?”
the cook said.
“I’m supposed to feed people.”
She tasted.
Then looked at the homesteader.
“Needs pepper.”
The owner said:
“Nobody asked you.”
The cook shrugged.