“With potatoes, it’ll work.”
“Work?”
The homesteader asked.
The cook looked offended.
“That’s praise.”
The boarding-house owner cut another piece herself.
“What can you make by tomorrow?”
“Maybe sixty pounds from the current batch.”
“Why maybe?”
“I won’t sell what doesn’t set properly.”
The owner nodded.
Good answer.
“Price?”
The homesteader had spent the entire wagon ride deciding.
The merchant sold imported cheese for twenty-six cents a pound.
Local cheese, when available, ranged lower.
She needed money.
But desperation was visible if priced poorly.
“Twenty-two.”
The owner raised one eyebrow.
“Cents?”
“Yes.”
“For fresh sour-milk cheese?”
“For cheese you cannot otherwise get before the railroad men arrive.”
Silence.
The cook smiled.
The owner looked toward her.
“Stay out of it.”
Then back to the homesteader.
“Eighteen.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-two.”
“You’re not good at bargaining.”
“I am. I’ve simply decided.”
The owner almost smiled.
“Twenty-one.”
The homesteader considered.
“Cash?”
“Half on delivery. Half at week’s end.”
“No.”
The owner’s expression sharpened.
“Excuse me?”
“Cash on delivery.”
“You owe the merchant.”
“Exactly.”
The owner stared.
Then nodded.
“Twenty-one. Cash.”
The homesteader extended her hand.
The owner shook it.
“Forty pounds tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Another forty the day after if this quality holds.”
“Yes.”
“And if the railroad men like it—”
“You order more.”
“Yes.”
The homesteader picked up the sample board.
The cook stopped her.
“Leave that.”
“Why?”
“Lunch.”
The homesteader smiled for the first time all morning.
“Twenty-one cents a pound.”
The cook laughed.
The boarding-house owner pointed toward the door.
“Get out.”
Outside, the wagon driver waited.
“Well?”
“Forty pounds.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-one.”
He grinned.
The homesteader did not.
“What?”
he asked.
She looked toward the general store across the street.
The supply merchant stood inside the front window.
Watching.
The driver followed her gaze.
His grin faded.
“He knows.”
“He always knows.”
The homesteader climbed onto the wagon.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Let him.”
She drove home.
Ten days remained.
The next problem appeared before noon.
Salt.
The recipe consumed more than she anticipated.
Her remaining supply would barely finish the first batch.
She rode back to town that afternoon.
The supply merchant greeted her from behind the counter.
“Back already?”
“I need salt.”
His smile widened.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five pounds.”
He leaned against the counter.
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her hand.