He took the bucket.
Abigail watched him leave.
Then immediately became irritated with herself.
Attraction was inconvenient.
Attraction to a man who had laughed when she unloaded goat meat was stupid.
Attraction to a foreman on a nearly bankrupt ranch where she had worked three days was irresponsible.
So naturally, by the time he returned carrying two full buckets, Abigail noticed the way his sleeves pulled across his forearms.
She took one bucket more sharply than necessary.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stayed.
She looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Caleb’s expression became unapologetic.
Abigail felt heat rise higher in her face.
It annoyed her that a woman could stand beside a boiling pot in Texas afternoon heat and still know exactly which warmth came from a man’s eyes.
She turned away.
“Go intimidate livestock.”
Caleb chuckled.
Before leaving, he said quietly, “You look pretty when you’re angry.”
Abigail’s knife stopped.
She turned.
He was already outside.
Coward.
She smiled despite herself.
Then she caught the smile and erased it.
Three hours remained.
The stew deepened.
Abigail deglazed the pan with apple cider vinegar.
Added water slowly.
More onion.
A small spoonful of molasses she found hidden behind the flour barrel.
Salt.
Pepper.
Then she lowered the heat until the surface barely moved.
Slow cooking.
The connective tissue would soften.
The vinegar would help.
Time would do the rest.
Outside, the ranch worked.
Hooves struck dust.
Harness jingled.
Men shouted across corrals.
Hammering came from the barn.
Every so often someone wandered past the cookhouse pretending to have business nearby.
Abigail pretended not to notice.
By four o’clock, the smell had changed everything.
Even Wyatt stopped making jokes where she could hear them.
The stew smelled rich.
Smoky.
Hot with chili.
Sweet underneath.
Abigail tasted a spoonful.
Not ready.
Close.
She added salt.
Covered the pot.
Then carried a bucket toward the pump.
The yard seemed quieter.
She filled water.
Talked briefly with one of the stable boys.
Three minutes.
Perhaps four.
When she returned, Wyatt came through the cookhouse door so quickly he nearly collided with her.
He looked startled.
Then angry.
Behind him stood Caleb.
Very still.
Abigail glanced from one to the other.
“What happened?”
Wyatt stepped around her.
“Nothing.”
Caleb said, “Wyatt.”
The man stopped.
“Get back to the north fence.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened.
Then he walked away.
Abigail entered the cookhouse.
Caleb followed.
She set the bucket down.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
Abigail turned.
“You’re a bad liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re avoiding.”
Caleb looked at the pot.
Then at the tin of salt on the table.
Abigail followed his gaze.
Understanding arrived.