“Fair.”
At the door, he paused.
“Abigail.”
“Yes?”
His expression changed.
Less teasing.
“If Wyatt bothers you again, tell me.”
“I can handle Wyatt.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
Not correction.
Agreement.
Caleb left.
Abigail looked at the stew.
Then at the doorway.
Then at the stew again.
“Stupid,” she muttered.
She was not sure whether she meant Caleb, herself, or both.
Sundown came red.
The Texas sky stretched wide and blazing above Caldwell Ranch, turning dust gold and painting the barn walls with copper light.
Abigail removed the pot lid.
Steam rolled upward.
The goat had changed entirely.
The tough chunks now yielded under the spoon.
Potatoes had thickened the broth.
Onions nearly disappeared into it.
Chili and cumin sat beneath the deeper roasted flavor of meat.
Abigail tasted.
Closed her eyes.
Her father would have added more pepper.
She did.
Then she picked up the iron triangle.
CLANG.
The first strike crossed the yard.
CLANG.
Men emerged from the bunkhouse.
CLANG.
Thirty cowboys formed a line.
Slowly at first.
Pretending they were only there because supper was supper.
Then faster because the smell was doing work pride could not resist.
Abigail stood behind the table.
Tin bowls stacked beside her.
Cornbread on a board.
Stew pot steaming.
Caleb leaned against the cookhouse post.
Arms folded.
Watching.
Wyatt stood near the middle of the line.
Expression unreadable.
Abigail noticed.
Then dismissed him.
She filled the first bowl.
The recipient was a ranch hand named Amos Bell.
Sixty if he was a day.
Missing two fingers from his left hand.
He had said almost nothing to Abigail since she arrived.
He accepted the bowl suspiciously.
“Goat?”
“Yes.”
Amos stared at the meat.
“You sure?”
Abigail raised an eyebrow.
“No. Could be horse.”
Several men laughed nervously.
Amos took a bite.
Thirty men watched him.
He chewed.
Stopped.
Chewed again.
Abigail’s heart hit once hard against her ribs.
Amos lifted his eyes.
And smiled.
“Well, hell.”
A murmur spread through the line.
He took another bite.
Faster.
“Give me more.”
The men laughed.
Abigail breathed.
Caleb’s mouth curved.
She filled Amos’s bowl again.
The second cowboy ate.
Then the third.
By the fifth, no one was asking what animal it had been.
They were asking for cornbread.
Someone behind the line shouted, “Thornton, you hiding beef in that pot?”
Abigail called back, “No.”
“Then goat just got promoted.”
Laughter.
Real this time.
Not at her.
With her.
Something inside Abigail loosened.