He was coming back from the fence line when he heard the wheels. The sound came before the wagon did. The particular groan of a rig that had seen too many miles on too many bad roads. The kind of sound that made experienced horses' ears swivel forward in recognition of another creature in trouble.
Caleb stopped walking. He stood at the gate and watched the road. The wagon that came around the bend was old in a way that suggested stubbornness rather than neglect. The canvas cover was patched in three places.
The mule pulling it was not young but had the look of an animal that kept going out of principle. Sitting on the box was a woman he'd never seen before. Holding the reins with both hands, her chin level, her eyes moving across his property with an assessment in them that he recognized as professional. The kind of look that's taking inventory, not admiring the view.
She pulled up at his gate. He didn't move. She looked at him and said, "You're the one looking for a cook?" "Depends."
He said. "On what?" "On who's asking." She set the brake with her foot and wrapped the reins around the post with the economical motion of someone who had done it 10,000 times.
"Mara Ellison," she said, "widow out of Cheyenne, though originally from Ohio, which doesn't mean much anymore. I cook, I clean, I keep accounts, and I work hard enough that two men couldn't keep up with me on a good day. I saw your notice 3 weeks ago, and I've been thinking about it since." "3 weeks," he said.
"I'm careful," she said. "I don't make decisions fast when they matter." He looked at the wagon. The canvas sides were still, but he had the distinct impression that something behind them was working hard at being still, in the way that children do.
"Who else is in there?" He said. She didn't look away from him. "My children."
"How many?" "Three." He said nothing. She waited.
"The notice said cook," he said finally. "It didn't say anything about children." "No," she agreed. "It didn't."