He ordered 36 loaves, but why was a desperate cowboy willing to bet his ranch on what came out of one widow's oven? Rain hissed on the cook fires as Rachel yanked a black skillet from the coals, her palms burning through the cloth. Fifty soaked riders crowded the yard, cattle balled beyond the fence, and Matthew stared at the last sacks of cornmeal. By dawn, one choice would decide what happened next.
By nine, the dining room at Keen's Boarding House had finally gone quiet. Rachel Foster stood alone in the back kitchen with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, scraping dried gravy from a white enamel plate while the wind pushed powdery snow against the rear window. The glass rattled softly in its frame. Somewhere upstairs, a boarder coughed.
Down the hall, June Keen was counting the day's receipts beside the front desk, each coin making a small, sharp click against the wooden counter. Cold Water, Colorado Territory, had been built around silver, stubbornness, and the belief that the next strike might make a poor man rich. By the winter of 1884, most of the easy silver was gone, but the town remained crowded with prospectors, freightmen, cattle buyers, widows, gamblers, and families too tired to start over somewhere else. Rachel had been in Cold Water 11 months, long enough to know which boardwalk plank outside Dawson's Mercantile dipped under a person's heel.
She had been there long enough to know the church bell ran a little flat in freezing weather, and long enough to know that people could be polite to a woman while still making it clear she occupied more space than they thought she ought to. She dried the plate and placed it on the shelf. Her reflection showed faintly in the dark window. Thirty-two years old, brown hair pinned back in a plain knot, though loose strands had escaped around her temples.
She had a broad, soft figure under a faded blue work dress and white apron, and strong arms from kneading dough, hauling water, and carrying sacks from the delivery wagon because waiting for someone to offer had always taken longer. She turned away before the glass could become a mirror. The kitchen was hers only after supper. During the day, June preferred Rachel out of sight when customers came through.
Nothing had ever been said plainly. June did not say, "Rachel, people would rather buy pie from a slimmer woman." She said things like, "Why don't you finish the biscuits in back?" or, "I can handle the counter," or, "You're so much better with the ovens anyway." Rachel had learned the difference between words and meaning years ago.
She also knew June needed her. That was why Rachel had a small room under the sloping roof, two meals a day, and enough wages to save a few coins in a tobacco tin beneath her mattress. Not much. But after Peter died, not much had become something she understood how to live with.
She wiped the long worktable one final time, checked the stove damper, and reached for the lamp. A knock sounded at the front door. Rachel stopped. Another knock followed.
Not desperate. Not timid. Three hard strikes from somebody accustomed to expecting doors to open. June's chair scraped in the front room.
"We're closed," Rachel heard her call. A man answered, his voice too low for Rachel to make out the words. There was a pause. Then June said, considerably less firmly, "Well, come in out of that cold, Mr. Holloway."
Rachel's hand remained on the lamp. Everyone in Cold Water knew the name. Matthew Holloway owned Holloway Basin Ranch 12 miles northwest of town, where the valley narrowed beneath the San Juan foothills. He ran more cattle than most outfits within two days' ride and was known for two things people could agree on.
He worked harder than any man he hired, and he was enormous. Some said six foot six. Some said taller. A miner named Webster claimed Matthew Holloway once lifted the back end of a stuck wagon by himself, which Rachel considered unlikely, mostly because Webster also claimed to have shaken hands with President Grant.
Bootsteps sounded in the hall. Heavy ones. June appeared first. "Rachel."
There was something awkward in her voice. Rachel stepped into the doorway. Then Matthew Holloway came behind her. Rachel understood why every description of the man began with his size.
He had to dip his head beneath the kitchen lintel. Not dramatically. It looked practiced. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway, and a dark wool coat hung from them, wet with melting snow along the seams.
He wore a black hat in one hand and leather gloves in the other. His boots were muddy to the ankles, but it was his face Rachel noticed after the first surprise passed. He looked tired. Not sleepy.
Used up. There was a difference. His hair was dark brown, longer than town fashion, and flattened where his hat had rested. His jaw carried two days of beard.
A pale scar crossed the heel of one hand. His eyes settled on Rachel. They did not drop to her waist. They did not move over her body and then return carefully to her face.
They simply met her eyes. "Mrs. Foster?"
"Yes."
"Matthew Holloway."
"I know."
One corner of his mouth moved, barely. "I suppose most people do."
June folded her hands. "Mr. Holloway needs bread."
Rachel looked toward the cooling shelves. "There are six rolls left from supper."
"Not six," Matthew said.
He stepped to the worktable. "Thirty-six loaves."
Rachel thought she had misheard him. "Thirty-six?"
"Before sunrise."
June gave a small laugh. Not because anything was funny. It was the sound she made when numbers frightened her.
"Mr. Holloway, that simply isn't possible. We don't keep a city bakery."
Matthew reached inside his coat. He laid folded bills on the table, then coins. Rachel watched the money accumulate beneath the lamp.
Five-dollar notes worn soft at the corners. Singles. Silver dollars. A handful of smaller coins.
June stopped laughing. Matthew counted it once and pushed the money toward Rachel. "That's what I've got on me."
Rachel didn't touch it. "How many people are you feeding?"
"Thirty-six men."
"Tomorrow?"