Rachel looked at him. "I already did."
He nodded. Then he slid the leather ledger across the table toward her. Not the food pages.
The whole thing. Rachel rested her hand on the cover. It was a small gesture. A book.
Some receipts. Nothing more. But Matthew had guarded that ledger more carefully than he guarded most conversations.
"Don't make me regret it," he said.
Rachel met his eyes. "I won't."
He stood at the door. He paused. "Rachel."
She looked up.
"Don't cut the coffee."
She stared at him, then said, "No promises."
He left before she could see whether he smiled. Rachel opened the ledger. Outside, Holloway Basin spread wide beneath the winter sky, rich in cattle, timber, water, and land.
On paper, it was worth more than Rachel would earn in a lifetime. Yet the thing holding it together was suddenly much smaller. A few dollars saved on flour. A meal that kept a cowboy from riding south.
A woman at a scarred pine table with a pencil in her hand. And a giant rancher who, for the first time in years, had handed someone else the books and trusted her not to let the place fall apart. By the second Sunday in January, Rachel had cut the cookhouse spending enough that even Eli stopped arguing when she refused his second coffee order.
The ranch still bought wheat flour, but less of it. Cornmeal came from Andrew Sloan's farm six miles east, delivered in stout 50-pound sacks that cost less than half what freighted flour did. The smokehouse was being used properly again. Potatoes no longer froze beneath the pantry awning.
Rachel had worked out a rotation for dried beans, squash, smoked beef, onions, and apples that left little room for waste. The men noticed the meals. Matthew noticed the ledger. Every Saturday evening, Rachel placed the week's figures beside his blue-rimmed coffee mug.
Every Saturday evening, he read them twice. He never praised her much. Once, he looked at a page, then at her, and said, "That's 28 dollars less than last month."
"Yes."
"You expected that?"
"I hoped."
A pause. Then he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into the ledger. "Good."
From Matthew, Rachel had learned good could carry considerable weight. Sunday was usually quieter. No roundup work.
No fence repair unless something had broken badly enough to ignore the calendar. Men washed clothes. Mended tack. Wrote letters.
Slept late if the cattle allowed it. That particular Sunday, Eli reminded Matthew about the church supper in Cold Water. Matthew looked as though someone had suggested voluntary dental work.
"I don't go to church suppers."
"You were invited."
"I've been invited before and ignored it before."
Matthew buttoned his coat. "Then everyone's accustomed to disappointment."
Eli glanced toward Rachel, who was wrapping a pan of apple cake in cloth. "Mrs. Foster said she's going."
Rachel looked up. "I did not say Matthew had to go."
Eli's face was innocent. "No, but the team needs driving."
"I can drive."
"Road's slick."
Rachel narrowed her eyes. "You've been planning this."
Eli put on his hat. "I've got a lame mare to look at."
He left before either of them could answer. Matthew stared after him. Rachel tied the cloth around the cake.
"I don't need an escort."
"I know."