He looked at her for a moment. "Tomorrow morning."
Rachel pulled a chair from the table and sat, more because she wanted the numbers level in her mind than because she needed the rest. "Thirty-six full loaves means roughly 140 pounds of dough, depending on size. More if you're expecting ranchmen to call them proper loaves."
"I am."
"We've got one large oven."
"I saw it."
"It can hold eight, maybe nine at once if I crowd them, and crowded bread bakes uneven."
His gaze shifted briefly toward the iron oven. "How long?"
"If the flour is good and the yeast behaves?"
"Yes."
Rachel calculated. "First batch around one. Last somewhere near five-thirty. Cooling time after that."
"I need to ride by six."
June finally recovered enough to step closer. "Rachel, you cannot seriously mean to do this."
Rachel looked at Matthew. "Why 36?"
His hand closed around the back of the chair opposite hers, but he did not sit. For the first time, something in his face tightened. "Because 36 men will be at my ranch tomorrow morning deciding whether they're staying through winter."
June blinked. Rachel said nothing. Matthew continued, "I've lost six hands since October. Two more told my foreman they're leaving after tomorrow if things don't improve."
"The men coming in from the upper camps are already talking about moving down toward Pueblo."
"What does bread have to do with it?" Rachel asked.
He looked toward the shelves where cooling pies from supper sat beneath cloths. "I don't know yet."
The answer surprised her. He rubbed his thumb slowly against the scar on his palm. "I know they haven't had decent bread in three weeks."
"I know they've been eating beans that could patch a roof and biscuits my foreman says are fit for throwing at coyotes."
June made a faint offended sound, though none of the biscuits in question belonged to her. Matthew ignored it. "I've got to talk to them tomorrow about wages, about winter work, about the spring roundup."
He paused. "I'd rather not ask 36 men to trust me while feeding them something a horse would refuse."
Rachel looked at the money again. There was desperation in that pile. Not dramatic desperation.
No begging. No raised voice. Just a man who had emptied nearly every dollar from his pockets because he did not know what else to try. "What happened to your cook?"
"Mr. Wallace took sick."
"Bad?"
Matthew nodded once. "His sister took him east."
"And whoever's cooking now?"
"My foreman."
Rachel nearly smiled. "That explains the biscuits."
This time, Matthew's mouth did move. Not quite enough to call it a smile, but close. June reached for the bills.
"Well, if Rachel thinks she can manage it—"
Rachel placed her hand over the money before June could collect it. "I'll need the kitchen through the night."
June looked at her. "You've already worked since five this morning."
"I know."
"You'll be no use tomorrow if you drop where you stand."
Rachel turned back to Matthew. "Thirty-six loaves by six?"
"Yes."