Rachel slid sideways. Matthew's arm came across the seat before she could catch herself. His hand closed around her upper arm. Firm.
Careful. The wagon straightened, but neither of them moved at once. Rachel's shoulder rested against his side. She could feel the warmth of him through two coats.
Matthew's hand remained on her arm. His breathing changed just once. Then he released her. "Sorry."
Rachel settled back beneath the robe. "You kept me from falling."
"Still."
"You don't have to apologize for everything."
"I don't."
"No. Mostly you say nothing."
He glanced at her. "That bothering you?"
Rachel thought about the cookhouse before sunrise. His coffee mug. The lowered pantry shelves. The ledger he had handed her.
The way he had stood beside her tonight while a room full of people watched. "No," she said. "It isn't."
They drove another mile. The road dipped toward the basin. Holloway Ranch appeared below, dark except for the lamp Eli always left burning beside the barn door.
Rachel's hands rested beneath the buffalo robe. One of them still remembered the pressure of Matthew's fingers around her arm. She curled it loosely into a fist. Beside her, Matthew shifted the reins into one hand.
The other rested on the wagon seat between them. Not touching her. Not reaching. Simply there.
Rachel looked at it once. Then ahead. Neither of them moved closer. Neither moved farther away.
The remaining miles passed in a silence that no longer felt empty at all. The days after the church supper settled into the steady work of January. Snow crusted the fence rails each morning. The creek ran dark beneath a lid of ice.
Men came into the cookhouse stamping their boots and holding stiff fingers over the stove before breakfast. Rachel kept the kitchen moving. Matthew kept finding reasons to pass through it. Some mornings he spoke.
Some mornings he only filled the blue-rimmed mug and stood near the door while she worked. The night everything shifted began with a ruined pan of cornbread. It should not have mattered. Rachel had burned food before.
Any cook who claimed otherwise had either never cooked much or had a generous memory. But that evening she had been tired. Not ordinary tired. The kind that made small things difficult.
A supplier from Cold Water had delivered a short measure of coffee. Charlie had dropped a crock of preserved tomatoes. One of the range doors had begun sticking, and the draft shifted while Rachel was carrying stew into the dining room. By the time she smelled the cornbread, it was already too late.
Smoke curled from the oven. Rachel pulled open the iron door. "Damn."
Eli looked up from the table. "That bad?"
She grabbed a folded towel and pulled the pan free. The top looked fine. The bottom was nearly black.
Charlie leaned over. "I'd eat it."
"You'd eat harness leather with gravy."
"Depends on the gravy."
A few men laughed. Rachel did not. She set the pan on the table harder than she intended. The room quieted a little.
Matthew noticed from his seat. Rachel turned away. "There's enough bread from noon. Eat supper."
No one argued. After the meal, she waited until every man had gone. Then she took a knife and began scraping the burned crust from the pan.
Once. Twice. Harder. The knife rasped against iron.
Black crumbs scattered across the worktable. Rachel scraped until her wrist hurt.
"Rachel."
She stopped. Matthew stood in the doorway. His coat was open, hat in one hand.
"I thought you'd gone to the barn."
"I did."
He looked at the pan. "Then I came back."
She resumed scraping. "No need."