"I'll do it."
He studied her as though making sure the answer had not been given for his sake. Then he nodded. "Thank you."
Not ma'am. Not Mrs. Foster. Just thank you.
He put on his gloves. "I'll be back before six."
At the kitchen door, Rachel called after him. "Mr. Holloway."
He turned.
"If the weather worsens, don't try to make up time on the ridge road. It freezes before the road through town does."
His eyes rested on her a second longer than before. "You know the road?"
"I've ridden supply wagons."
Another nod. "I'll mind it."
Then he was gone. The front door closed. A gust of cold air passed through the hall and disappeared.
June stood staring at the money. "Lord above," she whispered. "Thirty-six."
Rachel tied her apron tighter. "First thing is flour."
June looked at the clock. "Rachel—"
"I said I'd do it."
"You don't owe that man anything."
"No." Rachel crossed to the pantry. "But I gave my word."
June knew better than to argue with that particular tone. She gathered the money, counted it twice, and finally went upstairs. By 10:30, Rachel had the kitchen alive again.
Fire hot. Water warming. Mixing bowls lined across the table. Salt measured into a chipped saucer.
Yeast proofing beside the stove. Her grandmother's wooden dough scraper sat near her right hand, its edge worn smooth from years of use before it had become Rachel's. Outside, the snow thickened. The front of the boarding house went dark room by room.
At 11:15, Rachel went into the pantry for the first flour sack. She dragged it to the table, cut the twine, and opened the folded paper lining. Something moved. Rachel froze.
She leaned closer. A tiny brown beetle crawled over the flour. Then another. She pushed two fingers into the sack.
More movement. Her stomach dropped. "No."
She opened the second sack. Weevils. The third was worse. Rachel stood very still in the yellow stove light.
The good flour on the shelf might produce 12 loaves. Fourteen if she made them small. She needed 36. The clock ticked behind her.
11:20. Cold Water had gone to bed. The mercantile would not open until seven. Even if she woke the owner, there was no guarantee his flour was any better.
The last freight wagon had been delayed six days by snow in the pass. She could send word to Matthew, tell him it couldn't be done. Any reasonable man would understand. She stared at the ruined sack.
Then at the clock. Then at the door through which he'd left. Thirty-six men deciding whether to stay. She imagined him riding back to Holloway Basin with 14 loaves and an apology.
Rachel put both hands flat on the worktable. Peter's voice came back to her clear enough that for half a second she nearly turned.
"When something goes wrong, Ra, stop staring at what you don't have. Look at what you do."
She closed her eyes once. Then opened them.
Cornmeal.
Three full sacks sat beneath the lowest pantry shelf. June bought it cheaply from a farmer outside town because miners liked corn cakes with breakfast. Rachel crouched and pulled one sack forward.
Coarse yellow meal. Plenty of it. She looked toward the dairy shelf. Buttermilk.
Bacon drippings. Sorghum. Salt. A small crock of rendered lard.
Her pulse slowed. Not bread. Not what Matthew had ordered. But men had eaten cornbread long before Cold Water had a bakery.
Her grandmother had made it through lean winters when wheat flour was saved for Sunday biscuits and company. Heavy skillet bread. Brown crust. Soft center.
Enough fat to stay good through a cold ride. Rachel stood. From the cabinet above the stove, she took down a black cast-iron skillet.