Rebecca climbed down. "You said pans."
"I meant any pans."
"These are the best ones."
Andrew shook Matthew's hand. Matthew glanced at the wagon. "Fair price?"
Andrew named it. Matthew looked at Rachel.
She nodded. He paid without bargaining. That evening, Rachel turned the yard behind the cookhouse into something halfway between a kitchen and a camp.
Two fire trenches were already there from branding season. Eli cleared them out and brought split cottonwood. Charlie hauled water. Rebecca organized pans by size.
The first time Rachel told two cowboys to peel potatoes, they looked at her as though she had asked them to perform surgery.
"You know how to use a knife?" she asked.
Charlie said, "On cattle?"
"Good. Potatoes don't kick."
By dusk, eight men were working under Rachel's direction. Some complained. Most stopped once the smell reached them.
Cornbread browned in Dutch ovens banked with coals. Beans simmered beside beef bones. Cheaper cuts cooked slowly until they softened enough to fall apart under a spoon. Rachel mixed cornmeal with bacon drippings, salt, and buttermilk when there was enough.
Plain water when there wasn't. Nothing fancy. Nothing wasted. Matthew watched from near the barn.
Eli came to stand beside him. "You know what she's doing?"
"Cooking."
Eli glanced at him. "I meant besides that."
Matthew looked toward Rachel. She was standing beside Rebecca, laughing at something Charlie had said while she cut bread into squares. Men who had spent all day repairing fence were lining up with tin plates.
No one was talking about flour. No one was asking when the missing wagon would arrive. Matthew said nothing. Eli did not press.
The roundup began two days later. Riders came in from the north and east. By noon, 51 men had eaten. By supper, 51 men had eaten again.
The wheat flour remained nearly untouched. Rachel kept the best of it for biscuits twice a week and thickening gravy when needed. The rest of the meals ran on what the ranch had, what Andrew supplied, and what Rachel could stretch without making anyone feel shorted. On the third evening, Matthew entered the cookhouse carrying the weekly accounts.
Rachel was scraping a mixing bowl. He set the pages in front of her. "You've seen this?"
"No."
She wiped her hands and looked. Food cost for the week. Lower than any roundup week recorded in the old ledger.
Rachel read the total. Then again. Matthew watched her.
"You saved nearly 40 dollars."
Rachel frowned. "That seems high."
"I checked it twice."
"Check it again."
"I did."
She looked at him. "You sound annoyed."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because I've spent ten years thinking the answer to every ranch problem was more money."
Rachel leaned back against the table. "And?"
"And sometimes the answer was apparently a woman with a skillet."
She stared at him. Matthew realized what he had said. His ears reddened slightly. Rachel smiled.