Rachel almost objected again. He folded the extra bills and placed them beneath the receipt book. "Mrs. Foster."
There was enough finality in his voice to make continuing pointless. She let it go. The wagon pulled away just as the eastern sky began turning from black to iron gray.
Rachel stood at the kitchen window and watched the lantern on the back of it disappear through the snow. June came beside her.
"Well," she said.
Rachel picked up a greasy mixing bowl. "Well, what?"
"That man ate three pieces before he left."
"He's large."
June looked sideways at her. "That isn't what I meant."
Rachel carried the bowl to the wash basin. "I know."
At Holloway Basin, breakfast had already gone wrong. Eli Brooks was standing over a blackened Dutch oven when Matthew drove into the yard. Three ranch hands were smoking near the barn. Another two had bedrolls tied behind their saddles.
That was the first thing Matthew noticed. Bedrolls ready to go. Eli came toward the wagon.
"You find bread?"
Matthew pulled back the canvas. "Some."
Eli peered inside. "What in God's name is all that?"
"Breakfast."
The cookhouse at Holloway Basin was a long, low building attached to the rear of the bunkhouse by a covered walkway. Thirty-six men crowded its tables when the morning bell rang. They came in wearing wool shirts, patched coats, suspenders, mud-darkened boots. The room smelled of coffee, damp leather, wood smoke, and men who had been outside before sunrise.
Nobody looked cheerful. A red-haired cowboy named Lewis Carter lifted the lid from the bean pot and stared into it. "Beans again."
Eli pointed at him. "Eat or don't."
"That's been the choice for three weeks."
A few men laughed. Not kindly. Matthew stood near the stove.
He had prepared a speech during the ride from Cold Water. Wages. Feed schedule. Winter assignments.
Spring contracts. All of it organized in his head. Then Eli carried in the first pan of Rachel's cornbread. Conversation slowed.
The crust was still warm enough to release the smell when it was cut. Bacon. Corn. Buttermilk.
Someone at the nearest table said, "Where'd that come from?"
Matthew answered, "Cold Water."
Eli added a pot of beef gravy they'd managed not to ruin and set down the 14 wheat loaves beside it. For several minutes, the room was mostly forks, knives, and tin mugs. Lewis took one piece of cornbread, then another.
Across from him, a man named Tom Avery spread gravy over his and leaned back after the first bite. "Well, I'll be."
Eli sat beside Matthew. Neither man spoke. A cowboy who had arrived with his bedroll tied walked outside halfway through breakfast.
Matthew watched him through the window. The man untied the bedroll. Carried it back into the bunkhouse. Matthew looked down at his coffee.
One action could have meant nothing. Then another man did the same. When breakfast ended, nobody hurried toward the horses. They remained around the tables while Matthew stood.
He gave the speech shorter than he had planned. He told them exactly what the ranch could pay. Exactly what work winter would require. Exactly what he needed from them.
Nobody applauded. Cowboys did not applaud ranch meetings. But when Matthew finished, Lewis Carter leaned back in his chair.
"If the food stays like this, I reckon the winter sounds less murderous."
A few men chuckled. Another said, "I was heading south today."
Matthew looked at him. "You still going?"
The man broke off another piece of cornbread. "Ask me after supper."
This time, the laughter was warmer. By noon, five men who had planned to leave had agreed to stay at least another week. Two others wanted to talk about wages after the afternoon feeding. It was not victory.
But it was not the collapse Matthew had expected when he woke that morning. He stood outside the bunkhouse afterward, watching snow slide from the barn roof in soft sheets. Eli joined him.