"You know what the men said?"
Matthew kept his eyes on the yard. "I heard them."
"No. Before today."
Matthew looked over. Eli shoved both hands into his coat pockets. "They said this place stopped caring whether they came back from the line hungry."
Matthew said nothing. "They weren't talking about you exactly."
"Sounded like they were."
"They were talking about the place."
Eli nodded toward the cookhouse. "Wallace got sick. Food went bad. Men started eating alone when they could."
"We stopped setting a proper table because nobody wanted to clean it. One little thing at a time."
Matthew looked through the cookhouse window. Empty tin plates were stacked near the wash basin. Crumbs remained on the table. Not many.
"The wages matter," Eli said.
"Of course they do."
"But a man can work cold when he knows there's something hot waiting. He can work tired when somebody bothers to notice he's tired."
Matthew looked toward the road south. Cold Water was 12 miles beyond the ridge. He thought of Rachel Foster standing in the yellow light of the boarding house kitchen. Flour on her sleeves.
Hair coming loose. Explaining spoiled wheat without making an excuse. He thought of the question he had asked her.
How much of this can you make?
At the time, he'd meant cornbread. Standing in the yard now, listening to 36 men moving inside a bunkhouse that had sounded half dead yesterday, Matthew Holloway wondered whether he had been asking about something larger without knowing it. Eli started toward the barn.
Matthew called after him. "How long before supper?"
Eli turned. "You asking because you're hungry?"
"No."
Eli waited. Matthew looked once more toward the south road. "I need to ride into Cold Water tomorrow."
Eli's mouth twitched. "For flour?"
Matthew put on his hat. "No."
For the first time that winter, when he looked across Holloway Basin, he did not count only the cattle, the snow, and the work still waiting. He counted the men who had stayed. Matthew rode into Cold Water the next morning under a pale sky that promised more snow by afternoon. The road from Holloway Basin followed the frozen creek for six miles before climbing toward town.
Wagon ruts had hardened into ridges of brown ice. His gelding picked through them carefully. Matthew did not hurry him. He had been awake since four.
That was usual. What was not usual was that sometime before dawn, while checking the east pasture, he had caught himself wondering whether Rachel Foster would already be awake at the boarding house. He disliked that he had wondered. He disliked even more that he knew the answer.
Of course she would be awake. Rachel was carrying a tray of biscuits through the back hall when Matthew entered Keen's Boarding House. She stopped. He stopped.
For a moment, neither said anything.
"You need another 36?" she asked.
"No."
"Good."
She continued toward the dining room. Matthew followed far enough to stand near the doorway. "I need a cook."
Rachel turned. June Keen was behind the front desk opening the morning ledger. Her head lifted immediately.
Matthew saw it. Rachel did too.
"A cook where?" Rachel asked.
"Holloway Basin."
June closed the ledger. "Mr. Holloway. Rachel already has employment."
Matthew looked at Rachel rather than June. "One week. Paid."