The main house was built of dark timber with a stone chimney at one end. Beyond it stood a bunkhouse, a long cook building, three barns, corrals, and lines of fencing disappearing toward the white foothills. Cattle moved in dark clusters across the lower pasture. Horses stood near a windbreak of cottonwoods.
From a distance, it looked prosperous. Orderly. Alive. Then the wagon reached the main yard.
Rachel began seeing the details. A broken barrel beside the cookhouse. Ash dumped too close to the woodpile. Three sacks of potatoes sitting directly on a damp floor beneath the pantry awning.
A smokehouse door that did not shut properly. Two tin milk cans left uncovered near the back steps. She looked at Matthew. He had noticed her noticing.
"Go ahead," he said.
"I haven't said anything."
"You've been looking like you're making a list since we crossed the gate."
Rachel climbed down. Her boots sank into packed snow. Eli Brooks came from the barn.
Hat pushed back. Gray mustache rimed with frost.
"You brought the cornbread woman."
Rachel looked at Matthew. Matthew looked at Eli. Eli cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Foster."
"Rachel's fine."
"Eli Brooks."
He shook her hand. His grip was rough but not testing. "Cookhouse is over there. We did what we could."
Rachel looked toward the low building. "I've heard that sentence before."
Eli gave Matthew a sideways glance. "I like her already."
Inside, Rachel understood why men had been threatening to leave. The cookhouse itself was solid. Long tables.
Benches. Two cast-iron ranges. A broad preparation table. Shelves lined with pots and tinware.
But the place had lost its system. A sack of onions had sprouted behind the stove. Salt pork sat beside dried apples because there had been room there. A jar marked cloves contained pepper.
Half a ham hung from a nail where the heat from the range could reach it. The flour bin was nearly empty. Three jars of preserved beans had cracked from freezing near the outer wall. Rachel opened the pantry.
Then the smokehouse. Then the cellar hatch. She said almost nothing. Matthew followed at a distance.
Not crowding her. Not explaining unless she asked.
"How many sides of beef are smoked?"
"Four."
"Beans?"
"Six sacks."
"Cornmeal?"
"Maybe 80 pounds."
"Potatoes?"
"More than we know what to do with."
"I saw some of them trying to grow their own families outside."
Matthew looked toward the porch. "I'll move those."
"No."
Rachel glanced at him. "You hired me for the food."
He held her eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Right."
By late afternoon, Rachel had filled three sheets of paper. Waste. Storage.
Missing supplies. Spoilage. What could be stretched. What needed replacing.