Nothing that a good breakfast and proper sleep wouldn't cure. But as she mixed biscuit dough and listened to the ranch wake around her, Margaret knew she was lying to herself. Something had shifted in the storm. Some barrier swept away by necessity and courage and the simple act of keeping faith through the dark hours. Jake had trusted her with his men, his home, his own exhaustion, and she'd proven worthy of that trust.
The question now was what came next. When the crisis passed and normal life resumed, could they go back to careful distance and proper boundaries? Did she even want to? The biscuits required her attention, and Margaret gratefully lost herself in the familiar routine. Whatever came next could wait for now.
There were hungry men to feed and a new day to greet. In a life that had become uncertain, these simple truths were enough. The days following the storm passed in a blur of recovery. Fences needed mending. Scattered cattle required gathering, and the damaged barn roof demanded immediate attention.
Margaret barely saw Jake except at meals, where he ate quickly and spoke only of ranch business. But she felt his eyes on her sometimes, a weight of unspoken words that made her hands unsteady as she served. It was Tom who finally voiced what everyone seemed to be thinking. You two are dancing around each other worse than green colts, he said one afternoon, helping her peel potatoes. His arm had healed fully, but he still found excuses to visit the kitchen.
I don't know what you mean, Margaret said primly, though heat rose in her cheeks. Sure you don't. And Jake doesn't spend half his time staring at the kitchen window when he thinks no one's looking. Before Margaret could respond, they heard horses approaching fast, too fast for normal ranch business. Through the window, she saw Jake and Hank riding hard toward the house with something wrapped in blankets across Hank's saddle.
"Get water boiling, " Jake shouted before they'd even reached the yard. And clean cloths, Margaret's heart lurched. She'd heard that tone before in Charles's voice when emergency cases arrived. By the time the men burst through the door, she had water heating and her makeshift medical supplies laid out. They carried young Will Morrison, the storekeeper's nephew, barely 16 and working his first season as a cowboy.
His face was white as parchment, his breathing shallow and rapid. Blood soaked through the blanket around his middle, gored by a bull, Jake said tursily as they laid him on the table. "It's bad, Margaret. " She peeled back the blanket and had to suppress a gasp. The wound was deep, ragged, still bleeding freely.
In Philadelphia, Charles would have had proper instruments. Chloroform, a sterile operating room. Here she had kitchen knives, whiskey, and desperate hope. I need more light, she said, her voice steadier than her hands. All the lanterns you can find.
Tom, get my sewing basket. The one with the silk thread. Hank, I need the whiskey from Jake's office. The good bottle, Margaret, Jake said quietly. If it's too much, it's not too much, she met his eyes firmly.
But I need everyone to do exactly as I say. This is beyond basic field medicine. For the next 2 hours, Margaret worked with focused intensity that would have impressed her late husband. She cleaned the wound with whiskey, stitched internal damage with silk thread boiled in water, packed the area with clean cloth soaked in honey, an old remedy her grandmother had sworn by. Through it all, Jake stood at the boy's head, holding him still, speaking in a low, calm voice when Will stirred toward consciousness.