"What can you tell me about Mr. Caldwell? " Morrison's expression grew thoughtful. Been running the Circle M for about 10 years now. Came out here from Texas. I heard though he doesn't talk about his past, keeps to himself mostly, fair with his men, pays honest wages, but expects hard work in return.
Never married, far as anyone knows. Some say he's got no use for women. Others say he just hasn't found one tough enough for ranch life. I see. Margaret tucked this information away.
Thank you, Mr. Morrison. I'll be here at dawn. She left the store and made her way to the boarding house, passing more curious stares and whispered comments. The boarding house proved to be a two-story building that might have been white once, but had faded to a dusty gray. Mrs. Patterson, a bird-like woman with sharp eyes, looked Margaret up and down before showing her to a small clean room.
Heard you're heading out to the Circle M. Mrs. Patterson said, lingering in the doorway. Brave or foolish? I can't decide which. Perhaps a bit of both, Margaret admitted, setting down her bags.
You ever meet Jake Caldwell? Not yet, Mrs. Patterson snorted. Well, don't expect much in the way of conversation. Man's as tight-lipped as they come. Handsome enough if you like the weathered type, but cold as a mountain winter.
Treats his men fair, though never heard of him raising a hand to anyone. Didn't deserve it. After Mrs. Patterson left. Margaret sat on the narrow bed and finally allowed herself to feel the full weight of her situation. The room was sparse but clean with a wash stand, a small mirror, and hooks on the wall for clothing.
Through the window, she could see the vast prairie stretching endlessly under the afternoon sun. She pulled out the advertisement once more, smoothing its creases. Such a small thing to have brought her so far from everything she'd known. But what choice did she have? The alternative was accepting charity from disapproving relatives or finding work in a factory, if they'd even hire a woman her age with no experience.
No, this was her chance. Perhaps her only chance. That night, she lay awake listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the frontier town. Piano music and rough laughter from the saloon. Horses snorting in the street, the distant howl of what might have been a coyote.
Tomorrow, she would leave even this small outpost of civilization behind for a ranch 20 m into the wilderness to cook for a man nobody seemed to truly know, and cowboys who hadn't seen a woman in months. Margaret Sullivan, who had once presided over elegant dinner parties and worn silk gowns to the Philadelphia Opera House, closed her eyes and tried not to think about what she'd gotten herself into. Instead, she focused on the one thing that mattered, survival. She would learn to cook. She would learn to manage a ranch kitchen.
She would do whatever it took to earn her keep and perhaps eventually find some measure of peace in this vast, wild land. The advertisement crinkled in her hand as she finally drifted off to sleep. Still clutching that fragile promise of a new beginning, the supply wagon jolted over another rut, and Margaret gripped the wooden seat to keep from sliding off. Old Pete, the driver Morrison had hired, hadn't spoken more than 10 words since they'd left Willow Creek at dawn. The landscape had gradually transformed from the relative civilization near town to an endless sea of golden prairie grass broken only by occasional stands of cottonwoods along dried creek beds.
"That's the Circle M boundary, " Pete finally said, pointing to a wooden gate with the ranch's brand burned into the crossbeam. "Another 3 mi to the main house. " Margaret's stomach tightened. She'd spent the long ride rehearsing what she would say, how she would present herself as capable and confident. But as the ranch buildings came into view, her carefully prepared words scattered like dust in the wind.