The Circle M sprawled across a natural bowl in the prairie, sheltered by low hills. The main house was built of logs and rough-hewn planks, solid and unadorned. To one side stood a large barn and several corrals where horses milled about, a bunk house, smokehouse, and various outbuildings completed the picture. It was larger than she'd expected, more established, but there was a loneliness to it. No flowers, no curtains in the windows, no feminine touches to soften the harsh utility of the place.
Pete pulled up in front of the main house. Wait here, he said, climbing down with surprising agility for his age. I'll fetch Jake. Margaret remained on the wagon seat, acutely aware of how she must look, dust covered despite her efforts to stay clean, wearing her new calico dress that still felt strange against her skin. Her hands soft and white where they clutched her carpet bag.
Through the kitchen window, she glimpsed a stove that looked like a black iron monster, nothing like the modern range she'd had in Philadelphia. The front door opened, and Margaret's breath caught. Jake Caldwell was not what she'd expected. She'd imagined someone older, rougher, perhaps gone to seed from hard living. Instead, the man who emerged appeared to be in his late 30s, tall and lean with the kind of strength that came from hard work rather than conscious exercise.
His face was weathered to a permanent tan with lines around steel gray eyes that suggested he squinted into the sun more often than he smiled. Dark hair a shade too long, showed threads of premature silver at the temples. He wore plain work clothes, denim pants, a blue cotton shirt, leather vest, but carried himself with an unconscious authority that would have been recognized in any Philadelphia drawing room. He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, thumbs hooked in his belt, and studied her with those penetrating gray eyes, the silence stretched uncomfortably. Mrs. Sullivan, Pete said, clearly feeling the need to fill the void.
Come about the cook position. Jake's gaze never left Margaret's face when he finally spoke. His voice was deep and measured, with a slight Texas drawl. You ever cook for 15 hungry men, Mrs. Sullivan? No, Mr. Caldwell, but I'm willing to learn.
This isn't a schoolhouse. I need someone who can do the job, not someone who might learn to do it eventually. Margaret lifted her chin. Then why has the position been vacant for 2 months? Something flickered in his eyes.
Surprise, perhaps, or approval. Because most folks are smart enough to know better. Ranch cooking means up at 4. Breakfast on the table by 5. Lunch packed for the men who will be out on the range.
Dinner ready when they return. It means baking bread, preserving meat, maintaining supplies, and doing it all on a wood stove that has moods like a fractious horse. I understand. Do you? He stepped closer to the wagon, and Margaret caught the scent of leather, horse, and open sky.
Can you lift a full pot of stew, haul water from the well, kill and pluck a chicken? Because there's no one here to do it for you. Margaret met his gaze steadily. Mr. Caldwell, 3 months ago, I buried my husband and discovered I was penniless. Two months ago, I sold everything I owned to pay debts that weren't even mine.
One month ago, I slept in a railway station because I couldn't afford lodging. I have learned, sir, that necessity is an excellent teacher. The words came out sharper than she'd intended, driven by desperation and pride. Jake studied her for another long moment, then turned to Pete. Bring her bags to the kitchen.
"Does that mean—" Margaret began. "It means you get a week to prove you can handle it? If you can't, Pete will take you back to town when he brings the next supplies. He started back toward the house. Then paused.