What made them good? Tom grinned. Well, ma'am, mostly that they were hot and there was plenty. Cowboys aren't too particular after a long day, though. Jake's got more refined tastes than the rest of us.
Comes from being raised proper, I expect. Mr. Caldwell was raised properly. Margaret tried to keep her tone casual as she stirred the pot. So, they say her came from a good family back in Texas. Maybe even went to one of those fancy colleges.
But something happened. Nobody knows what, and he ended up out here. Tom started stacking wood by the stove. He's a fair boss, though. Expects hard work, but pays honest wages.
Just don't cross him. He's got a temper when riled, though it takes a lot to rile him. Margaret filed this information away. A man of education who'd chosen or been forced into this isolated life. It explained the precise way he spoke, the air of authority that went beyond mere ranch ownership.
By the time the dinner bell rang, an actual bell mounted on a post outside the kitchen door, Margaret had managed to produce a pot of stew that looked edible, a batch of biscuits that were only slightly burned on the bottom, and coffee that could indeed float a horseshoe. She stood nervously as the cowboys filed in, each nodding politely and mumbling, "Ma'am, " as they took their seats. Jake entered last, taking the chair at the head of the table. His eyes surveyed the simple meal, then rose to meet hers. "Gentlemen, " he said, "this is Mrs. Sullivan, our new cook.
Mind your manners. " The meal passed in relative quiet, punctuated by the clink of spoons against bowls and requests to pass the biscuits. Margaret watched anxiously as the men ate. No one complained, but no one complimented her either. She noticed Jake ate more slowly than the others, as if evaluating each bite.
When the last man pushed back from the table, Jake stood, "Mrs. Sullivan, a word. " She followed him onto the back porch where the setting sun painted the prairie gold and crimson. Her hands twisted in her apron as she waited for his verdict. The stew was underseasoned, the biscuits were heavy, and the coffee could strip paint, he said bluntly. Then unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth quirked upward.
"But you kept trying even when that stove was getting the better of you. And you asked Tom for advice instead of pretending you knew everything. That shows sense. Does that mean I can stay? It means you get your week like I promised.
" He looked out over the prairie, his profile sharp against the dying light. Can you read and write, Mrs. Sullivan? Of course. Good. The ranch accounts need keeping, and my penmanship's terrible.
If you can manage the books along with the cooking, I'll add extra to your wages. He turned back to her. But remember what I said about laughter. A good meal fills the stomach. A cheerful kitchen fills something else.
Something harder to name, but just as important. As he walked away, Margaret called after him, "Mr. Caldwell, what made you leave Texas? " He paused, but didn't turn around. "Same thing that brought you here. I expect sometimes a person needs to go where the past can't follow.