" Standing there in the gathering darkness, covered in flour and smelling of wood smoke, Margaret suddenly understood that this weathered taciturn man might be running from ghosts of his own. And perhaps that's what the Circle M really was. Not just a cattle ranch on the edge of nowhere, but a refuge for souls who'd lost their way and were trying to find it again. One day at a time, she returned to the kitchen to face the mountain of dishes, her back aching and her hands raw. But for the first time in months, she felt something besides despair.
It might have been hope, or it might have simply been exhaustion. Either way, she'd survived her first meal. Only 6 days and 18 meals to go. The second morning dawned with disaster. Margaret woke to the acrid smell of smoke and bolted from her small room to find the biscuits she'd set to bake had turned into charcoal bricks.
The coffee pot had boiled over, dousing half the fire and filling the kitchen with wet ash and grounds. In her panic to salvage something, she knocked over the milk pale, sending yesterday's precious collection across the floor. "Lord have mercy, " she muttered, then louder. "Damn this infernal stove language, Mrs. Sullivan. She whirled to find Jake standing in the doorway, already dressed for the day's work.
Heat flooded her cheeks, whether from embarrassment or the still smoking oven. She couldn't say, "I apologize, Mr. Caldwell. Well, I set the dampers wrong and then everything just she gestured helplessly at the chaos. The men will be here in 20 minutes, " he said, surveying the damage with those unreadable gray eyes. Margaret wanted to sink through the floor.
2 days and she was already failing. I understand. If you want to send me back with Pete, I'll gather my things. Did I say that? He rolled up his sleeves and moved to the stove.
Watch and learn. First, bank the coals like this when you're baking. The dampers need to be barely open, not wide. Second, always set something on the counter to remind you what's in the oven. A spoon, a cup, anything to catch your eye.
His hands were sure and practiced as he adjusted the stove. Now, for salvaging breakfast, the men need to eat. Burned biscuits or no. You've got flour? Yes, but there's no time for new biscuits.
Pancakes, he said, already reaching for a bowl. Faster than biscuits and more forgiving. You mix while I get this fire sorted. They worked side by side in surprising harmony. Jake handled the temperamental stove while Margaret mixed batter, sliced salt pork, and started fresh coffee.
"When Tom Bradley appeared with the morning's eggs, " Jake set him to cooking them in a massive skillet. "Since when do you know your way around a kitchen? " Tom asked, grinning at his boss. "Since I spent 3 months cooking for myself and the crew and we couldn't keep help, " Jake replied curtly. Sometimes a man learned skills he'd rather not need.
The cowboys filed in to find a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and salt pork waiting. If they noticed their boss wiping flour from his hands, they were wise enough not to comment. Margaret watched Jake take his usual seat, his expression giving away nothing of the morning's chaos. After the men left, Margaret faced the mountain of dishes with a heavy heart. Her beautiful hands, which had once played Chopin on a rosewood piano, were already red and chapped from lie soap.
Her back screamed from bending over the low sink. She'd been so confident yesterday. And now giving up already? She turned to find Jake had returned carrying something wrapped in cloth. "I'm not giving up, " she said with more conviction than she felt.