What kind of men work there? Evelyn felt her jaw tighten. I imagine they're the kind who need to eat, same as everyone else. It's not proper for a young woman to be out there alone with all those ranch hands. People will talk.
People are already talking. Evelyn picked up a small bundle of fabric that might work for spare clothes. At least this way I'll give them something real to talk about. Mrs. Brennan's face pinched into something sour. Your mother would be ashamed.
The words hit harder than they should have. Evelyn set down the fabric carefully, taking a slow breath before she responded. My mother would understand doing what needs to be done to survive. Now, do you want my money, or should I take it elsewhere? They completed the transaction in hostile silence.
Evelyn left with a small bundle of necessities and the absolute certainty that by nightfall the entire town would know every detail of their conversation, probably with embellishments. Her next stop was the boarding house where Mrs. Patterson lived. The older woman had been kind to Evelyn's mother, one of the few in town who hadn't turned her back when things got bad. If anyone could tell her the truth about what she was walking into, it would be her. Mrs. Patterson answered the door herself, her weathered face creasing into something almost like sympathy when she saw who it was.
Evelyn. Come in, child. I've been expecting you. The boarding house parlor was small but clean, smelling faintly of lavender and old wood. Mrs. Patterson gestured to a worn armchair and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with two cups of actual coffee, the real kind, not the chicory substitute most people had been drinking since the war.
"I suppose Thomas told you about the position?" Mrs. Patterson said, settling into her own chair with a slight wince. Her knees weren't what they used to be. "He told me they need a cook, that they pay well. That's about all I know."
"Then let me fill in the rest." The old woman took a sip of her coffee, gathering her thoughts. "Dawson Ridgewell owns Thornridge Ranch, biggest cattle operation between here and the territorial line. He runs a tight ship, fair but hard. The men who work for him are rough, but they're not criminals.
Mostly just cowboys trying to make a living." "Why can't they keep a cook?" "Because it's thankless work in the middle of nowhere. The ranch is 20 miles from town, accessible by one road that's barely passable half the year. The bunkhouse kitchen is old, the equipment's outdated, and you'd be cooking for anywhere from 15 to 25 men depending on the season.
Plus there's the main house." Evelyn felt her stomach drop. "The main house?" "Ridgewell has a daughter, Lily. She's about 8 years old, I think.
Her mother died in childbirth, or maybe it was fever. The stories vary. Ridgewell's housekeeper handles most of the cooking there, but she's getting on in years and could use help. So I'd be cooking for the ranch hands and helping in the main house?" "That's the general idea, yes.
Though I'll warn you, Ridgewell himself is not an easy man to work for. He expects perfection and doesn't tolerate excuses. But if you can meet his standards, he'll pay you fair and treat you square." Evelyn turned the coffee cup in her hands, feeling the warmth seep into her palms. "Why are you helping me?
Why did you bring this to Thomas?" Mrs. Patterson's expression softened. "Because I knew your mother, and I know you. You're a hard worker, Evelyn, and you deserve a chance at something better than watching your brother drink away what's left of your family's name. This job won't be easy, but it's honest work with honest pay.