That's more than most folks get these days. What about the other cooks? The ones who didn't last? First one couldn't handle the isolation. Second one got into it with the foreman and left in a huff.
Third one was a drunk. Ridgewell sent him packing after a week. Fourth one was a good cook, but couldn't manage the volume. It's hard work, no denying that. Evelyn set down her cup.
What if I can't do it, either? Then you come back and we figure something else out. But you won't know unless you try. Mrs. Patterson leaned forward, her eyes sharp and knowing. Besides, what's your alternative?
Stay here and watch everything fall apart? At least out there, you'll have a purpose. Tosh. The weekend passed in a blur of preparation. Evelyn packed her few belongings into a canvas bag her father had used for traveling.
Two practical dresses, a spare apron, her mother's old recipe book, and the knife set that was probably the most valuable thing she owned. Everything else she left for Thomas, though what good any of it would do him, she couldn't say. Sunday evening, she found him in the barn, supposedly checking on the horse, but really just hiding with a bottle. "I'm leaving at first light," she said from the doorway. Thomas looked up, and for a moment she saw something like regret cross his face.
"I know." "The money I send back goes straight to the bank, not the saloon, not anywhere else. The bank." "I know." "And you need to find work, real work, not just odd jobs that barely pay for your next drink."
"Evie." "I mean it, Thomas." She stepped into the barn, and the old boards creaked under her feet. "I'm doing this for both of us. Don't make it for nothing.
He stood up, swaying slightly, and for a terrifying moment she thought he might cry. But Thomas Harper hadn't cried since their mother died, and he wasn't about to start now. "I'll make it right," he said. "I promise." Evelyn wanted to believe him.
She really did. But promises were easy, and follow-through was hard, and Thomas had never been good at hard things. "Goodbye, Thomas." "It's not goodbye. You'll be back in 6 months."
She didn't answer. They both knew 6 months was a lifetime when you had nothing to hold on to. The morning she left, Red Hollow was still sleeping off Saturday night's excesses. Evelyn walked to the edge of town where the weekly supply wagon made its run to the northern ranches. The driver was a grizzled old man named Coop, who'd been making this route since before she was born.
"You the new cook for Thornridge?" he asked, looking her up and down with the kind of assessment that came from years of reading people. "That's right." "Huh. You don't look like much." "I can cook."
"Better hope so. Ridgewell don't suffer fools." He gestured to the back of the wagon. "Climb on up. It's a 4-hour ride, and we're already behind schedule."