Everything was coated in a layer of grease and grime that spoke of months, maybe years, of neglect. The floor was sticky under her boots. The windows were so dirty, they barely let in light. And the smell. Evelyn tried not to breathe too deeply.
Like I said, Holloway offered, "Cookie wasn't much for cleaning. Cookie wasn't much for anything apparently. Evelyn set down her bag and walked slowly through the space cataloging the disaster. When's the last time anyone properly scrubbed this place? Define properly.
Never mind. She turned to face him. I'll need supplies, soap, scrub brushes, fresh water, and about a gallon of elbow grease. You're going to clean before you cook? I'm not cooking in this.
I'd poison everyone. She pulled off her traveling shawl and rolled up her sleeves. Is there somewhere I can sleep? Holloway led her to a small room off the kitchen, barely bigger than a closet with a narrow bed, a trunk, and a single window. It was clean at least and private.
Mrs. Chen insisted we fix this up for you, Holloway said. She said no woman should have to sleep in the bunkhouse with the men. Tell her thank you. You can tell her yourself. She wants to meet you after dinner.
He paused at the door. Look, Miss Harper, I'm going to be straight with you. Most of the men are decent, but they're going to test you. They'll complain about the food, make crude jokes, try to get a rise out of you. It's what they do with every new cook.
And what should I do about it? Don't take the bait. Do your job, keep your head down, and eventually they'll accept you. Or they won't. Either way, don't let them see you rattle.
After he left, Evelyn stood in the middle of her new room and let herself feel the full weight of what she'd just taken on. She was 20 miles from anything resembling civilization, surrounded by strange men, responsible for feeding an entire ranch workforce with equipment that looked like it might give her tetanus. But she'd promised Thomas she'd make this work. More than that, she'd promised herself. So she changed into her oldest dress, tied on her apron, and went to war with the kitchen.
By midnight, Evelyn had made a dent in the disaster. The stove was scrubbed within an inch of its life, the prep table was clean enough to actually use, and she'd organized the pantry supplies into something resembling a system. Her hands were raw from lye soap, and her back ached from hours of bending and scrubbing, but the kitchen was starting to look like a place where food could actually be safely prepared. She'd also taken inventory of what she had to work with. The pantry was well stocked with basics: flour, cornmeal, beans, salt pork, coffee, sugar, dried fruit, and spices.
The cold cellar held potatoes, onions, and some sad-looking carrots. There was a smokehouse with bacon and ham, and Holloway had mentioned fresh beef was delivered twice a week. It wasn't fancy, but it was enough to work with. Around 1:00 in the morning, she finally admitted defeat and went to bed. Her little room was stuffy, and the bed was harder than she was used to, but exhaustion won out over discomfort.
She fell asleep planning breakfast menus and dreaming of her mother's recipe book. She woke to someone pounding on her door. "Cook, you up? It's almost 5:00." Evelyn jerked upright, disoriented and panicking.
5:00. Breakfast at 5:30. She'd overslept. She dressed in record time, splashed water on her face from the basin, and burst into the kitchen to find it wasn't empty. A woman in her 60s stood by the stove, already starting a fire.