Why did one bite make a giant cowboy forget the storm, the blood on his sleeve and everyone else in the room? Rain hammered the station roof as Everett Hail raised a shaking spoon to his mouth. He took one bite of Rebecca Foster's smoky stew and froze. His dark eyes lifted to the plus-sized woman across the stove. “I've never had anything like this,” he whispered.
Then a wounded man collapsed beside them. The rain hit Miller's crossing station so hard the roof sounded like it was being pelted with handfuls of gravel. By 9 that night, 19 people were packed into a room meant comfortably for eight. Wet coats hung from chairbacks. Muddy boots crowded the stove.
A baby fussed beneath a wool blanket while two freighters argued quietly over whose wagon had sunk deepest in the road. Outside, lightning flashed over the Wind River Mountains. Rebecca Foster stood behind the station keeper's narrow kitchen counter with her sleeves rolled above her elbows and flower dried white across both wrists. That's the last of the beef, the station keeper said. His name was Amos Bell.
He was gay-haired, hollow-eyed, and had spent most of the afternoon telling stranded travelers there was nothing he could do about the weather. Rebecca looked into the pot. There wasn't enough. Not for 19. Any beans?
Half a croc, onions, three potatoes, some gone soft. They'll do. Amos watched as she began opening cupboards. You don't work here, Mrs. Foster.
Miss Foster, beg pardon, and I'm aware. Another crack of thunder rattled the window. Rebecca took the smoked beef from the board and sliced it thinner. She had been traveling west for 11 days, carrying two dresses, a coat, a pair of good shoes, her mother's recipe book, and a letter promising work at a mining boarding house in Copper Ridge. She had expected to spend one quiet night at Miller's Crossing.
Instead, the stage road had disappeared beneath brown water, so she cooked. It was easier than listening to hungry people complain. She browned onions and beef drippings, added the smoked meat, beans, potatoes, and enough water to turn what should have fed six people into something that might satisfy 19. A little flour thickened the broth. Black pepper went in next.
Amos watched her reach into her traveling case for a small paper packet. What's that? Something I'm not wasting on your curiosity. He almost smiled. By 10, bowls were passing from hand to hand.
The room changed as people ate. Arguments became quieter. Shoulders dropped. The baby stopped crying after its mother mashed potato into broth and fed it from the end of a spoon. Rebecca ate standing up.
Only half a bowl. She was washing it when someone hammered on the door. Not knocked. Hammered. Conversation died.
Amos looked toward the entrance. The pounding came again. Rebecca put down the dishcloth. A frighter near the stove rose slowly. Amos opened the door.
Wind tore into the station. Rain blew sideways across the floorboards. And for a moment, Rebecca could see almost nothing beyond the black shape filling the doorway. Then the man stepped inside. He was enormous.
He had to lower his head beneath the frame, and even after he straightened, the room seemed built too small around him. Water streamed from the brim of his hat. His canvas coat clung to shoulders broad enough to make two men near the stove instinctively move aside. There was blood on his left sleeve, but it wasn't his. “Need help,” he said.
His voice was low and breathless. Only then did Rebecca see the other man. The giant had been dragging him beneath one arm. “Good Lord,” Amos whispered. His horse went down.