If I fail, Rebecca said, I don't want your money sitting in my pocket. You planning to fail? No. Then I don't see the difference. I do.
Everett considered her. All right. When it's finished. Rebecca held out her hand. He looked at it for half a second, then took it.
His palm swallowed hers, but his grip was careful. Saturday, she said. “Saturday.” Rebecca released him. Then she looked at the little kitchen behind her. Three skillets, two burners, one narrow workt.
40 men. What have I done? Everett picked up his coffee. Taken a job? She gave him a look.
He drank without smiling. Saturday morning began at 4. By 5, Harvey's wagon stood outside loaded with flour, beans, salt pork, dried apples, onions, coffee, molasses, potatoes, and every iron pot Rebecca could borrow without emptying copper ridge of cookware. Harvey tightened the final rope. “You sure about this?” “No.” “Good.” Rebecca looked at him.
“Confidence would have worried me,” he said. The road north climbed gradually from the valley floor. Sage brush gave way to long grass. Then cottonwoods gathered where Hail Creek crossed beneath a wooden bridge. The ranch gate appeared shortly after sunrise.
Hail Creek had been burned into the heavy crossbeam. Beyond it stretched more land than Rebecca had imagined. Pastures rolled toward the foothills. Cattle moved in dark clusters against the yellow grass. A long barn stood west of the main house with corral beyond it and bunkouses farther down the slope.
Men were already riding. Everett met her near the yard. He had been working long enough for dust to mark his boots. You made it. You sound surprised.
I've learned not to sound anything around you until I know what answer I'm getting. Rebecca climbed down from the wagon. Smart man. Another man approached. He was in his late 40s, lean with a sun creased face and a mustache going gray.
Franklin Webb, Everett said. My foreman. Franklin touched two fingers to his hat. Miss Foster. Mr.
Web. His eyes moved toward the wagon, then toward the cook fires, then back to Rebecca. Not rude. Measuring. How many are we expecting?
She asked. 37 confirmed. Could be 42 by supper. Rebecca nodded. Water pump beside the wash house.
Firewood behind the bunk house tables. Franklin pointed toward several trestle tables stacked near the barn. Rebecca started giving instructions. Within 20 minutes, barrels were open, fires were burning, coffee was boiling, and two ranch boys were peeling potatoes because Rebecca had caught them standing nearby with nothing useful in their hands. Everett watched for perhaps a minute.
Then he went back to the corral. That helped. She did not need him hovering. By 9ine, the ranchyard had filled with horses and men. Branding smoke drifted across the corrals.
Calves balled. Ropes snapped against dust. Iron clanged against the braier while riders moved with the practiced rhythm of people who had done the same work every season of their lives. Rebecca worked just as steadily. Beans simmerred with salt pork.