Another man appeared behind him. Empty plate. Then another and another. Rebecca looked up. A second line had formed.
Men who had already eaten were waiting again. No one joked now. No one needed convincing. From across the yard, Franklin Webb stood with his arms folded. He gave Rebecca one small nod.
Edwin Mercer watched, too. His expression was harder to read. Everett stood besides the corral fence. Rebecca met his eyes. He didn't smile.
He simply lifted his coffee mug toward her, a small salute. Rebecca turned back to the food before he could see the warmth that rose into her face. By sunset, the pots were empty. Every biscuit was gone. The last spoonful of beans had been scraped from the bottom.
Rebecca stood beside the fire, rubbing the ache from her lower back when Everett approached. He held out a folded piece of paper. Inside was the agreed payment. Rebecca counted it. Every dollar plus two more.
She looked up. We agreed on a price. Those aren't for you. What are they for? The two ranch boys you put to work peeling potatoes.
You had them working half the day. Rebecca looked toward the bunk house where the boys were carrying empty water buckets. You're paying them. They worked. She folded the money again.
Something about that answer settled quietly inside her. Tomorrow, Everett said, there'll be more men. Rebecca looked at the empty pots. Then tomorrow I'll make more food. His eyes stayed on her.
You sure? Rebecca tied her apron tighter. Mr. Hail? They came back for seconds.
The corner of his mouth lifted. Yes, ma'am. And while evening spread purple beneath the Wind River Mountains, Rebecca Foster began soaking another pot of beans. The second day of branding started before sunrise. By the time the eastern sky turned pale, coffee was boiling over the fire, and Rebecca had biscuit dough lined beneath damp cloths.
Her shoulders complained from the day before, and a blister had opened along the base of her right thumb. But she wrapped it with clean cloth and kept moving. The ranch woke around her. Saddles creaked. Horses stamped against hitching rails.
Franklin Webb crossed the yard carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder and stopped long enough to take the first mug of coffee. “Strong,” he said after one swallow. That a complaint? No, ma'am. Then drink it before somebody else does.
Franklin almost smiled. By noon, Rebecca had stopped counting plates. Men came from the corral in groups, washed at the pump, ate, and returned to work. The red-haired cowboy from the day before approached her without a joke this time. Name's Owen, he said.
Rebecca, I know. He shifted his hat in his hands about yesterday. Rebecca waited. Owen glanced toward the corral. I talk too much when I'm hungry.
You talked too much after you ate, too. His face reened. Rebecca handed him a biscuit. But you brought your plate back. He looked at the biscuit, then at her.