Three men stood near the ruins. One of them remained apart from the others, tall, motionless. His arms folded across his chest. His face carried the hard weariness of a man who had spent the entire night watching part of his life turn to ash. Nia knew immediately that he was Rhett Holt.
Hank pulled the wagon to a stop. "Brought your supplies?" he called. "The woman who answered your notice. Rhett turned. His eyes moved over Nia's two black braids, her earth-brown dress, and her worn moccasins.
There was no open contempt in his face, no kindness either. He studied her the way a rancher might study a broken stretch of fence before deciding whether it could still be repaired. Can you cook? he asked. Yes. Preserve meat?
Yes. No cattle? Enough to tell when one is getting sick before it hits the ground. Rhett held her gaze for another second. You'll sleep in the room beside the kitchen.
Then he turned back toward the burned building as though the interview were finished. Nia climbed down from the wagon without help. The ground beneath her boots was baked hard. Ash hung in the air. Even the ranch house looked weary, as if it had spent too many seasons holding itself upright for the men living inside it.
She did not yet know that water still moved beneath that dead-looking earth. She did not know that someone was willing to poison livestock, burn buildings, and ruin Rhett Holt piece by piece in order to take his land. All she knew was that she had arrived at a ranch standing one bad season away from losing everything. And for the first time in years, Nia felt that maybe there was still something she could keep from being taken. What Nia discovers beneath this dying land will change the fate of Holt Ranch forever.
The kitchen at Holt Ranch looked like it had survived a war and lost. Pots sat crusted with old grease. Flour had hardened against the floorboards. Knives lay unwashed beside stained plates, and a slab of forgotten bacon on the table had spoiled past the point where even a hungry ranch dog would have wanted it. The cook stove was cold.
The room smelled of stale smoke, rancid food, and exhaustion. Nia placed her bag beside the door. She did not ask who had allowed the place to fall into such condition. She did not go looking for Rhett to complain. Instead, she rolled up her sleeves, pushed open the windows, and started with what mattered most.
The spoiled bacon went outside. She heated water, scrubbed the pots, swept the floor, and gathered the little dry firewood she could find stacked along the wall. Once the stove caught, she set beans to simmer, chopped onions, and began working cornmeal dough between her hands. She never hurried. She simply wasted no movement.
That was how Clay Boon found her. The foreman stopped in the back doorway. He was past 50, lean and raw-boned, with a face carved by sun and weather. His eyes had the look of a man who could ride past a fence line once and tell you exactly how many posts needed replacing. His gaze moved from the scrubbed table to the burning stove, then to the pot, sending steam towards the ceiling.
You must be the new woman. Nia. Clay Boon. He did not offer his hand. Nia did not seem to expect one.
Clay Boon nodded toward the pot. What's cooking? Beans. I'll add meat when they're soft. Cornbread will be ready before noon.