Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Came to Cook
By the time the stagecoach disappeared into the white distance, Abigail Prescott understood why the driver had refused to wait.
There was nothing behind her except a pair of narrowing wheel tracks, and nothing ahead except two miles of Dakota Territory buried beneath snow.
The wind struck her hard enough to tug loose several strands of dark brown hair from beneath her bonnet.
Abigail tightened her grip on the two leather valises at her sides.
One contained clothing.
The other contained knives, spices, dried herbs, two carefully wrapped jars of yeast starter, and the notebook in which her mother had written recipes before she died.
Across Abigail's back hung a burlap sack heavy with cast-iron skillets.
Chicago society would have laughed.
It had laughed at almost everything else about her.
At thirty-one, Abigail was unmarried. She was broad-shouldered, full-figured, strong enough to lift a flour barrel, and entirely uninterested in apologizing for any of those things.
For years, people had treated her body as though it were a public disappointment.
Aunt Margaret had once whispered at Christmas dinner that Abigail possessed "the unfortunate dimensions of a farm wife without the benefit of a farm."
Another woman had suggested that she wear darker dresses.
A man Abigail had briefly courted informed her that she would be prettier if she ate less.
Abigail had smiled, served him another slice of pie, and never accepted another invitation from him.
Now all those voices were fifteen hundred miles behind her.
Ahead waited the Whispering Pines Ranch.
The advertisement had been strange enough to interest her.
HEAD KITCHEN MANAGER WANTED. FRONTIER EXPERIENCE PREFERRED. EXCELLENT PAY. OWNERSHIP SHARES FOLLOWING SUCCESSFUL CATTLE DRIVE.
The signature beneath it had read:
Caleb Thornton, Proprietor.
Abigail had answered within twenty-four hours.
She had expected a hard kitchen, rough men, and worse weather.
She had not expected silence.
When the ranch finally appeared through the storm, Abigail stopped.
No smoke rose from the chimney.
The corrals stood empty.
One barn door swung back and forth on a broken hinge.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The sound carried through the storm like a warning.
Abigail resumed walking.
By the time she reached the porch, snow had collected along the shoulders of her coat.
She climbed the steps and knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
Still nothing.
Then she tried the handle.
The door opened.
A smell struck her.
Cold ashes.
Unwashed bodies.
Sickness.
Despair.
Abigail stepped inside.
At first she saw only darkness.
Then someone moved.
A face emerged from beneath a blanket near the wall.
Then another.
And another.
Men were everywhere.
Some lay on mattresses.
Others rested directly on the floor.
A young cowboy sat against a wall with his knees pulled against his chest. His cheeks were sunken so deeply that he looked years older than he probably was.
Near the dead fireplace, five men shared three blankets.
Abigail slowly counted.
Seven.
Twelve.
Sixteen.
Twenty.
Twenty men.
And every one of them was starving.
"Who?"
The voice came from her right.
Abigail turned.
A tall man attempted to rise from a wooden chair.
He failed the first time.
On the second attempt, he managed to straighten halfway.
His clothes hung from him.
His beard was thick and neglected, and exhaustion had carved deep shadows beneath his eyes.
Yet something remained in the way he looked at her.
Authority.
Pride.
And anger that his body could no longer obey him.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
Abigail lowered her valises.
They struck the floor with two heavy thuds.
"Abigail Prescott."
No recognition.
"I answered your advertisement."
The man's expression changed.
"The cook?"
"Kitchen manager."
For one second, nobody moved.
Then the man laughed.
It turned immediately into a cough.
"You're late."
Abigail looked around.
"Apparently."
"Or early."
"For what?"
"Our funeral."
Silence followed.
Abigail studied him.
"You are Caleb Thornton?"
"What's left of him."
She removed her gloves.
"Where is the kitchen?"
Caleb stared at her.
"Lady, did you hear me?"
"Perfectly."
"There isn't any food."
"I asked where the kitchen was."
"There isn't a ranch anymore."
"Kitchen."
A young man near the wall lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward a doorway.
"There," he whispered.
"Thank you."
Abigail walked through it.
The kitchen was almost completely bare.
She opened one cabinet.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
The flour barrel contained dust.
The salt box had been scraped clean.
She opened the pantry.
Empty shelves.
Caleb had followed as far as the doorway.
He leaned against the frame to remain standing.
"Told you."
Abigail examined the cold stove.
"What happened?"
Caleb was quiet.
"Mr. Thornton."
"Josiah Caldwell."
The name meant nothing to her.
"Who is he?"
"The reason we're dying."
Caleb lowered himself onto a stool.
"He owns the mercantile in Coldwater. Controls most freight through the northern pass. Lends money to half the ranchers between here and the river."
"And?"
"He wanted this land."
"Why?"
"Water."
Caleb glanced toward the window.
"The Whispering Pines has the most reliable springs in the valley. Caldwell buys this place, he controls where cattle drink for forty miles."
"You refused."
"Three times."
"What happened after the third?"
"He bought my suppliers."
Abigail said nothing.
"Then somebody burned our winter stores."
"Somebody?"
Caleb's eyes hardened.
"I can't prove Caldwell ordered it."
"But you believe he did."
"I'd bet the ranch on it."
Abigail glanced around the empty kitchen.
"Seems you already have."
That silenced him.
"Three weeks ago," Caleb continued. "Barn went up first. Storehouse ten minutes later. We saved the house and cattle. Then the blizzard came early. Herd scattered south. Horses started dying. Men tried hunting."
"And?"
"We got almost nothing."
Abigail looked toward the room containing twenty starving men.
"Why didn't they leave?"
"Some tried."
Caleb's jaw tightened.
"Two haven't come back."
The kitchen suddenly felt colder.
Abigail removed her heavy coat.
Caleb stared.
"What are you doing?"
"Working."
"With what?"
Abigail ignored him.
She opened the rear door.
Snow rushed inside.
"Close that!"
Abigail stepped outside.
She searched the smokehouse first.
Empty.
Then the shed.
Nothing except tools.
Behind it stood the remains of a root cellar partially collapsed beneath frozen timbers.
Abigail crouched.
Something beneath the boards caught her attention.
Burlap.
She pulled.
Nothing.
She braced one boot against a timber and pulled harder.
The sack tore free.
Potatoes.
Small.
Shriveled.
Half frozen.
But potatoes.
Abigail smiled for the first time since arriving.
She kept searching.
Near the back wall her fingers touched something hard.
A block of salted pork fat.
Dirty.
Old.
But usable.
When Abigail returned, Caleb stared at what she carried.
"You planning to feed twenty men with that?"
"Twenty-one."
"What?"
"You haven't eaten either."
She dropped the potatoes onto the table.
"Need wood."
Caleb shook his head.
"The boys can't—"
"I didn't ask what they can't do."
She walked into the great room.
Twenty pairs of exhausted eyes slowly turned toward her.
"Which one of you can still stand?"
Nobody answered.
Finally the seventeen-year-old who had shown her the kitchen lifted his hand.
"Name?"
"Samuel."
"Can you carry water?"
"I think so."
"Don't think. Can you?"
He swallowed.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good."
Another man raised his hand.
"Wyatt Cole."
"Can you chop wood?"
"Probably."
"No probably."
Wyatt almost smiled.
"Yes."
"Then we have ourselves a kitchen."
Caleb watched in disbelief.
Abigail pointed toward the men.
"Nobody eats quickly. Nobody gets a full plate. You've been starving too long. If you fill your stomachs at once, you'll make yourselves sick."
A cowboy muttered, "Ain't exactly worried about overeating."
A few men laughed weakly.
It was the first laughter the ranch had heard in weeks.
Abigail turned toward the stove.
An hour later, fire lived again inside Whispering Pines.
The smell came next.
Pork fat striking hot iron.
Twenty heads turned.
Abigail rendered the fat slowly, preserving every spoonful.
Then came the potatoes.
Sizzle.
The sound alone seemed capable of resurrecting men.
She chopped them small, skins intact, and cooked them until their edges browned.
But she knew it wasn't enough.
These men needed more than starch.
They needed protein.
Abigail walked back into the great room.
"Has anyone hunted recently?"
Wyatt lifted his head.
"Shot a stag four days back."
"Where?"
"Ravine."
"You bring it home?"
He looked ashamed.
"Couldn't."
"Why?"
"Too weak."
"Wolves?"
"Maybe."
"How far?"
Caleb suddenly understood.
"No."
Abigail looked at him.
"No what?"
"You're not going."
"You don't employ me yet, Mr. Thornton."
"You'll freeze."
"Then I'll dress warmly."
"Snow in that ravine is waist deep."
"On you, perhaps."
A cowboy coughed out a laugh.
Caleb glared at him.
Abigail reached for a rope.
"Directions."
Wyatt explained.
Caleb struggled upright.
"Miss Prescott."
She picked up a lantern.
"Abigail."
"What?"
"If you're going to argue with me, use my name."
"I'm not letting you walk into a blizzard after a carcass that's probably already been eaten."
Abigail fastened a hunting knife to her belt.
"You said there was nothing left."
"There isn't."
"Then either that stag is there or it isn't. If it is, twenty-one people eat. If it isn't, I've lost an hour."
"You could lose your life."
Abigail looked at him.
For the first time, Caleb saw something beneath her composure.
Not recklessness.
Not foolish courage.
Certainty.
"I didn't cross half a continent to watch twenty men die because nobody wanted to walk through snow."
She opened the door.
Wind exploded into the room.
Before stepping through, Abigail looked back.
"Keep my skillet hot."
Then she disappeared into white.
Caleb stood staring at the closed door.
Samuel whispered from the floor.
"Boss?"
"What?"
"You think she'll come back?"
Caleb looked toward the kitchen, where potatoes crackled in Abigail Prescott's iron skillet.
He didn't answer.
Because somewhere beneath his exhaustion, Caleb Thornton had realized something unsettling.
The woman who had walked through his door less than two hours earlier had already done what he had failed to do for three weeks.
She had made his men believe tomorrow existed.
And now she was walking into a Dakota blizzard to prove it.
May you like
What none of them knew was that Abigail would not return alone.
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