Chapter 2 - The Stag in the Ravine
The storm swallowed Abigail within fifty yards.
Whispering Pines vanished behind her.
She tied the rope around her waist, secured the lantern beneath her coat whenever the wind became too violent, and followed Wyatt's directions.
Past the broken cottonwood.
Across the frozen creek.
South toward the ravine.
Every step demanded strength.
Snow reached her knees, sometimes higher.
But Abigail possessed something the starving men at the ranch no longer had.
Reserves.
Her body generated heat beneath layers of wool. Her powerful legs drove through the drifts. Years spent hauling flour sacks and working fourteen-hour kitchen shifts had given her endurance no Chicago drawing room had ever valued.
For once, everything society had mocked about Abigail Prescott was helping keep her alive.
She found the blood trail thirty minutes later.
Frozen crimson against white.
Then paw prints.
Wolves.
"Damn."
She followed.
At the bottom of the ravine lay the stag.
Partially covered in snow.
Wolves had found it, but the cold had preserved much of the carcass.
Abigail drew her knife.
She couldn't drag the whole animal.
So she didn't try.
She worked.
When she finally returned to Whispering Pines, darkness had fallen.
Caleb heard the pounding first.
He staggered toward the door.
"Abigail?"
Three men helped him open it.
She stood outside, covered in snow, pulling a makeshift sled loaded with venison.
Nobody spoke.
Abigail looked at them.
"Are you planning to stare or help?"
That broke the spell.
Within minutes the kitchen became something resembling a military operation.
Abigail boiled bones.
She skimmed broth.
She cut venison into tiny portions.
The weakest men received broth first.
A few spoonfuls.
Then they waited.
No matter how much they begged, she refused to give them more immediately.
"Your stomach isn't a bucket," she told Wyatt. "You'll get another serving when I decide you're ready."
"You're mean."
"Stay alive long enough and complain tomorrow."
He smiled.
By midnight, every man had eaten.
Caleb received his bowl last.
Abigail sat opposite him.
He tasted the broth.
His eyes closed.
For several seconds he said nothing.
"Bad?" Abigail asked.
Caleb opened his eyes.
"My mother used to make broth like this."
"Then your mother understood bones."
A faint smile.
"You saved them."
"I fed them."
"You saved them."
Abigail leaned back.
"Tonight."
Caleb understood.
Tomorrow was another problem.
The next morning Abigail inventoried everything on the ranch.
Two sacks of spoiled barley.
Seven pounds of beans found beneath a broken floorboard.
Four jars of preserved apples overlooked in a cellar niche.
A bag of cattle oats.
Salt.
Three chickens somehow still alive in the barn.
One aging milk cow.
Twenty-one people.
It wasn't enough.
But Abigail didn't see ingredients the way other people did.
She saw possibilities.
Barley could be sorted.
Oats could become porridge.
Bones became stock.
Fat became cooking grease.
Potato peels could thicken soup.
Apple liquid could sweeten oatmeal.
Nothing was discarded.
By the third day, the men could sit upright.
By the fifth, several could walk.
By the seventh, Wyatt chopped wood without stopping every minute.
Caleb regained enough strength to shave.
When he entered the kitchen afterward, Abigail stared.
"What?"
"I was wondering who you were."
Caleb touched his jaw.
"Improvement?"
"Debatable."
He laughed.
Then the sound of horses came from outside.
Every man froze.
Caleb reached instinctively for a rifle.
Abigail noticed.
"Who?"
"Caldwell."
Three riders approached.
The man in front wore a black coat lined with fur.
Unlike everyone at Whispering Pines, he looked well-fed.
Josiah Caldwell dismounted slowly.
Caleb met him on the porch.
Abigail stood just inside.
"Thornton," Caldwell said. "Surprised you're breathing."
"Disappointed?"
"Concerned."
"Try again."
Caldwell smiled.
His gaze shifted to Abigail.
"And who might this be?"
"None of your concern."
Abigail stepped forward.
"Abigail Prescott. Kitchen manager."
Caldwell looked amused.
"Kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Interesting choice of employment at a ranch without food."
Abigail smiled.
"Yet everyone's eating."
Something changed in Caldwell's eyes.
Very small.
But Abigail saw it.
He hadn't expected that.
Caldwell removed a folded document from his coat.
"I came regarding Thornton's debt."
Caleb's face hardened.
"What debt?"
"The emergency feed shipment."
"You never delivered it."
"Contract says payment is due regardless of delivery interruption caused by weather."
"You blocked delivery!"
Caldwell shrugged.
"Prove it."
Abigail watched him.
This was not merely a businessman collecting money.
This was a man checking whether his trap had worked.
Caldwell offered the document.
"Seven days, Thornton. Pay what you owe, or collateral provisions begin."
"My ranch isn't collateral."
"Read the amendment."
Caleb grabbed the paper.
His face changed.
"I never signed this."
Caldwell smiled.
"Your foreman did."
Every man on the porch went still.
Caleb looked around.
"Where's Mercer?"
Nobody answered.
Because suddenly they remembered.
Thomas Mercer, Caleb's foreman, had disappeared the night the winter stores burned.
Abigail stepped beside Caleb.
"How much?"
Caldwell looked at her.
"Eight hundred dollars."
Several cowboys swore.
Eight hundred dollars might as well have been eighty thousand.
"Seven days," Caldwell repeated.
Then he mounted.
Before leaving, he looked once more at Abigail.
"Chicago, aren't you?"
She stiffened.
"Your accent."
"Observant."
"Frontier isn't kind to women who don't know when to leave."
Abigail smiled.
"Neither am I."
Caldwell rode away.
Caleb crumpled the document.
"We're finished."
"No."
He looked at Abigail.
"No?"
"How many cattle survived?"
"Maybe two hundred scattered south."
"Value?"
"If healthy? Four thousand, maybe five."
"Can we recover them?"
"Men aren't strong enough."
"Not today."
Caleb stared at her.
Abigail took the debt notice from his hand.
"Seven days."
"That's nothing."
"It's seven mornings."
"Same thing."
"No."
She turned toward the kitchen.
"It's seven breakfasts."
That afternoon Abigail changed the menu.
More broth.
More meat.
More oats.
More carefully rationed fat.
Food became medicine.
She organized the men into shifts according to strength.
Those who could stand chopped wood.
Those who could walk tended animals.
Those who could ride began searching for the scattered herd.
Caleb watched the ranch come alive around her.
On the sixth morning, fourteen cattle were driven back.
On the seventh, thirty-one more.
But it wasn't enough.
Caldwell arrived at noon.
This time he brought the territorial sheriff.
Caleb stood on the porch.
Abigail stood beside him.
Caldwell smiled.
"Eight hundred dollars."
Caleb said nothing.
Then Abigail reached into her coat.
She produced a folded paper.
Not money.
A contract.
Caldwell's smile faded.
"What is that?"
Abigail handed it to the sheriff.
"My employment agreement."
The sheriff read.
Abigail pointed to a paragraph.
"Ownership shares are granted upon completion of a successful cattle drive."
Caldwell laughed.
"There hasn't been a cattle drive."
"Not yet."
"Then it's worthless."
"Perhaps."
Abigail looked toward the horizon.
Everyone followed her gaze.
Dust rose beyond the snowy ridge.
Then came the sound.
Hooves.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
Wyatt appeared first.
Behind him rode twelve ranch hands.
And behind them came the missing Whispering Pines herd.
Caleb stared.
"How?"
Abigail smiled.
"I sent riders south three days ago."
Wyatt shouted from horseback.
"One hundred eighty-seven head!"
Caldwell's face went pale.
But Abigail wasn't finished.
She turned to the sheriff.
"Mr. Caldwell's claim is based upon a contract signed by Thomas Mercer."
"That's right," Caldwell said.
Abigail nodded.
"Then perhaps we should ask Mr. Mercer whether he signed it willingly."
Caldwell stopped breathing.
Caleb stared at her.
"What are you talking about?"
Abigail looked toward the final horse approaching the ranch.
A man sat tied to the saddle.
Thomas Mercer.
Alive.
And terrified.
When Caldwell saw him, the confidence disappeared from his face.
Because the starving ranch was no longer Caldwell's greatest problem.
The missing foreman had come home.
May you like
And he had a story to tell.
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