Chapter 3 - The Worst Biscuits in Texas
By the fourth week of the drive, Maggie no longer needed to call breakfast.
The smell did it for her.
Coffee traveled across open prairie better than any bell.
So did bacon.
Before sunrise, shadowy figures would emerge from bedrolls, hats crooked, shirts half-buttoned, drawn toward the chuck wagon like sleepwalking pilgrims.
Maggie learned to judge the day's mood by how quickly they spoke.
If nobody spoke for ten minutes, the previous day had been brutal.
If they teased one another before coffee, the herd had moved well.
If Clay Mercer sang, everyone was in danger of hearing the same four lines until someone threatened to drown him in a water barrel.
The trail changed Maggie too.
Her hands grew rougher.
Her face browned beneath the Texas sun.
She learned to sleep through cattle bawling and wake instantly if a coffee pot tipped.
She could make biscuits by touch in darkness.
Most importantly, the men stopped thinking of her as “the woman cook.”
She became Maggie.
Nothing more was required.
Noah changed faster.
At first he rode near the rear where junior hands were placed.
He complained about dust.
Then he stopped complaining.
He fell off twice.
The second time, he climbed back onto the horse before anyone reached him.
Levi noticed.
“Boy's learning.”
Maggie watched Noah ride away.
“He better.”
“You worry too much.”
“That's because he doesn't worry enough.”
Levi smiled.
“He talks about buying land.”
Maggie's hands paused over the dough.
“What land?”
“Any land.”
“With what money?”
“The money he's saving.”
That surprised her.
Noah had not mentioned saving.
Maggie looked toward the distant riders.
For years she had thought of him as another mouth she had to keep fed.
When had he become a man planning his own future?
That evening Noah sat beside her fire.
“Levi says you're spying on my finances.”
“Levi talks too much.”
“I've got eleven dollars.”
Maggie nearly dropped the coffee cup.
“Eleven?”
He grinned.
“I'm rich.”
“Don't get reckless.”
“I might buy a shirt.”
“That's exactly the kind of behavior that ruins families.”
He laughed.
Those were the good nights.
The difficult ones came when supplies thinned.
Maggie could calculate portions almost without writing numbers.
Two hundred men.
Four more days to the supply wagon.
Six sacks of flour.
Three bags of beans.
Enough bacon for two mornings if cut thin.
Dried apples.
Coffee.
Not enough sugar.
She changed meals without telling anyone.
Biscuits became corn cakes.
Stew became thick soup.
Bacon grease flavored beans.
Nobody went hungry.
Cole found her one afternoon counting potatoes.
“You're frowning at them.”
“They deserve it.”
“What did they do?”
“There aren't enough.”
“When does the supply wagon reach us?”
“Tomorrow if nothing breaks.”
“And if something breaks?”
“Then these potatoes will become very important.”
Cole crouched beside the sack.
“How many?”
“Forty-two.”
“For two hundred men?”
“Now you understand why I'm frowning.”
He picked up a potato.
“What if we quarter them?”
Maggie stared.
“Mr. Whitaker.”
“Yes?”
“Go back to cattle.”
He smiled.
“Yes, ma'am.”
The wagon arrived a day late.
Maggie never told the men how close breakfast had come to becoming coffee and imagination.
Those were the things Silas Whitaker never understood.
He understood numbers.
Not margins.
At least, not the human kind.
Silas arrived near Red River with seventy additional riders and several thousand more cattle belonging to Whitaker partners.
Maggie saw him for the first time from behind the wagon.
Black hat.
Charcoal coat despite the heat.
Straight-backed in the saddle.
Men moved differently around him.
Faster.
Silas dismounted and immediately began asking questions.
“How many head lost?”
“Four.”
“Why?”
“One lame. Three wandered during the storm.”
“Find them?”
“Two.”
Silas's mouth hardened.
“And the third?”
Levi answered. “Gone.”
Silas looked as though someone had stolen money directly from his pocket.
Then his gaze shifted toward Maggie's wagon.
Nearly thirty men were standing nearby.
Some eating.
Some talking.
Some waiting for coffee.
“What's that?”
Cole followed his gaze.
“Dinner.”
“Looks like a town meeting.”
Cole laughed once.
Silas did not.
Later Silas approached Maggie.
“You're Reed?”
“Maggie Reed.”
“I asked if you're Reed.”
“Yes.”
His eyes moved over the supplies.
“You've exceeded the original flour estimate.”
“We're feeding more men than the original estimate.”
“Thirty-seven percent more flour.”
“Approximately.”
“You know that without checking?”
“Yes.”
Silas seemed annoyed rather than impressed.
“What about coffee?”
“Up forty-one percent.”
“Sugar?”
“Down nine.”
That caught him.
“Why?”
“I reduced it in coffee and saved it for meals.”
Silas stared at her.
“Men complain?”
“Constantly.”
Cole, standing nearby, hid a smile.
Maggie continued.
“Just not about sugar.”
Silas looked at Cole.
“You let her manage purchasing?”
“I let her tell us what she needs.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Cole's smile disappeared.
Maggie understood immediately.
This was not a conversation about flour.
Silas was measuring control.
That night another man joined supper.
Harlan Voss.
Thin.
Forties.
Clean cuffs.
Small spectacles.
He introduced himself as Whitaker's accounting agent.
Unlike cowboys, Harlan ate slowly, examining everything.
“How much beef is in this stew?”
Maggie looked at his bowl.
“Enough.”
“I mean by weight.”
“I didn't weigh your portion.”
“The entire pot.”
“Twenty-three pounds.”
He smiled faintly.
“Mr. Whitaker tells me provisions are running above estimate.”
“We're carrying more riders.”
“That would explain some of it.”
“Some?”
Harlan placed his spoon down.
“You understand waste is expensive.”
Maggie's expression cooled.
“So is starvation.”
“No one suggested starvation.”
“Then we're agreed.”
Across the fire, Cole watched them.
Later he approached Maggie.
“Don't let Voss bother you.”
“Is he always like that?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
“Finds money.”
“For who?”
“My uncle.”
Maggie looked toward Silas's tent, where a lantern glowed.
“And when money goes missing?”
Cole's expression changed.
“Harlan finds that too.”
Three nights later, Maggie discovered an entire sack of coffee missing from the inventory.
Then half a crate of dried fruit.
Then bacon.
At first she blamed exhaustion.
So she counted everything again.
The numbers remained wrong.
She checked her written records.
The deliveries did not match the quantities Harlan had entered in his book.
Maggie mentioned it to Cole.
He frowned.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
“I'll check.”
He never returned to the subject.
Two days later, Silas accused Maggie of overspending.
And when she challenged the numbers, Harlan Voss smiled.
That was when Maggie understood something dangerous.
The missing supplies were not an accident.
Someone was changing the books.
May you like
And somehow, the trail was being prepared to blame her.
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