Chapter 1 - The Widow Who Rode Into a Hungry Camp
The beans hit the fire with a wet slap.
For one strange second, nobody moved.
Then the blackened iron pot rolled through the ashes, spilling what was supposed to have been supper beneath the rear wheel of the chuck wagon.
Twelve hungry cattlemen stared at it.
Smoke curled upward.
A few beans hissed when they landed on glowing coals.
Seventeen-year-old Ellis Reed slowly removed his hat.
“Should we bury it?”
Dusty Cooper spat into the grass.
“Bury the cook.”
Ellis frowned.
“I am the cook.”
“Exactly.”
A few men laughed, but hunger had robbed the joke of most of its humor.
Twenty feet away, Walker Boone sat on an overturned grain crate with the trail ledger balanced across one knee.
He closed his eyes.
Counted to five.
Opened them.
The beans were still there.
So was Ellis.
So, unfortunately, was the problem.
“That’s the third pot this week,” Dusty said.
“I know,” Walker answered.
“Yesterday the biscuits were raw.”
“I know.”
“Perry burned the coffee before that.”
Perry Callahan looked offended.
“My coffee was drinkable.”
Dusty stared at him.
“It peeled something off the inside of my cup.”
“We use tin cups.”
“That's exactly what worries me.”
Walker slammed the ledger shut.
Six hundred and eighty-three cattle stood scattered across the grassland beyond camp, their dark shapes stretching toward the distant hills beneath a dying orange sky.
Forty miles separated the outfit from the Cimarron.
Hundreds more separated them from Kansas.
And their cook was lying inside the wagon with his left leg splinted from ankle to thigh.
Amos Bidwell could normally feed fifteen men with flour, beans, salt pork, coffee, and enough profanity to make a preacher abandon the ministry.
But six days earlier his horse had stepped into a prairie-dog hole.
The horse survived.
Amos survived.
His leg had not been so fortunate.
Now fever came and went, and every man on Walker’s outfit had attempted to replace him.
Every man had failed.
Spectacularly.
Ellis could rope a running steer from horseback.
He could not bake a biscuit.
Perry could track cattle across bare rock.
He somehow managed to boil bacon.
Dusty had made stew so thick that Ellis suggested they use it to repair a crack in the wagon.
Walker himself had tried cooking once.
Nobody had discussed that evening afterward.
“Tomorrow I cook,” Walker announced.
Eleven men stared at him.
Dusty removed his hat.
Walker narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Praying.”
“Put your hat back on.”
“With respect, boss, I’d rather eat the saddle.”
That was when the mule appeared.
It came through the high grass east of camp at an easy walk.
Ellis saw it first.
His smile disappeared.
“Walker.”
Walker turned.
A lone rider was approaching.
Not one of their outriders.
Not a rancher.
Not a cowboy from another outfit.
A woman.
Conversation died around the fire.
She sat straight despite obvious exhaustion, holding the reins loosely in one hand. Dust covered the hem of her long brown traveling skirt. A faded cream blouse covered her shoulders, its sleeves rolled above her wrists. A battered felt hat shaded a face browned by sun and hardened by circumstances Walker could only guess at.
Across her chest was tied a faded blue cloth sling.
Something moved inside it.
A tiny face appeared.
The baby blinked at the twelve cowboys.
Dusty whispered, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
The woman’s gaze drifted toward the ruined beans.
“You probably already are.”
Ellis coughed to hide his laugh.
Walker stood.
The woman stopped the mule a few yards from him.
He noticed several things immediately.
The mule was exhausted.
So was she.
Her boots were badly worn.
There was dust on her face, and shadows beneath her eyes suggested she had spent several nights sleeping badly.
But there was nothing helpless in the way she looked at him.
“This is a cattle drive, ma’am,” Walker said.
Her eyes moved toward the enormous herd behind him.
“I noticed the cattle.”
Somebody snorted.
Walker didn't turn around.
“Where did you come from?”
“South.”
“Where are you going?”
“North.”
“That isn't a town.”
“It’s a direction.”
This time even Dusty smiled.
Walker folded his arms.
“You’re traveling alone?”
She glanced at the infant.
“Apparently not.”
A few of the men lowered their heads.
Walker felt his patience thinning.
“Your name.”
“Josephine Vance.”
The reaction behind him changed instantly.
Dusty stepped forward.
“Vance?”
Josephine looked at him.
Dusty’s expression had lost every trace of amusement.
“Amos Vance?”
Her right hand settled protectively over the baby.
“Yes.”
“Your husband?”
A pause.
Then:
“He was.”
Dusty took off his hat.
Perry did the same.
Then Ellis.
One after another, hats came away.
Walker remembered the name.
Every cattleman who had driven north during the previous two years remembered Amos Vance.
The Washita storm.
It had rolled over the plains after midnight with lightning so violent that men later swore the earth had turned white beneath their horses.
Nearly two thousand cattle stampeded.
Six cowboys died.
Amos Vance had been one of them.
Walker had never known him personally, but he knew men who had.
They said Amos had turned his horse back toward the herd when he could have ridden clear.
They said he had been trying to reach another cowboy when his horse went down.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Dusty said.
Josephine gave a small nod.
“So am I.”
Nothing more.
No tears.
No trembling voice.
No attempt to make strangers pity her.
Walker understood that kind of grief.
The grief that had been carried so long it no longer needed an audience.
He softened his tone slightly.
“What are you doing out here?”
“My sister lives outside Caldwell.”
“That’s north of here.”
“I know.”
“You came from Caldwell?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
Josephine hesitated.
“Her husband moved us south last winter. He thought there would be better work.”
“And?”
“There wasn’t.”
The baby shifted.
Josephine gently touched his head.
Walker noticed the movement.
“How old?”
“Six months.”
“Name?”
“Sam.”
“Samuel?”
“Just Sam.”
The child stared at Walker with enormous solemn eyes.
Walker looked away first.
“You shouldn't be traveling this country alone.”
Josephine’s expression immediately hardened.
“I don't recall asking where you thought I should travel.”
Dusty turned away to hide another grin.
Walker ignored him.
“There are Comancheros, horse thieves, desperate men and worse between here and Kansas.”
“There were desperate men where I came from.”
“That doesn't make this safer.”
“No. It makes it familiar.”
Something about the answer stopped him.
Josephine began climbing down.
Walker instinctively stepped forward.
“I can—”
“I've got it.”
She dismounted without his help.
The moment her boots touched the earth, pain crossed her face.
Only for a second.
Then it disappeared.
She had been riding too long.
Walker knew it.
She knew he knew it.
Neither mentioned it.
“My sister took me in after Sam was born,” Josephine said. “She did what she could.”
“Then why leave?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Because there's a difference between being helped and being reminded every morning that you need helping.”
Walker said nothing.
Josephine looked toward the chuck wagon.
“I heard trail outfits were hiring.”
“Hiring what?”
“Cooks.”
Behind Walker came the faintest sound of twelve men suddenly becoming very interested.
He didn't have to turn around.
“No.”
Josephine blinked.
“No what?”
“No women on my drive.”
“I’m not asking to become a woman on your drive.”
Perry coughed.
Josephine continued.
“I’m asking to become your cook.”
“Same problem.”
“Doesn't look like the same problem from here.”
Her gaze traveled toward the spilled beans.
Walker followed it despite himself.
The burned remains of supper smoked beneath the wagon.
Ellis quietly pushed the ruined pot farther behind his boot.
Too late.
Josephine walked toward it.
“Ma’am—”
She crouched.
Picked up the iron pot.
Smelled it.
Looked inside.
Then looked at Ellis.
“You cook these?”
Ellis swallowed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long?”
“An hour.”
Josephine stared at him.
“Why?”
Ellis opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
She set the pot down.
“What else do you have?”
Walker stepped between her and the wagon.
“Nothing you're cooking.”
Josephine looked up at him.
“Aren't your men hungry?”
“They'll manage.”
A voice behind him muttered, “Barely.”
Walker turned.
Every man suddenly found somewhere else to look.
He faced Josephine again.
“A trail drive is no place for a baby.”
“He survived a Kansas winter in a cabin with gaps wide enough to throw a cat through.”
“That isn't an argument.”
“He’ll manage.”
“No.”
Josephine breathed slowly through her nose.
The muscles in her jaw tightened.
Walker expected anger.
Instead she walked around him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“For what?”
She opened the chuck wagon.
“For supper.”
Walker followed.
“You don't work for me.”
“Not yet.”
“You're not going to.”
“Then you've got nothing to lose.”
That stopped him.
Josephine began examining supplies.
Flour.
Coffee.
Salt pork.
Dried apples.
Beans.
Molasses.
Onions.
A small sack of cornmeal.
She worked quickly.
Confidently.
Walker recognized competence when he saw it, even if he didn't particularly want to.
Josephine looked at Ellis.
“Water.”
Ellis glanced at Walker.
Walker stared back.
Ellis remained frozen.
Josephine sighed.
“Son, unless your boss intends to feed you his ledger, I suggest you bring me water.”
Dusty burst out laughing.
Ellis ran for the barrel.
“Ellis!”
He stopped.
Walker looked around the camp.
Twelve hungry faces watched him.
Then his eyes settled on Josephine.
She had already tied a stained apron around her waist.
The baby remained sleeping against her chest.
“You get one meal,” Walker said.
Josephine nodded.
“One.”
“If it's bad, you leave in the morning.”
“Fair.”
“If it's good—”
“I stay.”
Walker frowned.
“I didn't say that.”
“You were going to.”
“No, I wasn't.”
“Then you should learn to finish sentences faster.”
Dusty turned his laugh into a cough.
Josephine went to work.
And twenty minutes later, something impossible happened.
The camp began to smell like food.
Real food.
Onions browned in bacon grease.
Cornmeal cakes crisped in an iron skillet.
Beans simmered with salt pork, molasses, and something Josephine found in Amos Bidwell’s spice box.
Men who had spent the previous week avoiding the cooking fire began drifting toward it.
One by one.
Trying to pretend they weren't.
Josephine noticed.
She said nothing.
Walker watched from his crate.
He told himself he was evaluating her.
That was all.
She moved carefully around the fire, one hand occasionally touching Sam’s back while the other stirred the pot.
No wasted motion.
No panic.
No asking for assistance except when something genuinely required two hands.
She knew the wagon.
She knew fire.
She knew how hungry men ate.
More importantly, she knew how to make them wait.
“Not yet,” she said when Dusty approached with a plate.
Dusty stopped.
“I was just—”
“Stealing.”
“I was inspecting.”
“With a fork?”
Dusty looked at the fork.
“Professional equipment.”
“Sit down.”
Dusty sat.
Immediately.
Walker almost smiled.
Almost.
When Josephine finally served the meal, nobody spoke for the first minute.
That worried her.
She stood beside the fire, watching.
Then Perry closed his eyes.
“Lord Almighty.”
Dusty pointed his fork toward Josephine.
“Walker.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I have.”
Ellis shoved another corn cake into his mouth.
“Hire her.”
“No.”
“Hire her twice.”
“No.”
Perry lifted his plate.
“I'd give up wages.”
“You owe me money.”
“Then take it from whatever I owe you.”
Even Josephine smiled at that.
Walker accepted the plate she offered him.
Their fingers almost touched.
He took a bite.
He hated what happened next.
It was good.
Not merely edible.
Good.
Better than Amos’s cooking, although Walker would never say that within Amos’s hearing.
Josephine watched his face.
“Well?”
Walker chewed slowly.
“Needs salt.”
Every cowboy stared at him.
Josephine's eyebrow lifted.
“You're a terrible liar, Mr. Boone.”
Walker froze.
He hadn't told her his surname.
Josephine turned toward the wagon.
There, burned into the side panel, were the words:
BOONE CATTLE COMPANY.
Dusty laughed so hard he nearly dropped his plate.
Walker looked at the sunset.
This woman was trouble.
He knew it.
He could feel it.
And yet, for the first time in six days, his men were eating instead of complaining.
Sam woke and made a tiny sound.
Josephine immediately softened.
The transformation lasted only seconds, but Walker saw it.
The hardened widow disappeared.
A mother remained.
She touched her baby's cheek.
“Easy, sweetheart.”
Sam settled again.
Walker lowered his eyes to his plate.
He suddenly remembered something his father used to say.
Never make a decision when you're hungry.
Unfortunately, Walker Boone was no longer hungry.
Which meant he had no excuse.
“You can stay until the Cimarron,” he said.
The camp went silent.
Josephine looked at him.
“After that?”
“We'll see.”
“No.”
Walker frowned.
“No?”
“I don't work on ‘we'll see.’”
“You rode into my camp asking for employment.”
“And I just proved I can do the job.”
“You proved you can cook one supper.”
Josephine stepped closer.
“Then give me seven days.”
“For what?”
“To prove you need me.”
Walker almost laughed.
“I don't need anybody.”
Something changed in Josephine’s eyes.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Perhaps she had once said the same thing.
“Everybody needs somebody eventually, Mr. Boone.”
Walker held her gaze.
The fire crackled between them.
Beyond camp, cattle shifted beneath the darkening sky.
Finally Walker said, “Seven days.”
Josephine extended her hand.
Walker looked at it.
Then shook it.
Her palm was rough.
A working woman's hand.
“Seven days,” he repeated.
Josephine released him.
“Good.”
Walker turned away.
He had gone three steps when she called after him.
“One more thing.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I keep the wagon.”
Walker slowly turned around.
“You what?”
“If I'm cooking, I run the chuck wagon.”
“No.”
“You want another pot of Ellis's beans?”
Ellis raised his hand.
“She has a point.”
Walker glared at him.
Josephine folded her arms.
“The wagon is my kitchen. Nobody touches supplies without asking. Nobody leaves dirty plates for me. Nobody takes food before it's served. And nobody wakes Sam unless the cattle are on fire.”
“The cattle don't catch fire.”
“Then nobody wakes him.”
Dusty grinned.
Walker stared at the twelve men.
They were waiting.
Not for him.
For her.
And that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“Fine,” he said.
Josephine smiled faintly.
It was the first real smile Walker had seen from her.
For reasons he couldn't explain, he wished she hadn't done it.
Because for one dangerous second, Josephine Vance didn't look weathered.
She looked beautiful.
Walker immediately turned away.
“Bed down,” he ordered. “We move before sunrise.”
The men dispersed.
Josephine began cleaning.
Hours later, after the fire had burned low and the camp had fallen quiet, Walker woke to a strange sound.
A wagon wheel.
He sat up.
Josephine was standing beside the chuck wagon.
Fully dressed.
Sam tied against her chest.
Her few belongings were already inside.
Walker reached for his boots.
Then he saw what she was holding.
A folded piece of paper.
She stared at it beneath the moonlight.
Her hands were trembling.
For the first time since she had arrived, Josephine Vance looked frightened.
Walker approached quietly.
“What is it?”
She spun around and hid the paper behind her back.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn't look like nothing.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Josephine.”
Her face changed when he used her first name.
Walker noticed.
So did she.
Neither commented.
Then a horse whinnied somewhere beyond the camp.
Josephine went pale.
Walker turned toward the darkness.
A rider stood on the ridge.
Motionless.
Watching them.
Walker reached for his revolver.
When he looked back at Josephine, the fear in her eyes told him something her words had not.
She knew exactly who the rider was.
May you like
And whoever Josephine Vance had been running from had just found her.
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