Thursday night became Friday morning beneath a sky filled with stars.
At 1:57 a.m., Gideon woke.
He did not know why.
Then he heard something.
A faint metallic sound from downstairs.
He sat up.
Another sound followed.
The soft knock of a spoon against iron.
Gideon remembered Beatrice's confession.
Every night at two.
He pulled on trousers, boots, and a shirt.
The hallway was dark.
But a line of amber light glowed beneath the kitchen door.
Gideon approached quietly.
He opened it.
And stopped.
The woman inside was not the timid bride who had stood helpless before a burned pan three weeks earlier.
Beatrice moved with astonishing confidence.
The kitchen glowed with fire.
A Dutch oven simmered on the right side of the stove.
Biscuits baked in one compartment.
Bones roasted in another.
Onions browned in a skillet.
A pot of stock steamed near the back.
Her hair was braided tightly, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour.
Every movement had purpose.
She shifted a pot.
Added wood.
Adjusted the damper with two fingers.
Tasted broth.
Added salt.
Turned.
Saw him.
Her hand froze.
"Gideon."
He leaned against the doorway.
"How long?"
"You know how long."
"Show me."
She frowned.
"What?"
"Show me what you've been doing."
Beatrice hesitated.
Then she pointed.
"That is tomorrow's beef."
Gideon approached the pot.
"Looks like stew."
"It isn't."
"What is it?"
"Braised shoulder."
"In what?"
"Stock, coffee, onion, dried chile, vinegar, and a little molasses."
Gideon looked doubtful.
"Coffee?"
"Trust me."
He looked at her.
"I'm learning to."
The words silenced her.
She picked up a spoon.
"Taste."
Gideon did.
His expression changed instantly.
Beatrice watched.
"Well?"
He took another bite.
"That's beef?"
She smiled.
"What did you think it was?"
"I don't know."
He laughed softly.
"This tastes like something I'd pay money for."
"Good."
"How much?"
"A lot."
He stared at her.
She laughed.
It changed her entire face.
Gideon realized then that he had rarely seen her genuinely happy.
He looked around.
"You did all this alone?"
"Cooking doesn't frighten me."
"What does?"
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Beatrice looked down.
"Being unwanted."
The kitchen became still.
Gideon's chest tightened.
"Bea."
She busied herself with onions.
"You don't have to say anything."
"I do."
"No."
"You crossed half the country to marry a stranger."
"So did every mail-order bride."
"Not every one of them stepped off the train and saw disappointment before her husband even said hello."
Gideon flinched.
She had carried that moment every day.
"I'm sorry."
Beatrice nodded.
"I know."
"No. I don't think you do."
He moved closer.
"I spent three years watching everything my family built disappear one inch at a time. When I wrote those letters, I wasn't dreaming about romance."
She looked at him.
"I was looking for another worker."
"I understood."
"You shouldn't have had to."
Gideon's voice lowered.
"I treated marriage like hiring a ranch hand."
"Maybe we both did."
"You didn't."
Beatrice smiled faintly.
"I wanted safety."
He waited.
"My father died owing money to nearly everyone we knew. His creditors took the tavern. Then the house. Then furniture. People who used to dine with us crossed the street when they saw me."
"Bea..."
"I answered your letter because Wyoming sounded far enough away that nobody would know who I used to be."
Gideon looked around the kitchen.
"You should've told me."
"That I was a failed tavern keeper's overweight daughter who needed a husband?"
"You weren't the failure."
She gave him a sad smile.
"That's easy to say when you weren't there."
A sudden noise came from outside.
Both turned.
Metal snapped.
Then cattle bawled.
Gideon grabbed his rifle.
"Stay here."
He ran outside.
Beatrice followed to the porch.
Coot and Toby emerged from the bunkhouse.
Along the northern fence line, dark shapes moved.
"Riders!" Toby shouted.
Gideon mounted without a saddle.
Coot followed.
Within minutes they disappeared into darkness.
Beatrice stood beneath the porch lantern.
Twenty minutes later they returned.
The northern fence had been cut.
Twenty-three head had scattered.
Four were missing.
"Caldwell?" Beatrice asked.
Gideon jumped down.
"Can't prove it."
"Will this affect tomorrow?"
"Everything affects tomorrow."
He looked toward her kitchen.
Then toward the broken fence.
"You need sleep."
"So do you."
"I'll get some when I'm dead."
"That's not funny."
"No."
It wasn't.
They worked until dawn.
By midmorning Gideon had recovered two missing cattle.
Two remained gone.
Beatrice prepared the house.
She set a white cloth over the long dining table.
Polished glasses.
Placed dried autumn flowers in a small pitcher.
She prepared dough.
Reduced stock.
Roasted pumpkin.
Baked molasses cake.
The entire ranch smelled different.
Toby entered at noon and stopped.
"Mrs. Hayes."
"Yes?"
"Are you making heaven?"
She laughed.
"No."
"Smells close."
Coot appeared behind him.
"Boy, quit breathing all the guest's supper."
By four, clouds gathered.
Pendleton's carriage was expected at six.
At four-thirty, Gideon washed and shaved.
Beatrice had never seen him properly dressed.
He wore a clean white shirt, dark vest, black neck cloth, and a brown jacket that had probably belonged to his father.
He entered the kitchen.
Beatrice looked up.
They stared at each other.
"You clean up well," she said.
"So do you."
Beatrice wore a deep green dress from St. Louis.
It fit her generously but elegantly.
Gideon's eyes lingered long enough that she noticed.
For once, she did not look away.
At five-fifteen, Toby shouted from outside.
"Rider!"
Gideon stepped onto the porch.
It was not Pendleton.
It was a boy from Pine Hollow carrying a message.
Gideon read it.
His expression darkened.
"What?" Beatrice asked.
"Bridge is damaged."
"Which bridge?"
"South creek."
"Pendleton's route?"
He nodded.
"Can he cross?"
"Not with a carriage."
Coot swore.
"Caldwell."
Again, no proof.
But everyone knew.
Gideon mounted immediately.
"I'll meet them at the fork and guide them over Miller's crossing."
"How long?" Beatrice asked.
"Could be two hours."
"Food can wait."
"Can Pendleton?"
Gideon rode.
Darkness came early beneath the clouds.
Rain began.
Not enough to help the drought.
Enough to make roads dangerous.
Beatrice kept the meal warm.
Seven o'clock.
No carriage.
Eight.
Still nothing.
Toby paced.
Coot drank coffee.
At eight-thirty, hooves thundered outside.
Gideon appeared first, soaked.
Behind him came a mud-covered carriage.
Four men climbed down.
Horace Pendleton was shorter than Beatrice expected.
About fifty-five, silver-haired, precise, and visibly irritated.
"This," he said, looking at Gideon, "has been the worst thirty miles I've traveled since the Union Pacific nearly killed me outside Laramie."
"I apologize."
"You control the weather too?"
"No."
"Then stop apologizing for it."
Pendleton looked toward the house.
"I'm hungry."
Gideon smiled.
"That I can fix."
They entered.
Pendleton removed his wet coat.
His three associates followed.
Then Pendleton smelled the air.
He stopped.
"What is that?"
Gideon looked toward Beatrice.
She stepped forward.
"Welcome to the Whispering Pine, Mr. Pendleton."
He regarded her.
"Mrs. Hayes?"
"Yes."
"What am I smelling?"
"Your dinner."
Something changed in the man's expression.
Interest.
Fifteen minutes later, the table was filled.
Braised beef.
Roasted carrots and onions.
Creamed corn.
Pumpkin with brown butter.
Biscuits.
Gravy.
Spiced cabbage.
Beatrice had even made a warm pear dessert with molasses.
Pendleton took his first bite of beef.
Nobody spoke.
Beatrice watched him.
He chewed.
Then he looked at Gideon.
"Who cooked this?"
"My wife."
Pendleton looked at her again.
"Where did you learn?"
"St. Louis."
He took another bite.
"Not in an ordinary household."
"No."
Pendleton's eyes narrowed.
"Montgomery Tavern?"
Beatrice froze.
Gideon looked at her.
Pendleton smiled.
"I knew it."
"You knew my father's tavern?"
"I ate there every time I passed through St. Louis."
For several seconds, Beatrice could not speak.
Pendleton pointed his fork toward the beef.
"This sauce. Celeste Montgomery?"
"My aunt."
"Best cook on the Mississippi."
Beatrice's eyes filled unexpectedly.
Pendleton continued eating.
Gideon watched his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
Dinner lasted almost two hours.
The men laughed.
Coot told stories.
Toby nearly choked when Pendleton asked for third helpings.
By the end, Pendleton leaned back.
"Hayes."
"Sir?"
"If your cattle are half as impressive as your wife's supper, we may have business."
Hope surged through the room.
Then Pendleton added:
"But I've already received concerning information about your herd."
Gideon's smile vanished.
"What information?"
Pendleton wiped his mouth.
"That disease has appeared among your cattle."
Coot stood.
"That's a lie."
Pendleton's associates stiffened.
Gideon looked coldly at him.
"Who told you?"
Pendleton met his eyes.
"Josiah Caldwell."
And just like that, the dinner was no longer enough.