August brought trouble.
His name was Vernon Pike.
Pike owned Bar P Ranch south of Cross Iron, and for the better part of six years he had been attempting to buy Caleb's water rights.
Caleb always refused.
Cross Iron's creek was small but dependable. During drought, it meant survival.
Pike arrived one afternoon in a polished buggy wearing a white shirt too clean for ranch country.
Martha saw him through the kitchen window.
"Who's that?"
Jeb, carrying a basket of potatoes, groaned.
"Snake wearing boots."
Martha looked at him.
"You know him?"
"Everybody knows Pike."
Caleb walked outside.
Pike smiled.
"Hayes."
"Pike."
"I hear congratulations are due."
His eyes drifted toward Martha.
She immediately understood the look.
It was the same one she'd endured all her life.
Evaluation.
Then dismissal.
"So this is the bride."
Martha stepped onto the porch.
"Martha Hayes."
Pike tipped his hat.
"Vernon Pike."
His gaze moved over her body just long enough to become insulting.
"Cross Iron feeding better these days?"
Jeb muttered, "Better than Bar P."
Caleb shot him a warning glance.
Pike smiled thinly.
"I came on business."
"What business?"
"Same business."
"Answer's still no."
"You haven't heard my offer."
"Don't need to."
Pike's smile vanished.
"Drought west of here is worsening."
"I know."
"Another dry winter and half the smaller outfits fail."
"Cross Iron isn't failing."
"Not yet."
Pike removed his gloves.
"I'll give you twenty thousand for the eastern grazing section and permanent water access."
"No."
"Twenty-five."
"No."
Martha watched silently.
Pike glanced at her.
"Perhaps your wife understands security."
Martha's eyes cooled.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Women usually prefer certainty."
"Do they?"
Pike smiled.
"A guaranteed future."
Martha stepped down from the porch.
"Mr. Pike, I crossed half the country to marry a cattle rancher I'd never met. I'm not sure certainty has ever been especially important to me."
Jeb coughed to hide laughter.
Pike's face tightened.
Caleb almost smiled.
"Good day, Pike."
The rancher returned to his buggy.
Before leaving, he looked back.
"Drought changes men's minds."
Caleb watched him go.
"Mine doesn't."
But Martha had already noticed the tension in Caleb's shoulders.
That night, she found him studying financial ledgers.
"How bad?"
Caleb looked up.
"What?"
"The drought."
He hesitated.
"Martha—"
"How bad?"
Caleb leaned back.
"If winter snows are poor, next year could hurt."
"Hurt means?"
"We might have to sell early."
"How much debt?"
Caleb stared at her.
"Enough."
She sat down.
"You said partnership."
"I did."
"Then don't protect me from numbers."
Caleb opened the ledger.
For the first time, he showed her everything.
Feed expenses.
Veterinary costs.
Rail transport.
Loan payments.
Equipment repairs.
Cross Iron was not failing.
But it was vulnerable.
Martha spent an hour reading.
Then she looked toward the pantry.
"You're buying too much from Oak Haven."
"Supplies?"
"Yes."
"What choice do we have?"
"We produce some ourselves."
Caleb smiled slightly.
"Planning to grow coffee?"
"No."
"Shame."
"Vegetables. More eggs. Butter. Cheese. Preserves."
"This soil's rough."
"So am I."
Caleb laughed.
Within two weeks, Martha had half the ranch involved.
Jeb and Rusty dug garden rows.
They complained every minute.
Zeke built fencing.
Caleb located seed.
Martha traded baked goods to a neighboring widow for starter cultures and vegetable plants.
She expanded the chicken coop.
Purchased two milk cows.
Built a pantry system so precise that Jeb claimed he'd rather rob a bank than steal one jar of peaches because Martha would notice faster.
The savings started small.
Then grew.
Martha also began selling pies and biscuits in Oak Haven twice each month.
At first Caleb objected.
"My wife isn't running a bakery."
"Why?"
"Because you work enough."
"I'm choosing this."
"You don't need money."
"Cross Iron does."
He had no answer.
Soon people began arriving at the ranch asking whether Mrs. Hayes had extra bread.
Then cakes.
Then preserves.
Then cured meats.
Martha refused to call it a business.
Jeb called it "the empire."
The cowboys teased her, but with affection now.
No one laughed at Martha anymore.
At least, no one at Cross Iron.
One Saturday in town, Martha was unloading baskets when she heard a familiar kind of laughter.
Three women stood outside the mercantile.
One covered her mouth.
Another whispered.
Martha kept walking.
Then she heard, "Imagine Caleb Hayes buying himself that."
Martha stopped.
Old pain returned so quickly it almost stole her breath.
She hated that.
After everything she'd survived, strangers could still reach inside and touch wounds she'd thought had healed.
She continued walking.
A man's voice sounded behind her.
"Ladies."
Caleb.
Martha turned.
He stood in the street beside their wagon.
His expression was calm.
Too calm.
The women suddenly looked uncomfortable.
Caleb removed his hat.
"I assume you're discussing my wife."
"No, Mr. Hayes—"
"You were."
Silence.
Caleb looked toward Martha.
Then back.
"I've known plenty of pretty things that were useless."
One woman's face reddened.
"My wife crossed a thousand miles alone. She walked into a ranch full of fools—"
Jeb, standing nearby, muttered, "Fair."
"—and turned it into a home."
Caleb continued.
"She works harder than most men I've hired, feeds anyone who needs feeding, and has more courage than anyone laughing from a sidewalk."
Martha's eyes burned.
Caleb placed his hat back on.
"If that's what you're mocking, you're welcome to keep talking."
Nobody did.
He approached Martha.
"You all right?"
She nodded.
"You didn't need to do that."
"Yes."
His voice softened.
"I did."
They loaded the wagon.
On the ride home, Martha sat quietly.
Halfway back she said, "Thank you."
Caleb kept his eyes on the road.
"Truth doesn't deserve thanks."
Martha looked at his profile.
For the first time since arriving at Cross Iron, she wondered whether their arrangement might be becoming something neither had planned.
That possibility frightened her.
So she changed the subject.
"You're getting fat."
Caleb almost dropped the reins.
"What?"
"My cooking."
"Martha Hayes."
"I'm serious."
"I work twelve hours a day."
"You ate four biscuits this morning."
"They were small."
"They were not."
Caleb laughed.
Martha laughed too.
And for several miles, Cross Iron's troubles seemed far away.
Then they reached the northern pasture.
Smoke was rising.
Caleb's smile disappeared.
"Fire."
He snapped the reins.
The wagon surged forward.
By the time they reached the ridge, flames had swallowed part of the winter grass.
Cowboys raced with blankets and barrels.
Caleb jumped down.
"Get Martha home!"
"No."
"Martha—"
"I'm helping."
She grabbed a wet blanket.
They fought until darkness.
Finally the fire died.
Two acres burned.
Could have been worse.
Much worse.
Caleb knelt near the fence line.
Then he found something.
A broken glass bottle.
A strip of oil-soaked cloth.
Martha saw it.
"Accident?"
Caleb's jaw tightened.
"No."
Someone had tried to burn Cross Iron.
And both of them knew exactly who wanted Caleb desperate enough to sell.