The first night became a battle measured in spoonfuls.
Katrina stopped thinking in hours.
There was only the next pot.
The next cup.
The next sick man.
The next fire that needed wood.
The next blanket that needed warming.
Her father's forgotten knowledge had never been mysterious.
There were no miracle herbs.
No secret cure.
Samuel Foster had simply understood something hardship teaches quickly: a body fighting illness requires what starvation, cold, and exhaustion steal from it.
Warmth.
Water.
Salt.
Fat.
Protein.
Time.
Care.
Doc Abernathy handled what medicine remained.
Katrina handled everything else.
By two in the morning, her feet hurt so badly that every step sent pain into her knees.
She kept moving.
Wilmer tried to stop her.
"Sit down."
"I'm sitting when they do."
"They're lying down."
"Then I'll lie down when they're well."
"Katrina."
She glared at him.
"Mr. Morales."
He understood.
This was not the moment.
"Fine. At least drink coffee."
He placed a cup in her hand.
She took it.
"Thank you."
That was as much surrender as he was likely to get.
The healthy cowboys rotated shifts.
A remarkable transformation took place.
Men who days earlier had treated cooking as women's work now stood chopping onions until their eyes streamed.
Cowboys who had laughed when Katrina hauled water now carried buckets without being asked.
Luis Ortega organized firewood.
Caleb Bell cleaned utensils.
Tommy Pearson spent two hours carefully shredding cooked meat for his feverish younger brother.
Nobody joked.
The camp had learned hierarchy rapidly.
At its center stood a woman in a stained apron holding a wooden spoon.
By dawn, five men had worsened.
Nathan Pike was among them.
Abernathy listened to his chest.
"Bad."
Katrina looked at Nathan's face.
"How bad?"
"Bad."
The doctor disliked repeating himself.
Katrina brought broth.
Nathan couldn't remain conscious long enough to drink.
She dipped cloth into warm liquid and touched it to his lips.
He swallowed reflexively.
Again.
Again.
Tiny amounts.
"You're stubborn," Abernathy said.
Katrina didn't look up.
"So is he."
"How do you know?"
"He complained about my coffee being too strong every morning for three weeks. A man that committed to being irritating isn't dying today."
Abernathy almost smiled.
Meanwhile Jeb Rollins developed such violent chills that two men had to hold blankets around him.
When Katrina approached, he looked terrified.
Not loud.
Not arrogant.
Terrified.
"Am I dying?"
Katrina looked toward Abernathy.
The doctor was occupied elsewhere.
She sat beside Jeb.
"I don't know."
His eyes closed.
"That's a lousy answer."
"It's the only honest one."
His breath trembled.
"My ma always said my mouth would kill me."
"Your mouth isn't responsible for this."
"I was rotten to you."
"Yes."
Jeb opened one eye.
"Could've softened that."
"You need broth, not lies."
He gave a painful laugh that became coughing.
Katrina waited.
When it stopped, Jeb whispered, "Why are you helping me?"
There it was.
The question.
Katrina remembered her father's answer.
Because what he is doesn't get to decide what I am.
She repeated it.
"My father taught me that another person's behavior doesn't decide mine."
Jeb stared at her.
Then his eyes shifted away.
"I'm sorry."
"You already apologized."
"Boss made me."
"True."
"This one is mine."
Katrina said nothing.
Jeb swallowed.
"I'm sorry, Katrina."
She held up the cup.
"Prove you're sincere."
"How?"
"Drink."
He managed six swallows.
"That's all."
"Seven."
He glared weakly.
"You bargain worse than a horse trader."
"Eight."
He drank two more.
Katrina smiled.
By morning, every sick man had consumed something.
That alone felt like victory.
But Sunday remained two days away.
The second batch of stew was even richer.
Katrina saved every clean scrap.
She roasted more marrow bones.
She added potatoes and softened beans.
She prepared thin cornmeal porridge for men who couldn't tolerate meat.
She made onion broth.
Garlic went into nearly everything—not because she claimed it would cure disease, but because her father had loved it in winter food and it made bland broth easier to swallow.
Abernathy approved of her work.
"You're doing half my job."
"No."
Katrina stirred the pot.
"I'm doing mine so you can do yours."
"You ever consider nursing?"
"I've considered sleeping."
"Fair."
That afternoon, disaster nearly struck again.
A cry erupted from the cattle line.
Part of the weakened herd had begun moving toward a ravine, spooked by wind and hunger.
Healthy cowboys scrambled into saddles.
Wilmer prepared to ride.
Katrina grabbed his sleeve.
"How long?"
"Couple hours."
"I need twelve men here."
"I know."
"You take too many, the sick don't eat."
"I know, Katrina."
Their eyes met.
The pressure of command sat heavily on both.
Wilmer lowered his voice.
"I'll leave you fifteen."
"Make it eighteen."
"Sixteen."
"Seventeen."
His mouth twitched.
"Done."
He rode out.
Katrina watched him disappear.
For the first time, worry entered somewhere personal inside her.
She did not like it.
Wilmer had become steady ground in a camp where everything else kept changing.
He had defended her when nobody else had.
He listened when she spoke.
He did not treat her strength as strange.
She turned back to the pots.
Feelings could wait.
Supper could not.
Two hours became three.
Then four.
Snow began falling.
Katrina stepped repeatedly to the edge of camp.
No riders.
At last, shortly before sunset, horses emerged from the white distance.
Wilmer returned.
Blood ran down one side of his face.
Katrina dropped her ladle.
"What happened?"
"Branch caught me."
"Sit."
"I'm fine."
"Sit down."
Wilmer sat.
She cleaned the cut near his temple.
He watched her face.
"You're angry."
"You left bleeding."
"I came back bleeding."
"That's not better."
"It is from my perspective."
Despite herself, Katrina laughed.
Wilmer smiled.
"There she is."
"What?"
"I've been wondering where your laugh went."
Katrina looked away.
He became serious.
"The herd's secure."
"Good."
"How are the men?"
"Four worse. Three a little better."
"Nathan?"
"Still bad."
"Jeb?"
"Still annoying."
"Promising."
Their eyes met.
For a few quiet seconds, cattle, illness, snow, exhaustion, and ridicule disappeared.
Then Abernathy shouted.
"Katrina!"
She ran.
Nathan Pike had stopped responding.
His breathing was shallow.
Abernathy leaned close.
"Come on, boy."
Katrina dropped beside him.
"Nathan."
Nothing.
She rubbed his hands.
"Nathan, listen to me."
His eyelids didn't move.
Around them, cowboys gathered.
Tommy removed his hat.
Someone whispered a prayer.
Katrina leaned close to Nathan's ear.
"You still owe me an apology."
A faint breath.
"You said my coffee could strip horseshoes. I expect you to say it to my face."
Nothing.
She moistened his lips.
Minutes passed.
Then Nathan coughed.
Weakly.
But he coughed.
Abernathy sat back.
"That's right."
Nathan's eyelids fluttered.
Katrina exhaled.
Around her, men released breaths they hadn't realized they held.
The following morning brought the first unmistakable good news.
Otis Bell asked for breakfast.
Not broth.
Breakfast.
"Eggs?" he whispered.
Katrina stared.
"You want eggs?"
"Bacon too."
She put her hands on her hips.
"You nearly die and wake demanding bacon?"
Otis managed a grin.
"Getting my appetite back."
Katrina turned toward camp.
"Doc!"
Abernathy examined him and smiled.
"Give the fool something easy."
"Biscuits?"
"Half."
Otis protested.
Katrina beamed.
By noon, four more men asked for solid food.
The news traveled through camp like sunlight.
"They're improving."
"Some," Abernathy warned.
"Not all."
Katrina understood.
The next thirty-six hours mattered.
That evening, Jeb managed to sit upright.
He watched Katrina stirring the pot.
"Katrina."
"What?"
"You ain't fat."
The entire cook area went silent.
Katrina slowly turned.
Jeb looked horrified by his own sentence.
"I mean—you are, I guess, but—Lord, that sounded bad."
A cowboy covered his mouth.
Jeb kept stumbling.
"I mean I shouldn't have called you names. I was trying to be funny, only it wasn't funny."
Katrina crossed her arms.
"Anything else?"
"Yeah."
He swallowed.
"You're stronger than any man here."
Katrina looked at him for several seconds.
Then she said, "You still look terrible."
Laughter erupted.
Real laughter.
The first since the storm.
Even Jeb laughed until coughing forced him to stop.
Something important shifted that night.
Not merely toward Katrina.
Within the entire camp.
The cook was no longer outside their circle.
She was its center.
Late that night, Wilmer approached the wagon while Katrina scraped the bottom of an empty pot.
"All gone?"
"Every spoonful."
"Need another batch tomorrow."
"Already started stock."
He leaned against the wheel.
"You saved them."
Katrina shook her head.
"They're not safe yet."
"You saved some of them."
"Doc saved them."
"He'll say you did."
"Their bodies saved them."
Wilmer smiled faintly.
"You hate compliments."
"I distrust exaggeration."
"Then I'll be precise."
He stepped closer.
"This camp would have broken without you."
Katrina's hands stopped.
Nobody had ever said such a thing.
Wilmer continued.
"We would have lost order. We would have lost strength. Probably men."
The fire painted gold across his tired face.
"You didn't just make stew, Katrina. You gave everybody something useful to do when fear was taking over."
She looked down.
"My father would have known what to do."
"Maybe."
Wilmer paused.
"But he wasn't here."
His voice softened.
"You were."
Katrina looked toward the stars emerging above clearing clouds.
Sunday was one day away.
Twenty-three sick cowboys were improving.
Eleven remained dangerously ill.
Six were uncertain.
The battle wasn't over.
But for the first time, Katrina allowed herself to believe they might win.