Abigail found the ravine because of the crows.
The storm had weakened slightly, but the Dakota wind still drove needles of snow against her face. Every hundred yards she stopped to check the cottonwoods Wyatt had described.
A split trunk.
A crooked pine.
A ridge shaped like a saddle.
She found them one by one.
Then she heard wings.
Three black crows rose from a depression beyond the trees.
Abigail tightened her grip on the rope.
“There you are.”
The stag lay beneath a drift near the bottom of the ravine.
Wolves had found it.
Fortunately, they had not finished it.
Abigail climbed carefully down the slope and examined the carcass.
The animal had frozen quickly enough that much of the meat remained usable.
She breathed a relieved prayer.
Then she began working.
Her fingers went numb despite gloves.
She could not drag the entire stag through deep snow, so she butchered what she could carry, wrapped meat in hide, tied it to the rope, and made two bundles.
The climb out nearly defeated her.
Twice she slipped.
Once she fell to her knees so hard pain exploded through her leg.
For several seconds she remained there, breathing clouds into the frozen air.
Chicago voices returned.
No husband will ever want a woman built like that.
Abigail pushed herself upright.
“Well,” she muttered, “good thing I'm not carrying this deer for a husband.”
She climbed again.
It was after dark when Caleb heard pounding against the ranch door.
Wyatt struggled to his feet.
Caleb reached the entrance first.
When he opened it, Abigail nearly fell inside.
Her coat was covered in snow.
Her cheeks were blazing red.
Ice clung to her hair.
A rope ran over her shoulder.
Behind her lay nearly a hundred pounds of venison.
For several seconds no one spoke.
Then Abigail gasped:
“Don't stand there admiring me. Pull.”
The room erupted into movement.
Weak movement, but movement.
Four men helped drag the meat inside.
Abigail disappeared into the kitchen.
She trimmed away contaminated portions, inspected the meat carefully, then began preparing broth.
She roasted bones first.
The scent became almost unbearable.
Jamie sat outside the kitchen doorway like a starving dog.
“Miss Prescott?”
“Yes?”
“Can I lick the pan?”
“No.”
He looked devastated.
“You can have broth when I say.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Hours later, twenty tin cups sat on the table.
Each held only a small amount.
The men stared as though Abigail had served gold.
“Slowly,” she warned.
A cowboy named Ben lifted his cup too quickly.
Abigail snatched it away.
He looked furious.
“You trying to kill yourself?”
“I ain't eaten real meat in nine days.”
“Which is precisely why you will not inhale it.”
Caleb received his cup last.
He looked into the cloudy broth.
A few tiny potato pieces floated beside strands of venison.
He drank.
His eyes closed.
Abigail watched.
“Well?”
Caleb opened them.
“That might be the best thing I've ever tasted.”
“It isn't.”
“What?”
“It's terrible.”
A laugh moved through the room.
Weak at first.
Then another man laughed.
Then three more.
It was the first laughter Whispering Pines had heard since the storehouse burned.
Abigail allowed herself a smile.
“Get stronger. Then I'll cook properly.”
The following morning began before sunrise.
Abigail made another thin meal.
Then another at noon.
She rationed every scrap.
Some men complained.
She ignored them.
By the third day, Jamie could carry a full water bucket.
Wyatt could split kindling.
Caleb managed to walk across the room without holding furniture.
Abigail reorganized the ranch as if commanding an army.
“You four clean bedding.”
Groans.
“Complain while working.”
She pointed elsewhere.
“You two scrub the kitchen floor.”
“We're cowboys.”
“Today you're scrubbers.”
“Ma'am—”
“Do you want breakfast tomorrow?”
The men grabbed brushes.
Caleb watched from the doorway, half amused.
“You're terrifying.”
Abigail stirred a pot.
“Good.”
“You've got men twice your size taking orders.”
“Not currently.”
Caleb looked down at his thin body.
“Fair point.”
But food remained dangerously limited.
The venison might carry them a few more days.
Abigail needed supplies.
Caleb explained the problem.
Caldwell controlled Dry Creek's mercantile.
“He'll refuse you.”
“He hasn't met me.”
“He doesn't need to. Anybody buying for Whispering Pines gets turned away.”
Abigail considered that.
“Then I won't buy for Whispering Pines.”
Caleb frowned.
The next morning Abigail hitched one of the surviving horses to a small wagon.
Caleb followed her outside.
“You cannot go alone.”
“Who's strong enough to come?”
Silence.
“Exactly.”
“You don't understand Caldwell.”
Abigail climbed onto the seat.
“No, Mr. Thornton. Caldwell doesn't understand me.”
Dry Creek contained one muddy main street, a hotel, saloon, blacksmith, bank, church, and Caldwell Mercantile.
Abigail entered the store wearing her best dark dress beneath her coat.
The clerk looked at her skeptically.
“Help you?”
“I need fifty pounds flour, twenty pounds beans, cornmeal, oats, salt, sugar, dried apples, coffee, onions, yeast, vinegar, molasses, and every inexpensive cut of salt pork you've got.”
The clerk stared.
“That's quite an order.”
“I have quite an appetite.”
A few men nearby laughed.
The clerk began gathering supplies.
Then the door opened.
Conversation stopped.
Josiah Caldwell entered.
He was in his fifties, silver-haired, elegantly dressed, with polished boots far too clean for a frontier street.
His eyes moved immediately to Abigail's purchases.
“New in town?”
“Very observant.”
“Josiah Caldwell.”
“Abigail Prescott.”
His smile disappeared slightly.
“Prescott.”
He studied her.
“You headed to Thornton's place?”
Abigail said nothing.
The clerk froze.
Caldwell walked closer.
“Miss Prescott, I'm afraid those goods aren't for sale.”
“I was under the impression this was a store.”
“It is.”
“And these goods have prices?”
“They do.”
“Then they are for sale.”
“Not to Whispering Pines.”
Abigail pulled money from her purse.
“They aren't buying them.”
Caldwell's smile tightened.
“You work there.”
“I am purchasing food with my personal money.”
“For Thornton's men.”
“What I do with groceries after legally purchasing them is my business.”
A few customers turned to watch.
Caldwell lowered his voice.
“You don't know who you're dealing with.”
Abigail met his eyes.
“I was about to say the same.”
The clerk swallowed.
Caldwell placed one hand on the counter.
“Put everything back.”
Nobody moved.
Abigail raised her voice.
“Is there a law in Dakota Territory preventing women from buying flour?”
Silence.
A man near the stove smothered a laugh.
Caldwell realized the trap.
If he openly confiscated her groceries, he would look like a bully in front of town residents.
He stepped closer.
“You won't last a week at that ranch.”
Abigail smiled.
“I've already lasted longer than your starvation plan expected.”
His face changed.
For one second she saw the cruelty Caleb had described.
Then it disappeared behind charm.
“Careful, Miss Prescott.”
“I usually am.”
Abigail loaded the wagon herself.
Before leaving she visited the blacksmith and quietly arranged something else.
Seed potatoes.
Vegetable seed.
Two sacks of barley.
A milk cow available from a widow outside town.
She spent nearly every dollar she had brought west.
When Caleb saw the wagon returning, he could not believe it.
Cowboys stumbled from the bunkhouse.
Jamie shouted.
“Flour!”
Men cheered.
Abigail stepped down.
“No touching anything until it's inventoried.”
Groans followed immediately.
Caleb approached.
“How?”
“I bought it.”
“Caldwell allowed that?”
“No.”
Caleb looked at her.
Abigail walked past him carrying a flour sack.
“That's becoming my favorite answer.”
Within a week, strength returned to Whispering Pines.
Abigail baked bread.
Real bread.
She made venison stew thickened with potatoes.
Corn cakes with rendered fat.
Beans cooked until tender with scraps of pork.
The men began working again.
Fence lines were repaired.
Barn doors rehung.
Snow cleared from roofs.
Abigail watched bodies that had been nearly dead regain color.
Caleb regained something too.
Purpose.
One evening he entered the kitchen while Abigail kneaded dough.
“You saved them.”
“We aren't safe yet.”
“You saved them anyway.”
Abigail did not look up.
“I fed them.”
“Same thing.”
Caleb leaned against the counter.
“Why did you really come west?”
“For the job.”
“You could cook in Chicago.”
“I did.”
“So why here?”
Abigail's hands slowed.
“In Chicago, I could make somebody else's restaurant successful for twenty years and leave with nothing except sore feet.”
She looked at him.
“Your advertisement offered ownership.”
Caleb nodded.
“I meant it.”
“Good.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“You don't trust easily.”
“Trust should cost something.”
Before Caleb could answer, a horse galloped into the yard.
Wyatt shouted.
“Rider!”
A man dismounted outside.
He handed Caleb an envelope.
Caldwell's seal marked the flap.
Caleb opened it.
His face hardened.
“What?”
Abigail asked.
Caleb handed her the paper.
PAYMENT DEMANDED ON OUTSTANDING LIVESTOCK NOTE WITHIN TEN DAYS. FAILURE TO PAY WILL RESULT IN FORECLOSURE AND SEIZURE OF WHISPERING PINES RANCH.
Abigail read it twice.
“How much?”
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
“Do you owe him?”
“Not him. The bank.”
“Then why is Caldwell demanding payment?”
Caleb looked toward Dry Creek.
“Because apparently he bought the note.”
The men gathering nearby fell silent.
Abigail folded the paper carefully.
Ten days earlier they had been fighting starvation.
Now Caldwell intended to take the ranch legally.
Caleb looked exhausted again.
“We can't raise twelve thousand.”
Abigail stared across the snow-covered land.
Then toward the recovering cattle grazing beyond the southern fence.
“When is the cattle drive?”
“Spring.”
“How many cattle?”
“About eight hundred survived.”
“And what would they bring?”
“If prices hold? Enough to clear everything.”
“But Caldwell wants payment before spring.”
“Yes.”
Abigail looked down at the notice.
Then something in her expression changed.
“What exactly does the contract say?”
Caleb frowned.
“Why?”
“Because, Mr. Thornton…”
She held up the foreclosure notice.
“…men like Caldwell count on desperate people being too frightened to read the fine print.”