“That is not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
She stared at him, furious and terrified.
Then Abel appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.
“There’s a cattle drive leaving north in six days,” he said. “Big outfit. Hard country. They lost their cook to fever.”
Rowan turned. “No.”
Maribel looked at Abel. “What does it pay?”
“No.”
Abel rubbed his jaw. “More than fair. Hazard pay too. Trail boss is desperate.”
“No,” Rowan repeated.
Maribel’s eyes flashed. “You don’t get to no me.”
“You’ve never cooked on a drive.”
“I had never cooked for twelve ranch hands until last week.”
“A cattle drive is not a kitchen.”
“Neither is a laundry, but I survived that.”
“It is dangerous.”
“So is staying where people can starve you politely.”
Rowan had no answer for that.
The trail boss was named Harlan Saye. He had a beard like winter brush and eyes that looked through people before deciding whether they were useful. He met Maribel outside the stockyard and laughed before she said a word.
“I asked for a cook,” he said.
“I am one.”
“I asked for someone trail-tested.”
“I’m life-tested. It’s harder.”
Harlan’s grin faded a little.
“You ever slept under a wagon in a storm?”
“No.”
“Ever fed thirty men with wet flour and half a fire?”
“No.”
“Ever had a drunk hand decide you’re entertainment?”
Maribel looked at him coldly.
“Yes.”
The old trail boss stopped smiling altogether.
Rowan stood beside her, silent, trying not to interfere and failing at it in his bones.
Harlan spat into the dust. “Men on the trail can be ugly.”
“So can men in town.”
“One mistake and I send you back.”
“One mistake and I’ll pack myself.”
“You got a knife?”
“Yes.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I know where men bleed.”
Harlan stared.
Then he barked a laugh. “Dawn. Monday. Chuck wagon. Don’t slow me down.”
On the ride home, Rowan said nothing for nearly a mile.
Finally Maribel asked, “Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“With the world. You’re just closest.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
The wagon wheels creaked over the rutted road.
Then he said, quieter, “Come back.”
She looked at him.
It was the closest he had ever come to asking for anything.
“I intend to.”
“Intentions don’t hold against rivers, fever, and fools.”
“Then I’ll be more stubborn than all three.”
He looked at her then, and something passed across his face so naked that she had to look away.
On Monday before dawn, she climbed onto the chuck wagon with a bedroll, two dresses, a skillet, and the knife wrapped in cloth.
Rowan stood by the corral, his hat low.
The sky was pale.
The world smelled of dust and horses.
Maribel looked down at him.
“You’ll keep the ranch standing?”
“I’ll try.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
She nodded.
Then the wagons rolled out.
For the first week, the men tested her.
They complained about the coffee.
They complained about the biscuits.
They complained that she was too quiet, then that she spoke too sharply, then that she looked at them like she was sharpening nails behind her eyes.
A rider named Clete Morrow made himself her enemy by supper on the second night.
“Cook’s too pretty for the trail,” he said, loud enough for the others.
Maribel stirred beans and did not look up.
On the fourth night, he kicked over a water bucket.
She refilled it.
On the seventh, he left a dead snake in her flour sack.
She removed the snake, sifted the flour, and served him the hardest biscuit.
He bit into it and cursed.
She said, “Careful. That one has bones.”
The men laughed.
Clete did not.
The trouble came two nights later.
Rain had been threatening all day. The herd was nervous. Lightning crawled across the hills like white veins. Maribel was tying down supplies when Clete came up behind the wagon.
“You think the boss likes your sharp tongue,” he said.
“I don’t think about you enough to answer.”
He grabbed her wrist.
The entire camp seemed to pause.
Maribel looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
“Let go.”
“Or what?”
She drove her knee into him hard enough that he folded. Before he could breathe, she had her knife out and pressed flat—not cutting, just promising—against his throat.
The rain began.
One drop.
Then another.
Harlan Saye appeared from the dark.
“Problem?” he asked.
Maribel did not move the knife.
“He forgot his manners.”
Harlan looked at Clete, wheezing in the mud.
“Find them fast,” he said. “Or ride out before breakfast.”
By morning, Clete was gone.
After that, the men still complained.
But they did it at a safer distance.
Then the trail turned cruel.
A hailstorm split the sky and tore the canvas cover from the chuck wagon. Maribel drove the team half-blind through mud while a wheel threatened to break. A flash flood swallowed their low camp and took two crates of beans, three sacks of flour, and a man’s boot. She spent the night drying coffee over coals while the men shivered and cursed.