She followed him inside.
Neither of them knew that by the time winter ended, the ranch would be fighting for its survival, the town would be whispering about their marriage, and a letter from a man believed dead would threaten to destroy the fragile happiness they were only beginning to build.
The kitchen was warmer than she expected.
A broad iron stove stood against the far wall, its surface blackened from years of use. Copper pots hung above a wooden counter, and a long table occupied the center of the room. Beyond the windows, the ranch spread across miles of open land.
Edith set her recipe box down.
"How many men work here?"
"Thirteen, counting me."
"Thirteen?"
Coulter nodded.
"Some have families in town. Others sleep in the bunkhouse. They eat here when the weather allows."
Edith looked at the enormous cooking range.
"And you've been feeding all of them?"
"Until recently."
"Recently?"
"The previous cook left in August."
She opened a cupboard and discovered a handful of cracked plates, two tins of flour, and a jar of salt.
She looked at Coulter.
"Mr. Grady, when was the last time anyone went shopping?"
"Three weeks ago."
Edith closed her eyes.
Three weeks.
She had seen worse kitchens in her life, but never one that belonged to a ranch employing thirteen hungry men.
"Do you have beans?"
"Some."
"Potatoes?"
"A few."
"Flour?"
"Enough for tomorrow."
She slowly turned toward him.
"Mr. Grady, you have a serious problem."
He folded his arms.
"I've been told."
"No, sir. You have a very serious problem."
For the first time, Coulter smiled.
It transformed his face so unexpectedly that Edith forgot what she had been about to say.
"Then I suppose it's fortunate you're here."
She immediately looked away.
"Yes, sir."
He placed her suitcase beside the stairs.