"Your room is upstairs, second door on the left. There's a washbasin, a wardrobe, and a window overlooking the east pasture. You'll have your own room, and nobody will enter without your permission."
Edith looked at him.
"Thank you."
He nodded toward the stove.
"Would you like to see what we've got to eat?"
She rolled up her sleeves.
"Yes, sir. I would."
That evening, Edith made a meal from almost nothing.
She soaked the beans, chopped the remaining potatoes, and used the last onions in the pantry. She found a small piece of smoked bacon, enough flour for biscuits, and a jar of preserved tomatoes hidden behind a stack of plates.
By the time the men entered the kitchen, the house smelled like a place where people belonged.
Tommy Bell, the youngest ranch hand, stopped in the doorway.
"Good Lord."
Edith turned.
"Something wrong?"
Tommy looked at the table.
"Miss, if that's supper, I might never leave this ranch."
The men laughed.
Coulter entered last.
He removed his hat and looked at the steaming dishes.
For a moment, his expression softened.
"Looks like you found something to work with."
"Not much."
"That's what I thought."
Edith placed a bowl in front of him.
"Then eat slowly. There won't be another meal until morning."
The men sat down.
At first, the conversation was awkward. Edith could feel them studying her, trying to determine what sort of woman their employer had brought into the house.
She concentrated on serving food.
Then old Ben Mercer, a gray-haired ranch hand who had worked for Coulter's father, tasted the beans.
He stopped chewing.
Edith glanced at him.
"Is something wrong?"
Ben shook his head.
"No, ma'am."
He took another bite.
"My wife used to make them like this."
The table grew quiet.
Ben had lost his wife two years earlier. Since then, he had barely spoken about her.