Edith gently placed another biscuit beside his plate.
"Then I hope you enjoy remembering her."
Ben looked down.
"Thank you."
Nobody laughed.
That night, after the dishes were washed and the men had returned to the bunkhouse, Edith stood alone in the kitchen.
She ran her fingers across the wooden table.
For years, people had told her that cooking was the only thing she had to offer a husband.
Her mother had said it.
Her aunts had said it.
Even her former employer had once remarked that a woman with Edith's appearance ought to be grateful if a man wanted her for her household skills.
But something about Coulter Grady unsettled those old beliefs.
He had not praised her cooking as though it were compensation for her appearance.
He had simply welcomed her.
And somehow, that frightened her more than rejection ever had.
Because if she allowed herself to believe that he might actually want her, she would have something to lose.
The next morning, Edith woke before sunrise.
She dressed, pinned her hair, and descended the stairs.
Coulter was already in the kitchen.
He stood beside the stove, attempting to make coffee.
She stopped in the doorway.
"Mr. Grady?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"Morning."
"What are you doing?"
"Making coffee."
She approached the stove.
"Why?"
"Because I thought you might like some."
Edith stared at the black liquid in the pot.
"Have you tasted it?"
"No."
"Then don't."
Coulter raised an eyebrow.
She took the pot from him, poured the contents into a bucket, and began again.
He watched her work.
"You always this particular about coffee?"
"Only when I intend to drink it."
He laughed.
The sound startled her.
It was the first time she had heard him laugh without restraint.
By six o'clock, the kitchen was full.
The men came in wearing heavy coats and muddy boots. They greeted Edith, took their seats, and began eating.