Coulter sat at the head of the table.
For the first time in months, he did not look like a man carrying the entire ranch on his shoulders.
He looked almost peaceful.
Edith noticed.
She also noticed that when Tommy reached for the last biscuit, Coulter quietly pushed the plate toward her first.
She pretended not to see.
But she remembered.
Over the following weeks, the ranch slowly changed.
Edith established a routine.
Breakfast began at six. Lunch was packed for the men working beyond the northern pasture. Supper was served at sunset unless weather or livestock required a delay.
She planted herbs beside the kitchen window.
She repaired the curtains.
She persuaded Coulter to buy proper storage containers and fresh supplies from town.
And she began keeping a ledger.
Every pound of flour, every sack of beans, every purchase was recorded.
When Coulter saw the accounts, he stared at them for a long time.
"You've reduced the food expenses by nearly a third."
Edith looked up from her sewing.
"Because half the food was being wasted."
"Nobody ever noticed."
"Nobody was keeping track."
He leaned against the counter.
"Where did you learn to do all this?"
"My mother."
"She ran a household?"
"She ran three."
Coulter waited.
Edith continued stitching.
"My father died when I was fourteen. Mother took in laundry and cooked for a hotel. I helped her. After she died, I worked wherever people would hire me."
She paused.
"Most places needed a woman who could do everything and complain about nothing."
Coulter's expression changed.
"That sounds like a miserable arrangement."
"It paid for a roof."
He looked at her hands.
There were small scars across her fingers, and a burn near her wrist.
"How long did you work like that?"
"Nearly fifteen years."
He was silent.
Then he said, "You shouldn't have had to."