Almost cold.
Opened the pantry.
Badly arranged.
Then the icebox.
“Who stores butter beside onions?”
Caleb said:
“I don't know.”
“Criminals.”
She opened another cupboard.
“You have excellent flour.”
“I assume.”
“Good sugar.”
“Probably.”
“Imported cinnamon.”
“I've never seen it.”
Bee looked at him.
“You live like a man renting his own house.”
Something in that sentence irritated him.
Probably because it was true.
“We don't have time for philosophy.”
“Good.”
Bee tied on her apron.
“We have three hours.”
She pointed toward a wood basket.
“Fill that.”
Caleb stared.
“What?”
“Firewood.”
“I have men who—”
“No, you don't.”
He looked at her.
Bee looked back.
“Your staff walked out.”
That landed.
Caleb's jaw tightened.
Bee continued:
“Dining room fire. Kitchen fire. Library fire if you expect these gentlemen to drink afterward.”
“You're giving me orders?”
“Yes.”
“No one gives me orders in this house.”
Bee picked up an onion.
“Then eat it raw and explain to the railroad why.”
Caleb stared.
She began chopping.
Fast.
Perfect.
The knife moved through onion with frightening precision.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
“What?”
“Wood.”
Caleb left.
He was halfway to the woodpile before realizing he had obeyed.
That annoyed him.
Then strangely pleased him.
When he returned twenty minutes later, Ridge View already smelled different.
Butter.
Onions.
Rosemary.
Something sweet beneath it.
Bee had transformed the kitchen into motion.
A venison roast sat tied and seasoned.
Bread dough rested near the stove.
Potatoes boiled.
Mushrooms browned in a pan.
She had also found three servants’ aprons, opened curtains, moved a table, and threatened Caleb's neglected copper pots with extinction.
“You're touching everything.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because half your kitchen is arranged by someone who hated cooking.”
“That was probably me.”
“I assumed.”
She tasted sauce.
Added salt.
“Dining room fire?”
“Lit.”
“Wine breathing?”
Caleb stared.
Bee sighed.
“Of course not.”
“What does that mean?”
“Go open two bottles.”
“Which?”
“Red.”
“They're all red.”
Bee turned slowly.
“How did you become wealthy?”
“Silver.”
“Clearly not hospitality.”
Caleb smiled.
“Which bottles?”
She followed him into the wine cellar.
Selected two.
Then stopped.
“You have Bordeaux from 1875.”
“Yes.”
“You know what it costs?”
“No.”
Her face showed pain.
“I dislike you.”
“You just met me.”
“Exactly.”
They carried bottles upstairs.
At four thirty the mansion smelled like roasting meat and fresh bread.
At five, Bee forced Caleb upstairs to change.
At five fifteen she entered the dining room and rearranged the place settings.
At five thirty she found fresh pine branches outside and laid them along the mantel.
At five forty, she extinguished half the dining-room lamps because the room looked, in her words, “like a courthouse trying to interrogate supper.”
Caleb watched her.
“You do realize this is my house.”
Bee adjusted a candlestick.
“Tonight it is my dining room.”
“You are remarkably comfortable taking command.”
“Somebody has to.”
“Dangerous woman.”
“So I've been told.”
At five fifty, carriage bells sounded outside.
Caleb suddenly felt nervous.
Bee saw it.
“You're afraid.”
“No.”
“Your left hand is tapping.”
He looked down.
It was.
Bee smiled.
“Go greet your railroad kings.”
“They aren't kings.”
“Then stop looking like you're awaiting judgment.”
Caleb looked at her.
“What if they refuse?”
Bee's expression softened.
For the first time all afternoon, no joke.
“Then they refuse.”
“You have mines tomorrow morning either way.”
“Not profitable mines.”
“Still yours.”
Caleb stared.
Bee wiped her hands on her apron.
“Men with money smell desperation faster than soup.”
He almost smiled.
“So don't be desperate.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No.”
Her voice lowered.
“I have twelve dollars in a jar beneath my bed and three months before the bank takes my cabin.”
Caleb froze.
Bee smiled faintly.
“That is desperation.”
“Yet I negotiated seventy-five dollars out of you because you didn't know.”
She nodded toward the front hall.
“Now go negotiate.”
Caleb did.
Josiah Abernathy entered first.
Sixty-two.
Round face.
White mustache.
Expensive navy coat.
Arthur Pendleton followed.
Fifty.
Tall.
Thin.
Silver monocle.
A permanent expression suggesting Western air had personally offended him.
Caleb greeted both.
Drinks in the library.
Dinner at six twenty.
The first course was mushroom tart with caramelized onions.
Pendleton tasted one bite.
Paused.
Then another.
Abernathy smiled.
“Whitmore.”
“Yes?”
“You've been hiding civilization up here.”
Caleb looked toward Bee through the open kitchen door.
“No.”
“It arrived this afternoon.”
Bee heard.
Pretended not to.
The second course was venison roast with blackberry reduction, garlic potatoes, glazed carrots, and hot bread.
Pendleton watched Bee place the platter.
His gaze moved over her figure.
Then he smirked.
“My word, Whitmore. I see mountain winters require substantial staff.”
Caleb's fork stopped.
Bee did not.
She placed the platter perfectly.
“In the mountains, Mr. Pendleton, sturdy foundations survive storms.”
Abernathy coughed into his napkin.
Bee continued sweetly:
“I recommend the venison. It requires a strong jaw.”
Pendleton's face reddened.
Caleb looked down at his plate because if he looked at Bee, he would laugh.
She returned to the kitchen.
Abernathy leaned toward Caleb.
“Where did you find her?”
“Town.”
“Keep her.”
Caleb's eyes moved toward the doorway.
He had hired Bee for one night.
Suddenly the idea of the kitchen becoming silent tomorrow bothered him.
He pushed the thought away.
Business.
The conversation shifted to freight costs.
Track grading.
Timber.
Labor.
Snow clearance.
Caleb knew every figure.
By dessert, Abernathy seemed convinced.
Pendleton less so.
Bee brought preserved peaches baked beneath sugared pastry with cream.
Even Pendleton stopped talking.
Coffee followed.
Caleb retrieved the contract folder.
Bee began clearing plates.
The men moved into details.
Rail easements.
Investment schedule.
Shipping rates.
Caleb had reviewed the contract twice with his lawyer in Denver.
The final agreement gave Eastern Continental priority freight access in exchange for building the spur.
Fair enough.
Profitable for both.
Bee entered carrying coffee.
Pendleton's leather folder rested open on his knees beneath the table.
She approached from behind.
Saw paper.
Saw handwriting.
Saw the phrase: