Given the way the men’s eyes lit up when they saw the berries, Hazel thought she’d done well. She didn’t know who had cooked for these men before her arrival, but it appeared that dessert wasn’t a frequent dish served.
“Please, go ahead,” she said to the first man, who held a bowl as he looked eagerly at the soup. She stepped back to allow them to serve themselves, and found herself standing right next to Wade and another man.
“This smells far better than what we’re used to,” the man said. He had fair hair, skin slightly reddened from the sun, and a friendly smile.
Hazel warmed inside. “Thank you, Mr. . . .?”
“Lars Kristiansen, foreman.”
“Mr. Kristiansen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Hazel watched as the first few men made their way to the dining room. The table in that room was big, but not nearly large enough to seat all of these men. “Where will they all sit?” She looked at Wade, who hadn’t yet spoken a word to her.
“Outside,” he said.
Hazel crinkled her brow, wondering how that could be. There hadn’t been a table out there, so far as she’d seen.
“The most senior men—the ones here year-round—sit in the dining room,” Mr. Kristiansen explained. “The others find a perch somewhere outdoors.”
“Without a table?” Hazel still couldn’t imagine. She’d certainly eaten her fair share of meals on the train journey here without a table, but that was an exception to daily life.
Mr. Kristiansen laughed, and even Wade lifted the corner of his mouth in a grin.
“Indeed, ma’am. No table. We’re used to it. There aren’t any tables on the trail,” Mr. Kristiansen said.
Of what “trail” Mr. Kristiansen spoke, Hazel didn’t know. She wanted to ask, and in fact, she wanted to ask Mr. Kristiansen a million questions since he was much more forthcoming and friendly than the man she’d actually married. But before she could formulate one, the last man had served himself, and Wade—in a most unexpected gesture—indicated she should fill her own bowl first.
She felt she ought to protest, but didn’t dare. Who knew when she could expect such a display of politeness from Wade Pierce again?
Thankfully, there was enough soup left for the three of them, plus a little more in case a few of the men found themselves still hungry. Hazel ladled her own soup, and then filled bowls for Wade and Mr. Kristiansen.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mr. Kristiansen said kindly when she handed him his bowl.
Wade nodded, and Hazel decided to presume that meantthank you. They each took a few of the remaining sugared berries, and Hazel followed the men to the dining room.
The seat at the head of the table remained empty, along with the two on either side. As she sat to Wade’s right, Hazel wondered which man used to sit in her chair—and which man was now relegated to eating outside because of her arrival. A pang of guilt slid through her as she stirred her soup.
The men were mostly quiet as they ate, and Hazel suspected that had everything to do with her presence. What would they talk about normally? The ranch? Their families? Would they crack jokes? It was hard to know, given that she’d never spent time with ranch hands before. But she figured out one thing very quickly.
If there was to be conversation at this table in her presence, she’d need to be the one to start it.
She glanced at Wade, and then at Mr. Kristiansen. The latter was far more likely to answer her questions in more than one word to keep a conversation going.
“Mr. Kristiansen,” she said, forcing herself to break the silence before she lost her nerve. “You spoke of a ‘trail’ earlier. What trail did you mean?”
Mr. Kristiansen’s shoulders relaxed at her question, as if she’d done him an enormous favor by ending the silence at the table. “I was speaking more generally, ma’am, of the long journey the cattle take from a ranch to a city to be sold back East.”
Hazel nodded, imagining hundreds and hundreds of the beasts making their way across empty, dusty land. But then another question arose. “Wouldn’t it be easier to transport them by railroad? After all, the tracks are so nearby.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what we do here. It saves time and men. But it wasn’t always that way,” Mr. Kristiansen replied.
“Before the railroad, it took weeks to get to Denver,” one of the men farther down the table said.
“That’s nothing,” another man interjected. “Back in Texas, we’d be gone for months.”
The conversation took off from there, the men comparing various cattle drives they’d been on. Hazel listened with rapt attention to their stories. The lives they’d lived were so different from how men lived in Boston. In fact, she could hardly imagine any of the boys she’d known growing up being hardy enough to set off on horseback for weeks on end.
“The soup was mighty good, ma’am,” Mr. Kristiansen said as he sat back. “And I’ve never tasted anything as close to heaven as those berries.”
“Thank you,” Hazel replied.
