The buckboard creaked under the weight of Mary’s supplies. Sacks of flour and cornmeal sat beside barrels of coffee, dried beans, bacon, and a crate of tin plates that clinked softly with every bump in the road. The early evening sun leaned low over the prairie, throwing long shadows behind the team as they headed back toward Roaring Rapids Ranch.
Eli Turner sat in the back, quiet, watching the land roll by like an ocean of grass.
Jake Harmon held the reins steady, his posture calm and sure. Colt Barnes rode alongside, hat low, eyes always scanning the horizon the way a man does when the range is his responsibility.
After a while, Jake spoke.
“Eli,” he said, not looking back, “there’s something you ought to know before we get home.”
Eli straightened. “Yes, sir.”
Jake nodded once, then glanced toward Colt.
“Old Man Caldwell made it official about two months ago. Colt here is the new Range Boss.”
Colt’s expression didn’t change much, but there was something heavier in his presence now, as if the title itself carried weight on his shoulders.
Eli blinked. “Range Boss…”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Means when Colt gives an order out on the range, it carries Caldwell’s name with it. You’ll be taking your work from him direct.”
Eli nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Colt finally spoke. His voice was low and plain.
“I don’t bark orders just to hear myself talk, Eli. But when I say something needs doing, it needs doing.”
Eli swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Jake gave a short grunt of approval.
“That’s the way of it.”
The wagon rolled on, the wheels humming against the dirt road.
Jake’s voice softened a little.
“We’re short-handed, truth be told. Ranch this size ought to have fifteen good hands to run proper.”
Colt added, “At least.”
Jake nodded once. “Before you came along, we had nine men ridin’ for this ranch. That includes me.”
He tipped his chin toward Colt. “Then I hired Colt. That made ten. Caldwell didn’t take long after that to name him Range Boss.”
Eli did the figuring in his head. “So that makes me eleven.”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “And we’re still short-handed.”
“That you are,” Jake said. “Plenty of work waiting for you.”
Eli wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or nervous. Maybe both. After a moment, Eli asked, “You live in the ranch house?”
Jake almost laughed. “No. Foreman lives with the men. I sleep in the bunkhouse same as everyone else. Only Old Man Caldwell and Mary stay in the house. He’s the Boss. One room for the Boss, one for Mary, and one for guests or for us if we get hurt bad.”
Eli looked surprised. “But you’re foreman.”
Jake tipped his hat back slightly. “A foreman ain’t a lord. He’s just the man who makes sure the work gets done and the ranch keeps breathing.”
Colt’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “But Old Man Caldwell’s taken a liking to Jake. Wants him up to the ranch house every night for supper. The previous foreman went only on Fridays.”
Jake shrugged like it didn’t matter, but Eli could tell it did.
“Caldwell wants to talk business. Ranch business never sleeps.”
Eli hesitated, then asked the question that had been in his mind since Joslin’s store. “Will I meet Mary tonight?”
Jake’s expression warmed. “Mary’s the cook for the ranch house and the cookhouse both. But you probably won’t see her this evening.”
Colt nodded toward the supplies. “You might see her as we unload these supplies, but she has big responsibilities keeping this ranch goin’. All of us take orders from Mary…even Old Man Caldwell from time to time. She cooks for the men, then she leaves. Doesn’t linger around the hands. Gotta fix dinner for the boss.”
Jake continued, “Tiny runs the cookhouse once the food’s ready.”
Eli frowned. “Tiny?”
Colt’s eyes flicked sideways. “You’ll see.”
Jake explained as the ranch came into view in the distance. “Mary cooks the meals. Tiny keeps ’em hot. Makes sure the line moves, makes sure nobody starts trouble. Feeds the hands who work late.”
Eli raised an eyebrow. “Trouble?”
Jake’s voice turned serious.
“Cookhouse is where tired, hungry men get short-tempered. Tiny keeps the peace. Around the ranch in general, too. He’s a man to ride the river with, even the roaring rapids.”
Colt added, “Ain’t a man out here who doesn’t respect Tiny.”
The buckboard rolled past the first fence line. The ranch buildings rose ahead—bunkhouse, barn, corrals, and beyond them, the cookhouse with smoke curling from its stovepipe.
Eli’s stomach tightened. Everything felt suddenly real.
They pulled up near the cookhouse.
Jake slowed the team.
And there, standing in the doorway, was Tiny.
Eli had never seen a man so big.
He filled the doorway, shoulders broad as a wagon, arms crossed over a chest like a barrel. The fading sunlight behind him made him look carved out of the very wood of the cookhouse itself.
Tiny’s face wasn’t mean. Just solid. Like a mountain deciding whether you were worth noticing.
Colt swung down from his horse. “Tiny,” he called, “this here’s Eli Turner. New hand. And I think he’s near starving.”
Tiny’s eyes dropped down to Eli, slow and steady.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice as deep as a distant drum, he spoke. “Turner.”
Eli nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Tiny’s mouth twitched. “Don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old.”
Colt gave a quiet chuckle.
Tiny stepped aside, just enough for the doorway to breathe again.
“Food’s hot,” he said. “Keep your hands clean and your temper cleaner.”
Eli glanced at Jake.
Jake nodded once. “Welcome to Roaring Rapids Ranch, Eli.”
As the cookhouse light spilled out onto the yard, Eli knew one thing for certain, he had a new hope for tomorrow.
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