Chapter 2 – Dinner in the Ranch House
The sun was dipping low behind the far ridge when Jake Harmon led Boone toward the main ranch house. Crickets had begun their twilight chorus, and a golden haze hung over the valley, the scent of woodsmoke drifting from the big stone chimney. Jake had been on the place for a week now, keeping to his bunkhouse and eating the cowboy grub of Cookie's, but Friday night was different. Tradition at the Roaring Rapids Ranch said the foreman took supper with the owner in the big house once a week.
The front porch boards creaked under Jake’s boots as he stepped up. He took off his hat, brushed a trace of trail dust from his coat, and rapped lightly on the heavy oak door. Boone, the shaggy shepherd-mix he’d found just days ago, sat at his heel, tail sweeping the porch in slow arcs.
The door swung open to the warm smell of baking bread and roast beef. A woman stood there, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. She was mid-thirties, with kind hazel eyes and warm features framed by hair the color of autumn wheat. Her smile came easy, though it carried a note of curiosity—maybe even a flicker of hope, as if she’d been waiting for someone steady to show up again.
“You must be Jake Harmon,” she said, voice soft but sure. “And this fine fellow must be the dog I’ve heard about.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jake replied, a touch of trail dust still in his tone. “This here’s Boone. He’s new to the ranch, same as me. Can he come for dinner too?”
She reached down, scratching Boone behind the ears. The dog leaned into it like he’d found an old friend. “I’m Mary,” she said, straightening. “Cook, baker, and keeper of the peace when the cowboys get too loud. Come on in. Supper’s just about ready, and as far as I'm concerned Boone's welcome.”
Jake and Boone followed her inside. The ranch house dining room was large, anchored by a long, polished pine table that seemed to run half the length of the room. Lamps along the walls threw a warm glow across shelves lined with old books, photographs, and silver trophies from cattle shows long past. At the far end, closest to the kitchen, sat Old Man Caldwell himself.
Caldwell was lean and wiry, his weathered face drawn tight as rawhide. His white hair stuck out from under a black string-tied collar, and his eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—tracked Jake the way a man sizes up a horse he might buy. He grunted, the chair creaking as he leaned back, one weathered hand tapping the table in slow rhythm, like a man used to calling the pace.
“Evenin’, Harmon,” Caldwell said. “Reckon you’ve settled in.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake answered. “Plenty of good country to work.”
Caldwell’s gaze shifted to Boone, who had flopped down near Jake’s boots, head lifted as if waiting for a cue. “That dog yours?”
“Found him out by the north ridge. Looked like he’d been on his own awhile. I thought I’d bring him in to meet the boss.”
“Hmm.” Caldwell’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You reckon he knows cattle? Or is he just another mouth to feed?”
Jake’s hand brushed Boone’s head. “Don’t know yet, sir. But I’ve seen the way he watches stock. I figure he’s had some training.”
Caldwell grunted again. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. A dog that can work cattle’s worth his keep, and he’s welcome to dinner. One that can’t… well, we’ve no room for freeloaders.”
Before Jake could reply, Mary stepped in carrying a platter of roast beef surrounded by roasted carrots and potatoes, steam curling into the lamplight. She set it down with practiced ease and began placing dishes along the table.
“Let the man sit before you interrogate him, Mr. Caldwell,” she said lightly. “He hasn’t even had a bite yet.”
Caldwell gave a faint smile. “Fair enough, Mary.”
The meal was hearty—thick slices of tender beef, hot bread with fresh butter, and coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe. Mary kept the conversation easy, asking Jake about where he’d ridden before coming to the Roaring Rapids. He’d come from the Flying Z Ranch, and before that Pennsylvania. She listened with interest but didn’t press when he kept his answers short. Boone lay content, tail thumping now and again when Mary passed close and handed him a piece of roast beef.
Midway through the meal, Caldwell set down his fork. “Harmon, you’re foreman now. Men will look to you when the weather turns mean or the cattle start drifting. You think you can handle that?”
Jake met his gaze evenly. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t. I’ve ridden the range. I’ve fought rustlers. I can tell a man who will ride for the brand, and I reckon you can too.”
Caldwell’s eyes flickered, something between challenge and approval. “We’ll see. Spring roundup’s coming. That’s when a man proves his worth.”
Mary returned with a warm apple pie, the crust golden and flaky. “Don’t you two get to talking business so much you forget dessert,” she said, setting it down. “Life’s too short for that.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember.”
When the plates were cleared and the coffee cups drained, Jake rose, placing his hat back on his head. Boone stood and stretched beside him. Caldwell’s voice followed him to the door.
“Bring that dog along tomorrow. We’ll see if he’s got what it takes.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said.
Mary met him at the threshold, her eyes catching his in the soft lamplight. “Welcome to the ranch, Jake. You’ll do fine here.”
Outside, the night was cool, the stars beginning to freckle the sky. Jake felt Boone press close as they crossed the yard toward the bunkhouse. He glanced back once at the glow from the big house windows, the sound of Mary humming faintly carrying through the still air.
He figured Friday nights at the ranch house might just become something worth looking forward to—maybe even something that felt a little like home.
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