“Ah, you must be the new Mrs. McKnight,” he said, drying his hands on his apron. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer. The boys call me Cookie.”

Encouraged by his friendly face, she allowed herself to relax. “Nice to meet you, Cookie. But please, call me Emily.”

“Emily, uh?” His face grew serious. “The boss told me about the little mix-up.”

She regarded the cook with a look of curiosity. “Marrying the wrong person hardly seems like a little mix-up.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not, but I have to say, you sure are a sight for sore eyes. You don’t look like no rancher’s wife I’ve ever seen.”

Not sure if he meant it as a compliment, she wrinkled her nose. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Well now, ma’am, there’s coffee, and there’s what is known as my famous son-of-a-gun coffee. You won’t find better. That I’ll guarantee you. Would you care for some chow to go with it?”

Emily shook her head. Last night, the housekeeper had brought a bowl of stew to her room, but she’d been too upset to eat, and her nerves were still in a tangle. “Just coffee for now.”

Cookie turned to the cookstove and reached for the coffeepot.

It was a large kitchen with tall windows, a brick fireplace, and a wood-burning stove. An icebox stood next to an open door leading to a well-stocked pantry. Beneath rows of shelves lined with canned goods were large sacks of flour and rice.

A bowl filled with plump, black berries and four empty pie plates were spread across the butcher-block counter.

Following her gaze, Cookie nodded. “Picked those dewberries fresh this morning. I reckon they’ll make some mighty fine pies.”

Emily had never heard of dewberries, but if the berries tasted as good as they looked, they would make fine pies, indeed.

“I’ll bring you your coffee on the veranda, if you like.”

“Thank you, but this will do.” Despite its barn-like size, the kitchen appeared to be the friendliest room in the house.

Emily sat at the table and reached for the Haywire Dispatch. Sipping her coffee, she scanned the headlines. The coffee was every bit as good as the cook had promised. The paper, however, was a week old, so there was nothing about the stampede. The main news story was about a desperado tracked down by the Texas Rangers.

She was just about to turn the page when a smaller headline caught her eye. It read, BOSTON BUSINESSMAN SENTENCED TO PRISON.

Dear God, no! Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such news showing up in a small-town newspaper so far away from home. The article gave few details except to say that her uncle had been sentenced to prison for cattle fraud.

Fields & Fields had been started by her father as a loan company with a fine reputation. But under her uncle’s leadership, the company had also ventured into other moneymaking schemes, some legal, most not. His latest scam was to convince Eastern investors to sink thousands of dollars into what he touted as the new gold—cattle.