The room was rustic and had an open-beamed ceiling and pitted plank floor. A rock fireplace commanded one entire wall, and bare, narrow windows took up another. Cots filled two-thirds of the room, and a long table surrounded by ladder-back chairs occupied the rest.

When introduced, the ranch hands rose from the table, shuffled their feet, and politely doffed their hats. Altogether there were seven ranch hands, and all were dressed in canvas pants and plain bib shirts.

Each man had a curious name that either described his physical appearance or stated his place of origin. She’d already met Big-Foot Harry and Rusty, but there also were Kansas Pete, Beanpole Tom, Gabby, and the man they called Foxhound. The deep, gravelly voice belonged to the ranch foreman, Boomer.

The men varied in age from early twenties to midforties. All were wiry, had sun-bronzed skin, and spoke with either a twang or a lazy drawl. After an initial wariness at having a woman in their midst, the men began to relax.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” the man who’d been introduced as Boomer said, speaking for the rest of them. “Anythin’ me and the boys can do fer you, just give us a holler.”

“Thank you,” Emily said. She glanced at the steaming bowls on the table. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your meal.”

The men took their seats again and eagerly helped themselves to Cookie’s son-of-a-gun stew. The man who’d been introduced as Kansas Pete spoke up. “Big-Foot Harry said you and the boss got married by accident.”

Cookie looked appalled. “What’s the matter with you, Kansas Pete? You ain’t supposed to talk about that.” He turned to Emily. “Let’s go.”

“It’s all right,” Emily said. “I’m sure no harm was meant.” There was no sense denying what apparently was now common knowledge. Or would be once Mrs. Buttonwood learned the truth. Hoping to put the men at ease, Emily said, “The stampede caused a lot of confusion.”

Boomer chuckled. “I’ll say. Guess you could say the stakes have never been so high.” Laughing at his own pun, he lifted his spoon to his mouth and made a loud slurping sound.

Beanpole Tom reached across the table for a sourdough biscuit. “If you ask me, the boss lucked out.”

“That’s what I herd.” Big-Foot Harry laughed. When no one laughed with him, he spelled the word out. “H-e-r-d. Get it?”

Cookie rolled his eyes. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he said, ushering Emily out the door. He waited until they were a distance from the bunkhouse before apologizing for the men. “Don’t mind them. They’re all talk, but they don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Actually, she liked the cowhands. They were nothing like the men back home with their tweed suits and uppity airs. Instead, the men here were much more down-to-earth and unassuming.

After Emily had visited the bunkhouse and met the friendly occupants, the main house seemed more remote and lonely than ever.