He advertised for a wife who could cook—not love him. Hattie arrived dragging a trunk he could barely lift.
He advertised for a wife who could cook—not love him. Hattie arrived dragging a trunk he could barely lift. Three days later, his son was bleeding to death on the floor—and when she opened it, Gideon discovered he had married no ordinary cook.
Gideon Mercer did not want love.
Love had already cost him enough.
Six months after fever buried his wife beneath the pines, he had seven grieving children, a cabin that smelled of burnt porridge and wet wool, and a Wyoming winter crawling down the mountains toward them.
So he rode into the valley and nailed a notice to the mercantile wall.
WANTED WIFE. MUST COOK. MUST TOLERATE NOISE. EXPECT NO ROMANCE.
Three weeks later, Hattie arrived.
She stepped from Henderson’s buckboard wearing a faded coat, practical boots and an expression so calm it made Gideon uneasy.
Her only possession was a cracked leather trunk.
He lifted it.
Nearly dropped it.
“What in God’s name is in here?”
“Books. Cast iron. Things I don’t trust other people to handle.”
That was all she offered.
Inside the cabin, seven filthy children stared at her like wolves defending a den.
Gideon cleared his throat.
“This is Hattie. She’ll be your new mother.”
Hattie turned so sharply he almost stepped backward.
“No.”
Levi, fourteen and furious at the world, тιԍнтened his grip around an iron poker.
Hattie faced the children.
“Your mother is ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. I am not here to replace her. I am here to cook, clean this place before disease finishes what grief started, and keep all seven of you alive until spring.”
Levi spat, “We don’t need you.”
Hattie surveyed the sour milk dried between the floorboards, the unwashed plates, the naked toddler and the cold stove.
“You are living like feral dogs.”
Gideon expected shouting.
Instead, Hattie removed her coat.
“Dry wood. Clean water.”
He frowned.
“You giving me orders?”
“Yes.”
Something in her gray eyes made him obey before his pride found an argument.
By sundown, the stove burned properly for the first time in months.
She fried salt pork, mixed flour into the rendered fat and made a heavy survival gruel.
No delicate biscuits.
No miracle feast.
Just H๏τ food.
The children devoured it.
The screaming stopped.
The cabin warmed.
And as Gideon watched Hattie standing beside the stove, he realized that for the first time since his wife died, he was not carrying the whole house on his back.
Across the room sat Hattie’s locked trunk.
Heavy.
Scarred.
