Julia stepped up. “You won’t get fresher butter and cream.”

“Red’s starting the last of the butter,” Maggie said without turning around, “and I’m rinsing the last of the last batch. Check the curds on the stove.”

“Will do. We’ve got a customer.”

“Just have to wait until—” Still pressing, she looked over her shoulder. “Well, look here, Red. Somebody’s all grown-up.”

He switched on the machine, turned. “She sure is.”

He walked over, held out a hand. Cate ignored it, hugged him. “It’s good to see you, Sheriff.”

“Just Red now. I thought I retired, but these women work a man to death.”

“You look pretty healthy for a dead man.”

Maggie cackled at that. “It’s about time you came by, girlie. Once that last batch of butter churns and we finish it up, I’m ready to take a break.”

Cate eyed the machine. “That’s a butter churn?”

“You think we use a wooden bucket and stick?” Maggie cackled again. “We’ve come a ways since Little House on the Prairie.”

“These curds are ready. Cate, why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll all take a break as soon as we’re done here.”

“She’s got two hands, and we can use them. Are they clean?” Maggie demanded.

“I—”

“Wash them up anyway. You can help me wrap this butter.”

“No one escapes,” Red told her.

Curious, Cate walked to the sink, looked in. “Is that butter?”

“One more rinse and it will be. You’ve got to get the buttermilk out. Use the sink over there.”

A half hour later when Dillon came in to grab a cup of coffee, he found Cate, wearing a big apron, her hair pulled back in a tail, wrapping rounds of butter.

“Don’t you bring ranch dirt in here,” Maggie warned him.

“I washed up at the pump. Hi.”

“Hi.” Cate smiled as if she’d just won the grand prize in a raffle. “I helped make butter. And mozzarella.”

Transferring wrapped rounds of butter and cheese to the refrigerator, Julia saw her son’s eyes, what was in them. Sighed a little inside.

“Why don’t you help Red clean up the churn, and we’ll get something going for lunch? Do you still eat meat, Cate?”

She’d only meant to stay an hour. Work waited. But . . . Well, she’d work tonight, she decided. “I do.”

She sat down to leftover chicken stew with fresh dumplings.

“I saw you outside,” she said to Dillon, “with the horse going in circles.”

“Lunge line. It’s training, and communication. That was Jethro. It’s how they learn to switch gaits on command, to switch directions, stop, go.”

“It takes skill and patience,” Julia added, “which Dillon has in abundance.”

“I’d love to see the horses next time I come.”

“I can take you around after lunch.”

“Workday for me—or should’ve been. Who knew I’d make butter? You can really do it just by shaking a mason jar?”

“If you’ve got the arm and the patience for it. I made it that way the first time when Julia was just—hell, about three, I guess.”

“We used to use a tabletop churn—it’s back there on the shelf. But we had so many people asking for it, we went higher tech when we expanded. Same with the cheeses. Remember, Mom?”

“My arm does. Now that this one’s always underfoot?” Maggie elbow-poked Red. “He has to earn his keep. He’s a half-assed rancher, but half an ass is better than none.”

“She fills my life with grief.” Red spooned up more stew. “And damn good dumplings.”

“I need that soda bread recipe.”

“I’ll write it down for you.”

“I know the basics, but there was something just a little different. A little sugar, right?”

“That’s right, but the real secret is working the butter in with your fingers.”

“With your fingers?”

“Mrs. Leary swore by it.”

“Surprised you have time for all that,” Red put in. “Hugh says you stay busy, in demand.”

“Multitasking.” Dillon shot her a look. “She gave me a heart attack last week when she’s kneading bread and screaming.”

“He gave me one back when he burst into the house ready to rumble. I do scream dubbing.”

“That’s a thing?” Red wondered.

“It is. Does anybody watch horror movies?”

Three fingers pointed to Maggie.

“Love them. The scarier the better.”

“Did you catch Retribution?”

“Vengeful ghosts, ramshackle house on a cliff, troubled marriage they try to patch up by moving to a new place. It had it all.”

“Anytime you heard Rachel—she was the mother—scream?” Cate tapped her throat.

“Is that right? I’m watching it again—I’ll listen for you.”

“I’m surprised any of you have time to watch anything. Milking and training and feeding and making and baking.”

“If you don’t take time,” Julia said, “the work’s just work instead of a life. More stew?”

“No, thanks. It was great. Everything was great. I have to get back and voice a snooty French swan for an animated short.”

“What’s that sound like?”

Cate angled her head at Dillon. “I think, it’s along the lines of . . .”

As he watched, she changed posture, sort of lengthened her neck, and looked down her nose. And hit a snooty French accent on the nose. “ ‘Alors, the duck, he is the disgrace, non? We have no room for so foul the fowl on our lake.’

“It’s a sweet little story on bigotry and acceptance of the different. And I really have to get to it. Can I help with the dishes?”

“Red’s got that.”

“See?” He jerked a thumb at Maggie. “Works me to death.”

“Let me put your order together.” Julia rose.

“How do we do this? Do we run a tab, do I pay you now?”

“Your grandparents run a monthly, and you can do the same. But in this case, you earned the dairy.”

“I’ll take it, thanks. I’d love some of the mozzarella. Next time I break out a frozen pizza, I’ll grate some on it.”

There was a distinct hush.

“Ix-nay on the rozen-fay izza-pay,” Dillon muttered.

“What?”

“She speaks like five languages, but doesn’t get pig latin. It’s too late for you.”

“You don’t know how to make a pizza?” Maggie demanded.

“Sure I do. You take it out of the freezer, put it in the oven. Or when I lived in New York, you pick up the phone and it magically arrives at your door.”

“Next lesson, how to make an actual pizza instead of settling for processed sauce on cardboard.” Maggie shook her head. “How do you expect to survive the zombie apocalypse if you can’t make your own pizza?”

“I never thought about it that way.”