The knife in Clara Bennett’s hand was meant for cake.
Nothing more dangerous than that.
A short, blunt kitchen blade with a rounded end, polished smooth by years of use and barely sharp enough to cut through frosting without dragging crumbs behind it.
Yet Caleb Morgan stopped in the doorway as though she had caught him unprepared for something far more serious.
Snow clung to his shoulders.
The heavy brown fur vest he wore hung open over a bare chest still damp from the climb up the mountain, and his long dark hair had frozen in thin strands near the ends.
He was breathing harder than he wanted her to notice.
Clara noticed anyway.
She always did.
Outside, evening had already begun pressing blue darkness against the mountains.
The snowstorm that had been threatening since noon had finally arrived in earnest, covering the porch steps, the woodpile, and the narrow trail leading toward the settlement below.
Inside, the cabin glowed.
Fire crackled inside the iron stove.
Bundles of thyme and sage hung drying from ceiling beams.
Glass jars filled the shelves behind Clara with beans, flour, salt, preserved apples, onions, and the precious bits of food she had spent all autumn gathering while other people laughed.
And in the middle of the table sat a small round cream cake.
Clara finished cutting the first slice.
Then looked toward Caleb.
He was still staring.
Her mouth curved.
“You’ve been standing there long enough to either speak or kiss me.”
Caleb blinked.
For a man who could face a wounded bear without changing expression, the sentence nearly defeated him.
He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him.
“I came to warn you.”
“That sounds less interesting.”
“The north pass is closing.”
Clara’s smile faded slightly.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that the freight wagon turned around.”
She glanced toward the window.
Snow struck the glass in thick diagonal streaks.
“How long?”
“Could be tomorrow.”
“Could be two weeks.”
Caleb removed one glove.
Then the other.
His fingers were red from cold.
“Bridge below Miller Creek is icing over too.”
Clara set the cake knife down.
“You rode all the way up here for that?”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
Something warm moved through her chest.
She refused to let him see it too clearly.
Instead she slid the cake server beneath the slice.
“Then you earned dessert.”
Caleb approached the table.
Clara lifted the slice toward him.
He reached.
She moved it away.
His eyebrows rose.
“That’s cruel.”
“You survived the mountain.”
“I nearly didn’t survive your stairs.”
Clara gasped.
“My stairs are perfectly respectable.”
“They’re buried.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
Caleb stared.
She held the cake just beyond his reach.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You noticed.”
“I am difficult to miss.”
The sentence came naturally.
Too naturally.
Years of saying it before someone else could.
Clara saw the moment Caleb recognized what hid beneath the joke.
His expression changed.
Softened.
He stepped closer.
The table remained between them, but barely.
“I wasn’t staring because you’re difficult to miss.”
Clara’s pulse shifted.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Caleb looked at the slice of cake.
Then back at her eyes.
“I was trying to decide whether that cake is worth getting in trouble for.”
Clara smiled.
“You walked into my cabin covered in snow and started looking at my mouth instead of the cake.”
“You noticed that too?”
“I notice most things.”
Caleb leaned closer.
“Then you know exactly what kind of trouble I meant.”
Clara’s breath caught.
Neither moved.
The fire popped.
Wind pressed against the walls.
Caleb’s large hand rested on the edge of the table.
Clara looked at it.
Scarred knuckles.
Calloused palm.
A hand capable of splitting timber, setting traps, lifting sacks she needed both arms to move.
Yet whenever he touched anything belonging to her, his movements became careful.
Almost absurdly careful.
She lowered the cake slice.
Caleb thought she was giving it to him.
Instead, Clara placed it on a small plate.
Then set the plate aside.
His eyes returned to hers.
“That seems unfair.”
“You said you came to warn me.”
“I did.”
“Warn me properly.”
Caleb’s expression became serious.
“The settlement has maybe ten days of flour if everyone’s honest about what they stored.”
“They won’t be.”
“No.”
“Mercer’s store?”
“Nearly empty.”
Clara nodded.
She already knew.
For weeks she had watched people buy pretty cuts of cured beef and white flour while ignoring the bins of cracked corn, dried beans, old root vegetables, and thin livestock no one wanted.
She had bought differently.