The entire settlement knew.
They had laughed.
Especially at the chickens.
Sixteen scrawny birds nobody wanted.
Half had bald patches.
Three walked with odd little sideways steps.
One rooster looked permanently offended.
The market seller had practically begged her to take them.
Clara had spent nearly every remaining coin.
People called her foolish.
Clara had carried them home.
Fed them scraps.
Built a warm coop behind the cabin.
By November, twelve survived.
By December, she had eggs.
Not many.
Enough.
She had also saved bones.
Fat.
Onion skins.
Carrot tops.
Barley.
Dried herbs.
Every ugly thing other people considered too poor for respectable tables.
Caleb knew.
He had helped stack some of it.
Now he looked toward her pantry.
“How much do you have?”
Clara answered honestly.
“For myself?”
“Yes.”
“Long enough.”
“For others?”
He knew her too well.
Clara folded her arms.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How many others.”
Caleb looked toward the window again.
“That’s what worries me.”
The warmth between them shifted.
Not gone.
Just replaced by something more urgent.
Clara handed him the cake.
This time she let go.
He took it.
“Eat.”
“I can wait.”
“No.”
She pointed.
“You haven’t eaten since morning.”
“How do you know?”
“You get quieter when you’re hungry.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“You get irritatingly quiet.”
Caleb took a bite.
His eyes closed.
Clara smiled.
“Well?”
He chewed.
“Terrible.”
“Liar.”
“Needs another slice so I can be sure.”
She laughed.
The sound filled the cabin.
Caleb opened his eyes.
There it was again.
That look.
Clara had seen it more often recently.
A tenderness he seemed almost angry at himself for feeling.
She turned away first.
Not because she disliked it.
Because she did not yet know how to survive wanting it.
Caleb Morgan had lived alone in the mountains for eight years.
Everyone knew that.
What fewer people knew was why.
A wife.
A son.
A winter fever.
Two graves beside a cedar grove farther north.
Clara had learned only pieces.
Caleb never spoke about them unless something forced the memory into the open.
She never asked.
People had asked Clara plenty of questions they had no right to ask.
Her weight.
Her eating.
Why she had never married.
Whether she could climb stairs.
Whether she slept sitting up.
Whether any man had ever wanted her.
She had learned the difference between curiosity and invitation.
Caleb’s grief was not an invitation.
Not yet.
So she waited.
He finished the cake.
Then looked at the plate.
Clara laughed.
“You actually do want another.”
“I told you.”
She cut a second slice.
This one larger.
Caleb watched her.
“You kept the last eggs for this?”
“Two.”
“You should have saved them.”
“For what?”
“The storm.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“If winter lasts long enough that two eggs decide whether I live, I’ve already made several worse mistakes.”
Caleb almost smiled.
Then the smile disappeared as a new sound rose outside.
Not wind.
Hooves.
Clara heard it too.
One horse.
Moving badly.
Caleb was already at the door.
He opened it.