Enough for Clara.
Enough for Caleb perhaps.
Enough for five people.
Not for a settlement.
Caleb turned toward her.
“You don’t have to do this.”
She looked at him.
“Do what?”
“Feed everyone.”
“Then what?”
“They go to the church.”
“With what food?”
He had no answer.
Clara wiped both hands on her apron.
“Bring in the long bench.”
His jaw tightened.
“Clara.”
“Caleb.”
“If you empty this pantry tonight, what happens next week?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not a plan.”
“No.”
“It’s supper.”
The first knock came.
Three hard strikes.
Clara opened the door.
Old Mr. Caldwell stood outside with his granddaughter.
Not the timber company Caldwell, just an old settler sharing the name.
Behind him, two families.
Then another.
Children wrapped in quilts.
A pregnant woman.
An elderly man whose beard had frozen white.
Nobody looked proud anymore.
Clara stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The cabin filled.
Then overflowed.
Caleb moved people toward the walls.
Thomas brought more wood.
Mae helped Clara at the stove.
No one spoke about the market.
Not yet.
Clara added water to the stew.
Then potatoes.
Then flour dumplings.
Then two jars of preserved chicken.
The pot grew.
Caleb watched.
“You’re stretching it.”
“Yes.”
“How far?”
“Until it stops stretching.”
He looked at her.
She added herbs.
Salt.
Onions.
A handful of dried corn.
The smell grew.
Children stared.
Clara began serving.
Small bowls first.
Children.
Pregnant woman.
Elderly.
Then adults.
Nobody complained about portions.
By nine o’clock, thirty-seven people had eaten.
At ten, eleven more arrived.
Clara made another pot.
The cake disappeared too.
She cut tiny slices.
Henry received the first.
Caleb the last.
He stood near the door eating it with his fingers.
Clara looked at him.
“You already had two.”
“You weren’t counting.”
“I count everything.”
He smiled.
Then the door opened again.
Ben Mercer stepped inside.
Store owner.
Sixty-three.
Red face.
Expensive coat.
A man who had laughed so loudly when Clara purchased the scrawny birds that half the market turned.
He removed his hat.
Clara looked at him.
“Ben.”
“Mrs. Bennett.”
“Miss.”
He nodded.
“Miss Bennett.”
Behind him stood his wife.
His daughter.
Two grandchildren.
He looked toward the pots.
Then at the floor.
“I need help.”
Clara waited.
Not because she wanted him to beg.
Because he needed to say what he came for.
“Our storehouse froze.”
“That shouldn’t ruin dry goods.”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“The roof gave.”
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
Another roof.
Too much snow too quickly.
“How much did you lose?”
“Most.”
“How much left?”
“Some canned goods.”
“Salt.”
“A little sugar.”
“Any grain?”