“One barrel oats.”
Clara immediately changed focus.
“Bring it tomorrow.”
Ben looked confused.
“For what?”
“The chickens.”
Caleb looked at her.
Clara continued.
“Feed them oats.”
“Keep them laying.”
Ben stared.
“You mean those ugly birds?”
Silence.
Mae looked down.
Thomas too.
Clara smiled slightly.
“Yes.”
“Those ugly birds.”
Ben’s face reddened.
He understood.
“I was wrong.”
Clara nodded.
“Yes.”
That was all.
No speech.
No humiliation.
No revenge.
They needed food more than she needed an apology.
By midnight, the storm worsened.
People slept everywhere.
Floor.
Benches.
Against walls.
Caleb remained awake near the stove.
Clara sat at the table.
Exhausted.
Her feet throbbed.
Her lower back hurt.
Her apron was stained with broth.
He brought her tea.
She accepted.
“You’re angry.”
Caleb sat opposite.
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
She smiled tiredly.
“For feeding children?”
“For pretending you’re not part of the equation.”
Clara’s smile faded.
“You gave away half your stores tonight.”
“Not half.”
“Close.”
“I counted.”
“Of course you did.”
“You need food too.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Clara looked at him.
Caleb leaned closer.
“You always put yourself last before anyone even asks.”
Her expression hardened.
“That is unfair.”
“It is accurate.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know nothing about why I do things.”
“Then tell me.”
She stared.
Everyone around them slept.
The cabin was crowded but somehow the space between Clara and Caleb felt private.
She lowered her voice.
“When you look like me, you learn to earn the space you occupy.”
Caleb’s face changed.
Clara continued.
“You become useful.”
“You carry what you can.”
“You cook.”
“You mend.”
“You laugh when someone makes the joke first.”
“You never ask for the larger chair.”
“You never complain if the carriage is uncomfortable.”
“You make yourself valuable enough that people forgive how much room you take.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“Martha…” No, her name is Clara. Let's keep.
“Clara.”
She looked down.
“I know it’s foolish.”
“No.”
His voice was rough.
“It’s cruel.”
“What?”
“That someone taught you that.”
Clara looked at him.
Caleb reached across the table.
Stopped.
Waited.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers.
“You do not have to earn your place in your own cabin.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
He continued.
“You do not have to feed fifty people to deserve the floor under your feet.”
Tears came.
She hated them.
Caleb squeezed her hand.
Clara whispered:
“You say things like that and then act surprised when I want you close.”
His eyes changed.
“Do you?”
She looked at him directly.
“Yes.”
The answer rested between them.
Caleb said nothing.
Clara waited.
Then:
“Is that frightening?”
“Yes.”