Caleb Morgan had lived north of the valley longer than almost anyone.
Forty years old.
Heavy shoulders.
Thick beard.
A chest broad enough that most shirts looked undersized.
He trapped in winter.
Hunted.
Raised a few cattle.
Cut timber.
Did whatever work the mountains allowed.
He was not talkative.
He was not charming in the usual way.
He was simply present too often.
He appeared when a hinge broke.
When the chimney needed clearing.
When a mule slipped near the creek.
Clara never asked.
Caleb never explained much.
That arrangement had continued long enough that refusing his help was becoming increasingly difficult.
He looked toward the crate.
“What’s that?”
“Chickens.”
He walked closer.
“Those?”
“Yes.”
He crouched.
One bird looked at him suspiciously.
Caleb looked back at Clara.
“You paid money?”
She stared.
“That is generally how markets work.”
His mouth twitched.
“These are winter birds?”
“Yes.”
“They look like they already lost an argument with winter.”
Clara lifted the crate.
“Go home.”
He laughed.
She walked toward the cabin.
Behind her, Caleb called:
“You cooking those tonight?”
“No.”
“When?”
“When I need them.”
He followed.
Clara turned.
“Why are you following me?”
“I want to know what you’re doing.”
“With chickens?”
“With everything.”
She stared at him.
Caleb looked toward the ridge.
“First frost is early.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been drying herbs for two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“Bought twice your normal flour.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You counting my sacks?”
“They’re stacked near the window.”
“You’ve been watching my window?”
“That sounded worse than I intended.”
Clara almost smiled.
Almost.
She opened the cabin door.
“You want coffee?”
Caleb blinked.
“That an invitation?”
“For coffee.”
“Important distinction.”
“Very.”
He stepped inside.
The cabin was warm.
Bundles of herbs hung from rafters.
Clay crocks stood along one shelf.
A pot simmered over the stove.
Caleb looked around.
“You really are preparing.”
Clara set the chicken crate near the back wall.
“I always prepare.”
“This much?”
“No.”
He leaned against the table.
“Why now?”
Clara began unpacking flour.
“The mountain.”
“What about it?”
She pointed toward the window.
“Look.”
Caleb did.
The ridge was already pale.
Not snow exactly.
Frost.
A silver line across the highest grass.
Caleb’s expression changed.
“You think we’ll get an early storm.”
“I think people forgot how fast that pass can close.”
He looked back.
“And the chickens?”
“Broth.”
“They’re mostly bone.”
“Exactly.”
Caleb frowned.
Clara smiled.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m listening.”
She picked up one of the butcher’s bones.
“Meat feeds once.”
She placed it in a pot.
“Bones feed twice.”
Caleb watched.
“Broth.”
“Yes.”
She added onion skin.
Carrot ends.
A garlic clove.
“Everything goes somewhere.”
Caleb looked around the kitchen.
“That why you’ve been saving onion peels?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were becoming strange.”
“I was already strange.”
“Fair.”
She laughed despite herself.
Caleb smiled.
He liked making her laugh.
Clara knew it.
That made her more careful.
Her husband had been dead for nearly three years.