“I know.”
“Then why?”
“They were irritating.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Apparently it is.”
She shook her head.
“You are impossible.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you keep proving it.”
His gaze moved over her face.
Clara felt the same warmth again.
She turned toward the stove.
Caleb stepped closer.
Not too close.
Never too close.
“You changed your dress.”
Clara looked down.
The dress was plain sage green.
No embroidery.
No decorative flowers.
Nothing fancy.
A low square neckline.
Gathered sleeves.
Cream apron.
She had altered it herself.
“It was old.”
“It looks good.”
She looked at him.
“You noticed.”
“Yes.”
“Men aren’t supposed to notice dresses.”
“Who said?”
“Women.”
“Then women underestimated us.”
Clara smiled despite herself.
Caleb’s gaze dropped briefly.
Then returned to her eyes.
She knew exactly what he had noticed.
The altered neckline sat lower than the old one.
Not indecent.
Just less guarded.
Clara’s cheeks warmed.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
She turned toward the table where two cleaned chickens rested.
“Help me.”
“With what?”
“Seasoning.”
Caleb approached.
Clara sprinkled salt.
Dried thyme.
Garlic.
Onion.
He watched.
“You’re cooking them now?”
“One.”
“Saving the other?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing with this one?”
“Stew.”
“For tonight?”
“Partly.”
He frowned.
Clara cut the bird into pieces.
“Watch.”
She placed the meat into the heavy iron pot.
Added bones from previous meals.
Water.
Onions.
Carrots.
Herbs.
A spoonful of saved fat.
Then she covered it.
“That feeds how many?”
Caleb looked.
“Four?”
“Six.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Those are mountain appetites.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Clara pointed toward the flour bowl.
“Dumplings.”
Caleb stared.
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s cooking.”
“You’re filling people with flour.”
“I’m filling people.”
He smiled.
Clara continued.
“People think meat is the meal.”
“It isn’t.”
“The pot is the meal.”
“Everything inside supports everything else.”
Caleb watched her.
“Sounds like you’re talking about more than supper.”
She looked at him.
“Maybe you’re hearing too much.”
The chicken simmered.
The cabin filled with scent.
Fat.
Thyme.
Garlic.
Warm flour.
Caleb stood near the stove longer than necessary.
Clara finally said:
“You staying?”
“For supper?”
“Yes.”
“Was hoping.”
“You could ask.”
“I just did.”
“No.”
“You waited until I offered.”
“That is asking with patience.”
She laughed.
Caleb leaned closer to the pot.
“That smells better than those birds deserved.”
Clara hit his arm with a towel.
When the meat softened, she pulled every piece apart.
Even the tiny scraps near joints.
Nothing wasted.
The bones went back into the broth.
The meat returned later.
Then she stirred flour and water into the pot.