The broth thickened.
Finally she pinched small pieces of dough and dropped them one by one.
Caleb watched them puff.
“Those are dumplings?”
“Yes.”
“Small.”
“They grow.”
He looked at Clara.
“Useful skill.”
“What?”
“Growing after being underestimated.”
She paused.
He held her gaze.
The remark landed deeper than he probably intended.
Or perhaps exactly as deep.
She turned back to the pot.
“Set the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They ate by lantern light.
Caleb took one spoonful.
Then another.
Then stared at the bowl.
“What?”
Clara asked.
“I owe those chickens an apology.”
She laughed.
He continued eating.
“This could feed a lot of people.”
“That’s the point.”
“You really think something is coming.”
Clara looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
Caleb followed her gaze.
Outside, wind moved through bare branches.
The mountain ridge had disappeared into cloud.
“When?”
“Soon.”
He stopped eating.
“How soon?”
Clara thought.
“Before Christmas.”
It was only November.
Caleb frowned.
“You think the pass will close for weeks?”
“I think nobody knows.”
He leaned back.
“Then why aren’t you warning everyone?”
“I have.”
“Who listened?”
Clara smiled sadly.
“You.”
Caleb looked down at his bowl.
That was not entirely true.
He had not started storing enough either.
The next morning, Caleb rode north.
He returned that afternoon with three sacks of cornmeal.
Clara looked at them.
“What is this?”
“Preparation.”
“You bought too much.”
“No.”
“You bought because I scared you.”
“Yes.”
She blinked.
Caleb smiled.
“I can learn.”
That night, Clara began filling crocks.
Chicken stew.
Dried beans with smoked scraps.
Rendered fat sealed under cloth.
Pickled vegetables.
Cornmeal.
Flour.
Dried herb bundles.
She marked everything.
Not because she expected to feed a settlement.
Because she had learned that inventory mattered when winter removed choices.
December came early to the mountains.
The first snow was gentle.
Children played in it.
Men laughed about Clara’s prediction.
“Pass is still open.”
“Wagons came yesterday.”
“Mercantile’s full.”
Clara ignored them.
The second snow was heavier.
Still manageable.
The third arrived with wind.
Caleb came to her cabin at sunset.
Snow clung to his beard.
“Road’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“North bend is drifting.”
Clara set down a bowl.
“Tomorrow?”
“Worse.”
He looked toward her shelves.
“You were right.”
“Not yet.”
Caleb stepped closer to the fire.
His fur vest hung open over his bare chest beneath his coat.
Clara stared for half a second.
He noticed.
Her eyes snapped upward.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked.”
“So?”
Caleb smiled.
“Nothing.”
Clara turned toward the stove.
He removed his coat.
“You always cook when nervous?”
“I cook when hungry.”
“You’ve been cooking all day.”
“Then I’ve been hungry all day.”
He laughed.
Clara stirred the pot harder than necessary.
Caleb moved behind her.
Not touching.
Close enough that she felt his warmth.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you keep wearing that neckline and expecting me to discuss weather.”
Clara turned.
“You seem capable of discussing weather while looking elsewhere.”
He smiled.
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”