Of course.
Someone always found out.
“They’re outside.”
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
“Angry?”
“Yes.”
Clara put on her coat.
Caleb followed.
They reached the mercantile.
A crowd had gathered.
People shouted.
The merchant stood behind Clara.
Someone yelled:
“He hid food!”
Another:
“My children haven’t eaten flour in four days!”
The situation was close to violence.
Clara climbed onto the porch.
“Enough!”
People quieted.
Not because she shouted louder.
Because they knew her now.
Clara looked at the crowd.
“There are twelve sacks.”
A woman cried:
“He should give them away.”
The merchant started protesting.
Clara turned.
“No.”
Everyone stared.
She continued.
“He paid for them.”
The merchant relaxed slightly.
Clara looked at him.
“But you do not get double.”
His face tightened.
“Clara.”
“Original autumn price.”
“I’ll lose money.”
“You’ll lose less than if they break your windows.”
Silence.
Caleb almost smiled.
Clara turned toward the crowd.
“One household at a time.”
“No one buys more than five pounds.”
People complained.
Clara continued.
“Families larger than six get seven pounds.”
Someone shouted:
“Who made you boss?”
Clara looked directly at him.
“No one.”
The man folded his arms.
“Then why listen?”
Clara pointed toward the store.
“Don’t.”
Silence.
“You can fight.”
“You can take everything.”
“You can let the strongest carry it home.”
Her voice remained calm.
“Then two days from now, somebody with nothing will come to your door.”
The crowd quieted.
“Or we ration.”
Nobody moved.
Finally the same man said:
“Five pounds.”
Clara nodded.
“Five pounds.”
Distribution began.
That decision saved more food than anything else she did.
By day twelve, the pass remained closed.
Caleb and six men tried clearing it.
Snow reached their waists.
The slide had brought trees and rocks down with it.
They returned exhausted.
Clara met Caleb at the door.
“You’re bleeding.”
He touched his forehead.
“Branch.”
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
Clara cleaned the cut.
Caleb watched her face.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“For helping?”
“For being stupid.”
He smiled.
She glared.
“Stop.”
“Sorry.”
“You could have been killed.”
His smile disappeared.
“You care.”
Clara stopped.
Her hand remained near his temple.
“Of course I care.”
Caleb looked at her.
“Say it again.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“That.”
“I care.”
He leaned slightly closer.
Clara’s breath caught.
“You’re bleeding on my towel.”
“That isn't romantic.”
“You're lucky I’m treating you at all.”
He smiled.
Clara finished wrapping the bandage.
Then Caleb took her wrist gently.
She looked at him.
“What?”
“If this goes wrong.”
Her expression hardened.
“Don’t.”
“Listen.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
She looked away.
Caleb continued.
“If the pass stays closed longer than expected, people may have to leave through the eastern trail.”