He nodded toward the woodshed.
She stared.
"In the woodshed?"
"Stayed warmer than you might think."
"Caleb Morgan."
He smiled.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"There's a difference between being useful and being foolish."
He laughed.
"Been accused of both."
She looked at his tired face.
Then softened.
"Thank you for staying."
His smile changed.
The teasing disappeared.
"Wouldn't have gone anywhere else."
For a moment, their eyes held.
Clara looked down first.
She was suddenly aware of the way her hair had escaped its pins and how badly her apron needed washing.
Caleb seemed not to notice.
Or perhaps he noticed and liked her anyway.
She was not yet brave enough to ask.
By noon, they had moved most of the stranded families into safer buildings.
Clara's house remained the main kitchen because its stove was reliable and its water supply had not been contaminated.
The church, once its chimney was cleared, became the largest sleeping shelter.
The Carters took in two families.
Martha Bell offered her spare room to an elderly couple despite being nearly seventy herself.
A rancher named Daniel Finch opened his barn loft to four men after Caleb inspected the structure and declared it safe.
Nobody was comfortable.
But everyone had a place out of the wind.
Clara turned her dining table into a supply desk.
She divided her notebook into sections.
Household names.
Number of people.
Food available.
Food lost.
Water sources.
Fuel.
Medical needs.
She asked people to report what they could spare, not what they believed someone else should surrender.
The distinction mattered.
Many families were frightened of losing their own winter stores.
Clara understood.
She was frightened too.
But she knew that refusing to count food did not create more of it.
It merely made the shortage harder to see.
By evening, the first inventory was complete enough to reveal the problem.
Across the households willing to report their stores, there were eleven usable sacks of flour or meal, several smaller supplies of dry beans and oats, cured meat, potatoes salvaged from unaffected cellars, and scattered household provisions.
There were also chickens, dairy animals, and livestock that required feed if they were to survive.
The store's commercial inventory had not been verified.
And several families had not yet been reached.
Clara sat at the table studying the figures.
Caleb stood behind her.
"How bad?"
She tapped one column.
"Depends how long the road stays closed."
"How long can we manage?"
"With what we've counted, not nearly as long as I'd like."
He leaned closer.
"Could we stretch it?"
"We can make fair portions, share ovens, stop wasting fuel, and keep people from eating through stores without knowing what's left."
She looked toward him.
"But stretching food doesn't make new grain."
Caleb nodded.
He studied the list.
Then asked, "What about Pike?"
Clara looked toward the window.
"That's the question."
Amos Pike refused to open the commercial storeroom.
He stood in the doorway of the general store wearing a thick black coat, his hands tucked beneath his arms.
Clara had walked there with Caleb and Martha Bell.
The snow was knee-deep along the side street.
A cold wind moved between the buildings.
Pike stared at them.
"I've already told everyone the store isn't open for ordinary trading."