"Or disappear in the mountains."
He looked toward the dark ridge.
"Maybe."
Clara felt anger rise.
"Don't say that as though it doesn't matter."
Caleb turned.
Her eyes were wet.
For a moment, he seemed surprised.
Then she continued.
"Everybody talks about you as though you're made of stone. As though you can ride into any storm and come back because you're Caleb Morgan."
His expression softened.
"Clara."
She shook her head.
"You're a man. You get cold. You get tired. You can get hurt."
He watched her.
She lowered her voice.
"And I would notice if you didn't come back."
The words hung between them.
Clara felt her cheeks burn.
She looked away.
Caleb did not speak immediately.
Then he reached toward her hand.
Stopped.
And asked quietly, "May I?"
She looked up.
Her throat tightened.
Then she nodded.
Caleb took her hand in his enormous palm.
His fingers were warm despite the cold.
He held her gently.
"I would notice if you weren't here too."
Clara felt tears gather.
She tried to smile.
"That's a strange thing to say about someone who's been making you chop vegetables all week."
Caleb laughed softly.
"Never said I minded."
She looked at their joined hands.
For a moment, the food shortage, the blocked road, and the crowded church seemed very far away.
Then the church door opened.
Thomas Reed hurried outside.
"Mr. Morgan!"
Caleb released Clara's hand.
The boy was breathless.
"What is it?" Caleb asked.
Thomas pointed toward the northern trail.
"One of the Finch boys came back from the pass."
Clara straightened.
"And?"
Thomas swallowed.
"He says the road didn't just slide."
Caleb frowned.
"What does he mean?"
The boy looked frightened.
"There's a whole section of the mountain down across it."
Clara felt cold.
Thomas continued.
"And the freight wagons are trapped on the other side."
Caleb looked toward the dark ridge.
"How many?"
"Three wagons. Maybe four."
Clara stared toward the mountains.
The winter flour shipment.
The grain.
The supplies the settlement had been waiting for.
All sitting beyond a wall of rock and snow.
She turned toward Caleb.
His expression had changed.
He was no longer thinking only about finding food.
He was thinking about the people traveling with it.
And somewhere beyond Bellweather Pass, several men might be trapped with a freight shipment they could not bring home.
The boy who brought the news had ridden from Bellweather Pass on a half-frozen mule.
His name was Nathan Finch, the seventeen-year-old son of Daniel Finch, and his face was so windburned that the skin around his cheeks had begun to crack.
He had been helping a road crew inspect the slide when he climbed onto a ridge above the blocked passage.
Through a break in the snow, he saw the freight wagons.
Three of them.
Perhaps a fourth farther back.
They stood on the eastern side of the obstruction, sheltered beneath a line of dark fir trees.