Then handed it back.
"There."
Clara examined the edge.
"Much better."
He nodded.
She began chopping again.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Caleb looked toward the bowl of chopped vegetables.
"What's the plan?"
"Chow-chow."
He turned.
"What?"
"Pickled vegetable relish."
He looked at the peppers.
"My mother used to make something like that."
Clara glanced up.
"Did she?"
He nodded.
"With cabbage, onions, mustard seed, and vinegar."
"That's the one."
Caleb smiled faintly.
"Haven't smelled it in twenty years."
Clara reached for the vinegar jug.
"Then you'll recognize it before supper."
He watched her measure the ingredients.
"Will all that really keep?"
"If it's prepared properly, the jars seal, and they're stored well."
She looked toward the pantry.
"It's not much food on its own. But a spoonful makes beans, potatoes, and salt meat worth eating in February."
Caleb considered that.
Then nodded.
"Sounds like something my mother would've said."
Clara smiled.
"My mother used to say the garden isn't finished feeding a family until the earth is bare."
The mountain man looked toward the cutting board.
"Wise woman."
"Stubborn woman."
"Those sometimes go together."
Clara looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, she thought he was talking about her.
Then she turned back to the cabbage.
Her cheeks felt warmer than the stove could explain.
Pine Hollow was a small settlement tucked into the eastern side of Colorado's Rocky Mountains, nearly forty miles from the nearest reliable railway connection.
In summer, the valley was beautiful enough to make travelers forget how isolated it was.
Wildflowers covered the meadows.
Cold streams descended from the high slopes.
Aspen trees shimmered against dark stands of pine.
A narrow wagon road climbed through Bellweather Pass, connecting Pine Hollow to larger communities farther east.
But winter changed everything.
Snow could close the pass overnight.
Ice could make the creek crossings dangerous.
A broken wagon axle might delay supplies for days.
And when storms came early, the entire settlement depended on whatever its families had managed to store.
There were fifty-three permanent residents that autumn, including thirteen children.
A few additional trappers and timber workers came through during the year.
The settlement had a general store, a small schoolhouse, a blacksmith's shed, a church that doubled as a meeting hall, and a collection of homesteads scattered along the creek.
The wealthiest resident was Amos Pike.
Pike owned the general store, maintained several freight wagons, and controlled the largest commercial storeroom in the valley.
He was fifty-seven years old, stout, neatly bearded, and fond of reminding people that business required discipline.
His wife, Hester, shared his confidence in the value of respectable appearances.
She judged produce by its shape, clothing by its cleanliness, and people by whether they appeared to be prospering.
Clara Bennett did not meet many of her standards.
Clara's father had died the previous spring after a long decline in health.
Her mother had been gone for nearly a decade.
The Bennett homestead was small, and its fields were rocky.
Clara had refused several offers to sell.
One came from Pike himself.
He believed her land would make an excellent storage site for the freight business.
But Clara had inherited the farm from parents who spent their lives building it.
She did not intend to surrender it simply because a merchant thought she would be happier working in somebody else's kitchen.
That stubbornness made her unpopular with a certain sort of neighbor.
So did her size.
When Clara walked into the general store, people sometimes stared.
When she carried heavy sacks of grain, men offered jokes instead of assistance.
When she brought vegetables to market, Hester Pike often examined them as though expecting to discover evidence of moral failure beneath the soil.