He smiled nervously.
"In town. Properly."
She looked at him.
"You've eaten supper in my kitchen a dozen times."
"I know."
"And at the church."
"Yes."
She tried not to smile.
"Then what's different?"
Caleb took a slow breath.
"I'd like to come calling."
Clara went still.
For a moment, she stared at him.
Then looked down.
"Caleb, people would talk."
He nodded.
"Probably."
She swallowed.
"They already talk."
"I know."
She looked toward her broad figure, the stained apron, the tired hands.
Then whispered, "You could choose somebody else."
Caleb's expression changed.
He leaned forward.
"Clara Bennett."
She raised her eyes.
He held her gaze.
"I've had forty-four years to learn that I don't want somebody else telling me whom I ought to love."
The room became silent.
Clara stared.
The word seemed to hang between them.
Love.
Caleb looked startled by his own honesty.
Then he continued more quietly.
"I don't expect an answer tonight."
Her eyes filled.
"But I wanted you to know."
Clara looked down at their joined hands.
For years, people had told her that a woman of her size should be grateful if any man showed interest.
That she should accept whatever attention came.
That she could not afford to be particular.
But Caleb was not asking her to be grateful.
He was asking whether she wanted him.
She looked up.
Then smiled through tears.
"When the roads open," she whispered, "I'd like that very much."
Caleb's face softened.
A broad, almost boyish smile appeared beneath his beard.
"Good."
Clara laughed softly.
"Good?"
He nodded.
"Very good."
Outside, the wind shifted.
Snow rattled against the window.
The food shortage remained.
The pass was still blocked.
And the freight wagons stood stranded beyond the mountain.
But for one brief moment, the little kitchen felt filled with something neither of them had dared expect.
A future.
The first stolen loaf was discovered the following morning.
It was not a large loaf.
It had been baked from coarse flour and a little cornmeal, then left cooling beneath a cloth in the church kitchen.
When Miss Whitfield returned to serve breakfast, it was gone.
At first, nobody was particularly alarmed.
Someone might have moved it.
A child might have taken it.
One of the men repairing the stove might have assumed it was meant for them.
But then two apples disappeared from a storage basket.
And a small crock of rendered fat was found with its lid disturbed.
By noon, people were whispering.
Some blamed the children.
Others suspected a passing trapper.
One woman suggested that someone was hiding food while everyone else went hungry.
Clara heard the accusations when she arrived with a pot of porridge.
She set it down.