Pulled on her dress.
And hurried toward the kitchen.
Then she stopped.
The table was clean.
The stove burned brightly.
A pot of coffee waited.
Fresh bread rested beneath a cloth.
Caleb stood beside the sink washing dishes.
He turned.
"Morning."
Clara stared.
"What happened?"
He smiled.
"Breakfast."
"No, I mean—"
"I know what you mean."
He dried his hands.
"Hester came early. Took the supply list to the church. Martha's baking. Miss Whitfield is handling deliveries."
Clara blinked.
"And the inventory?"
"Amos is doing the grain count with Peter."
She stared.
"Peter Carter?"
"Yes."
"But—"
Caleb raised one hand.
"Everything's accounted for."
Clara looked around.
The cabin was warm.
The kitchen orderly.
The world had continued without her managing every moment.
She felt relief.
Then a strange sadness.
Caleb noticed.
"What is it?"
Clara looked down.
"I don't know what to do."
He smiled gently.
"Eat breakfast."
She laughed weakly.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
He pulled out her chair.
"Still a good place to start."
She sat.
He placed a plate before her.
Bread.
Potatoes.
A little smoked meat.
And a spoonful of apple preserves.
Clara stared at it.
Caleb poured coffee.
She looked up.
"Where's yours?"
He nodded toward the stove.
"Already ate."
She smiled faintly.
Then took a bite.
For the first time in weeks, she ate without counting whether she had taken more than her share.
Later that morning, Caleb took Clara outside.
The weather was clear.
The sky was pale blue.
Sunlight glittered across the snow.
He had prepared a short sled ride along the sheltered meadow behind her homestead.
Clara stared at the sturdy wooden sled.
"What's this?"
"Transportation."
"To where?"
"Nowhere important."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Caleb Morgan."
He smiled.
"You've been inside almost every day since the storm started."
"I've had work."
"I know."