Certainly not at Lena’s end of the table.
Lena had almost stayed home.
Her friend Martha convinced her otherwise.
“You bake better than anybody in town.”
“That is not what this sale is about.”
“It is literally a bake sale.”
“You know what I mean.”
Martha had.
The sale was also about presentation.
Standing.
Names.
Who had imported sugar.
Whose husband owned what.
Whose daughters wore Paris patterns copied from magazines six months late.
Lena lived in two rented rooms above Barker’s Feed and Flour.
Her husband had died four years earlier.
No children.
No inheritance beyond forty-three dollars of debt and a good cast-iron skillet.
She earned money baking for railway crews, washing linens for the hotel, and sometimes keeping accounts for shopkeepers who could count money but not organize it.
The Dutch oven was the most valuable thing she owned.
The starter inside the bread descended from one her mother had kept before Lena was born.
That seemed important to Lena.
Probably not to anyone else.
A gust of wind hit the building.
Snow hissed against the windows.
Then the front door opened.
Conversation died so quickly Lena heard the fire crack in the stove.
The man standing in the doorway blocked most of the white storm behind him.
Nathaniel Reid.
Snow covered the shoulders of a massive dark wolfskin coat. A rifle was strapped diagonally across his back. Long dark hair brushed his collar, and a thick beard shadowed a face cut by wind, weather, and the sort of fatigue people earned rather than purchased.
He stamped snow from his boots once.
Looked around.
Then entered.
Every woman behind the table straightened.
Caroline touched her hair.
Another adjusted a serving knife.
Someone uncovered a cake that had been protected beneath cloth all morning.
Lena almost laughed.
Nathaniel Reid removed his gloves.
His gaze passed over the long table.
Cake.
Pie.
Pastries.
Frosting.
Fruit preserves.
Then stopped.
Not on Caroline’s lemon cake.
On the black Dutch oven at the far end.
Lena’s stomach tightened.
He walked toward it.
Caroline stepped around the table.
“Mr. Reid.”
He nodded.
“Mrs. Dunley.”
She brightened.
“You remember me.”
“Your husband owes me two fence posts.”
Caroline’s smile became uncertain.
Nathaniel kept walking.
He stopped in front of Lena.
Up close, he seemed even larger.
She had to lift her chin to meet his eyes.
They were gray.
Not cold exactly.
Watchful.
His gaze moved to the Dutch oven.
“What’s in there?”
Lena swallowed.
“Bread.”
Caroline laughed lightly.
“Oh, Mr. Reid, you don't want that one.”
Nathaniel looked toward her.
She waved dismissively at the pot.
“It is practically a brick.”
Lena felt thirty pairs of eyes move toward her.
Nathaniel looked back at the Dutch oven.
“May I?”
The question surprised Lena.
He was asking before touching it.
“Yes.”
Nathaniel lifted the iron lid.
Steam rolled upward.
He leaned closer.
His expression changed slightly.
“Starter?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Nine years.”
“Rye?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
“Hard red wheat.”
Nathaniel tore off a piece from the outer crust.
Caroline looked almost offended.
He tasted it.
No one spoke.
Nathaniel chewed slowly.
Then tore off another piece.
Lena’s heartbeat started climbing.
He looked at the crumb.
Pressed it between two fingers.
Tasted again.
Caroline broke the silence.
“I’m sure it's filling.”