Caleb looked at her.
She whispered:
“There isn’t enough.”
The pantry suddenly existed in her mind as exact numbers.
Flour.
Corn.
Beans.
Chicken.
Dried apples.
Two smoked shoulders.
Enough for herself.
Maybe Caleb.
Maybe several families.
Not the settlement.
Lanterns multiplied.
Children.
Men.
Women.
Silas Broome stood near front.
His hat in both hands.
For first time Clara had ever seen, he did not look proud.
He looked frightened.
Caleb caught her wrist before she opened door.
“Wait.”
She looked.
He was staring beyond the families.
Toward the trail.
“What?”
“Look.”
Behind the crowd, something moved through white.
Two horses.
Then another.
Sled runners.
A large wooden freight sled emerged through snowfall.
Loaded.
High.
Sacks.
Crates.
Smoked meat.
Blankets.
Corn.
Beans.
Flour.
Clara turned toward Caleb.
He gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.
“What is that?”
“My winter cache.”
She stared.
“You have a winter cache?”
“I live on a mountain.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“For you?”
“For several winters if careful.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
Her mouth fell open.
He continued.
“I started bringing it down before dawn.”
“Isaac and Turner helped.”
“Who?”
“Two hunters.”
“Why?”
Caleb looked at the families outside.
Then at Clara.
“Because you were right.”
“About what?”
“One person shouldn’t feed the whole valley alone.”
Her eyes filled again.
He said:
“So I brought mine.”
Clara opened the door.
Cold rushed in.
Silas Broome stood first.
His cheeks were hollow with fear.
Behind him, his wife held their granddaughter.
Silas removed his hat.
“Mrs. Bennett.”
Clara waited.
He swallowed.
“My grain shed roof collapsed.”
“Two barrels got wet.”
“Another froze.”
“We heard you still had food.”
His voice was barely audible.
“I know I got no right to ask.”
Clara looked at him.
She remembered every laugh.
Every joke.
Every time he had made her body public amusement.