Every smug comment about chickens.
Her anger existed.
It did not disappear because he was afraid.
She let herself feel it.
Then she looked at the little girl in his wife’s arms.
Cold did not care what her grandfather had said.
Clara stepped aside.
“Get the children inside first.”
Silas stared.
“Clara—”
“Children.”
His wife moved.
Others followed.
Caleb came out carrying flour sack.
He called:
“Men who can lift, line up.”
“Women who can cook, kitchen.”
“Anyone with dry wood, bring it.”
“Anybody with empty crocks, get them.”
The frightened crowd began turning into work.
That was the moment Laurel Ridge survived.
Not when Clara bought skinny chickens.
Not when Caleb brought sled.
When panic became organization.
The meeting house opened.
Clara refused to keep everyone inside her cabin.
Too small.
Too dangerous.
Within an hour, food and supplies moved to meeting hall where rationing could be public.
Silas Broome tried to place his family first.
Clara stopped him.
“Children under twelve first.”
“Pregnant women.”
“Elderly.”
“Then everybody else.”
Silas looked offended automatically.
Then ashamed.
He nodded.
Clara established portions.
Caleb established work crews.
Reverend Hale kept lists.
The blacksmith repaired damaged sled runners.
Widow Cole managed blankets.
The miller measured flour.
People brought what they had.
One family contributed three jars of beans.
Another two hams.
One old woman had thirty pounds dried apples she had been saving for trade.
A hunter brought venison.
Not enough individually.
Together, more.
The settlement had food.
Not plenty.
But time.
Clara thought of her mother.
A pantry is time.
Now the entire village had built one.
The first week was hardest.
The pass remained buried.
Two men attempted to reach north route on snowshoes.
Turned back.
Caleb organized hunting parties.
Game was scarce.
He refused reckless trips after one young man nearly froze.
People grumbled about rationing.
Clara held firm.
Some accused her of favoring families.
She made measurements public.
Every sack weighed.
Every meal recorded.
Silas approached her on the sixth day.
She was stirring a huge iron pot at meeting house.
He stood awkwardly.
“Can I speak?”
“You are.”
He looked around.
“No.”
“Private.”
Clara handed spoon to Widow Cole.
Went outside.
Snow glittered beneath pale sun.
Silas removed hat.
“I owe you apology.”
Clara said nothing.
He continued.
“I laughed.”
“Yes.”
“I said things.”
“Yes.”
“I was cruel.”