“I come here because your bread is better than mine.”
She almost rolled her eyes.
He continued:
“And because your house smells like rosemary.”
“And because you argue with me.”
“And because you know when I’m lying.”
“And because when you laugh, you tilt your head before the sound comes.”
Clara stopped breathing.
Caleb’s voice dropped.
“And because I think about you when I’m three ridges away.”
No joke now.
No escape.
Clara whispered:
“Caleb.”
He stood.
Not touching her.
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
He looked confused.
She continued.
“You say things like that, then disappear to the mountain for five days.”
“I trap.”
“I know.”
“I live there.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
She stood too.
At nearly three hundred pounds, Clara was not small beside him, but Caleb still towered over her.
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her for a long time.
Then:
“When I know, I’ll tell you.”
She hated that answer.
Because it was honest.
The weather broke three days later.
Not snow.
Rain first.
Hard.
Cold.
Two days straight.
The roads turned to mud.
Then the temperature dropped overnight.
Every puddle became ice.
The creek froze at the edges.
Children woke to white frost inside window frames.
Caleb came down from the mountain before dawn.
He carried two rabbits, a sack of dried mushrooms, and concern.
“The north ridge got six inches.”
Clara looked toward the window.
“Already?”
“More coming.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pass?”
“Open now.”
“For how long?”
Caleb set the rabbits on the table.
“I’d go to town today.”
Clara had already packed her cart.
He smiled.
“You’re irritating.”
“I told you.”
They went together.
Laurel Ridge looked different.
Less laughter.
More urgency.
Families crowded the mill.
Salt sold out before noon.
Flour nearly gone.
Silas Broome bought the last barrel of coffee and complained about price.
Clara bought oats, dried peas, three smoked shoulders, and every onion the merchant would sell without depriving someone else.
Silas saw her.
“So the prophet has returned.”
Clara ignored him.
He called louder.
“How many chickens alive?”
“Ten.”
“Still skinny?”
“Less.”
“Think they’ll save you?”
Clara turned.
“No.”
“What will?”
“Work.”
A few nearby people smiled.
Silas scowled.
Caleb appeared carrying a sack over one shoulder.
Silas looked at him.
“You moving in with her?”
Clara’s face heated.