Caleb said:
“Not today.”
The answer was so calm that Silas blinked.
Clara stared at Caleb.
He kept walking.
Later she caught him behind the feed store.
“Not today?”
He grinned.
“You heard.”
“Everyone heard.”
“That was point.”
“Caleb Morgan.”
He leaned against wall.
“Yes?”
“You enjoy making my life difficult.”
“No.”
His eyes moved over her face.
“I enjoy imagining it.”
Her breath caught.
He pushed away from wall before she could answer.
“Storm’s coming.”
“We should go.”
Coward, she thought.
Not because he lacked courage.
Because he knew exactly when to escape a conversation he had started.
They returned to Clara’s cabin before dusk.
Snow began after midnight.
By morning, eight inches.
By noon, fourteen.
The wind arrived next.
For two days, Laurel Ridge disappeared beneath white.
Paths vanished.
Fences became shapes.
Branches cracked under weight.
Clara kept the chickens inside a sheltered section of the barn and carried warm mash twice daily.
Caleb had returned to his cabin on Cedar Ridge before the worst began.
She hated that he had gone.
She also understood.
His winter stores were there.
His traps.
His mule.
His life.
On the third day, snow stopped.
For six hours.
People dug paths.
Checked roofs.
Cut fallen branches.
Silas Broome rode through town on a heavy horse and announced the pass crew would clear the northern road within two days.
Everyone relaxed too soon.
That night, the second storm came.
It was worse.
Snow fell sideways.
The wind screamed through the valley so hard the meeting-house bell rang by itself.
Clara woke at two in the morning when something struck her east wall.
A tree limb.
No serious damage.
She fed the fire.
Checked shutters.
Listened.
At dawn, she could barely open the door.
Snow reached halfway to her waist.
The chickens had survived.
She carried warm water.
Then stood outside the barn looking north.
Nothing.
No ridge.
No sky.
Only white.
Caleb appeared near noon.
On foot.
Snow caked his beard.
His fur vest had been covered by a heavier coat, but ice clung to his shoulders.
Clara ran toward him.
“What happened?”
He reached her porch.
“The pass is gone.”
She stared.
“What does that mean?”
“Slide.”
“Snow?”
“Snow and rock.”
“How bad?”
“Whole north cut buried.”
“How long?”
“Could be weeks.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Caleb continued.
“South trail?”
“Two bridges washed before freeze.”
“There’s no wagon route.”