She looked toward her pantry.
Caleb saw.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide everybody is your responsibility.”
Clara opened the door.
“Get inside.”
He followed.
She heated broth.
He removed wet outer clothes and stood near fire in fur vest and trousers.
Steam rose from him.
Clara tried not to notice his bare chest.
Failed.
He noticed her noticing.
Said nothing.
That somehow made it worse.
She poured broth.
“How many families are short already?”
Caleb took the cup.
“Three I know.”
“Who?”
“Pattersons.”
“Grays.”
“Widow Cole.”
Clara went still.
Widow Cole had four children.
Caleb saw.
“No.”
“They have children.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t say no.”
“You have enough for yourself.”
“And more.”
“For how long if everybody comes?”
Clara looked toward pantry.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How much I stretch.”
He laughed without humor.
“You cannot stretch beans into February for fifty people.”
“No.”
“But I can stretch them tonight.”
Knocking sounded at the door.
Both turned.
Three hard strikes.
Then another.
Clara whispered:
“That fast?”
Caleb set down cup.
Opened.
Widow Cole stood there with two children.
Not four.
The younger two.
A six-year-old girl wrapped in a quilt.
A boy maybe four, crying silently.
Their mother’s face was white with cold.
“I’m sorry.”
Clara did not let her finish.
“Come in.”
Caleb looked at her.
She ignored him.
Widow Cole stepped inside.
“My roof collapsed over pantry.”
Clara stopped.
“All the flour’s wet.”
“The smoked meat is under beam.”
“I can’t lift it.”
Caleb put on his coat again.
“Show me.”
Widow Cole looked at him.
“It’s bad.”
“I’ve seen roofs.”
Clara said:
“I’ll feed the children.”
Caleb looked at her.
A whole conversation passed.
You’re doing it.
Yes.
You cannot stop.
No.
He left with Widow Cole.
Clara warmed chicken broth.
Not the preserved crocks yet.
She still had vegetable stock and potatoes.
She made thick soup.
The children ate.
The boy fell asleep at table.
The girl asked: