“Are we staying here?”
“Tonight if needed.”
“Will Mama come back?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Morgan scary?”
Clara smiled.
“Only to trees.”
The girl considered.
“Trees scared?”
“Very.”
That satisfied her.
Caleb returned two hours later carrying a shoulder of smoked pork and two sacks.
Widow Cole followed.
Her roof could be braced.
The pantry was half destroyed but food salvageable.
Caleb had organized two neighbors to help.
They left with Clara’s soup and returned home.
That should have been one emergency.
Then knocking came again.
A father whose cornmeal had molded.
An elderly couple out of lamp oil and nearly out of flour.
A young mother whose husband had gone hunting before the storm and had not returned.
By evening, Clara’s cabin became a stopping point.
Not because she had the most food.
Silas Broome had far more.
Everyone knew that.
But Clara did not ask what people could trade.
She asked:
“How many mouths?”
Caleb watched.
He had returned after checking the missing hunter’s route.
No sign.
Dark now.
Search tomorrow.
Clara stood at table preparing two of the thin chickens.
The same birds mocked at market.
They were not large even after weeks of feeding.
She sharpened knife.
Caleb leaned in doorway.
“You’re cooking those little things?”
She looked.
“You’ve asked me that before.”
“I liked first answer.”
“I’m feeding more people than you think.”
He smiled faintly.
“My mother made chicken stew before every winter storm.”
“Then your mother understood mountains.”
Clara dressed the chickens.
Added onions.
Carrots.
Garlic.
Dried thyme.
Water.
Bones from a previous meal.
Salt carefully.
Not too much.
The pot simmered.
Caleb watched every movement.
She pulled meat from bones.
Returned it to broth.
Mixed flour with water.
Dropped dumplings into pot.
Two chickens became enough food for twelve people if portions were careful.
Not luxury.
Warmth.
Calories.
Hope.
Caleb said quietly:
“Never thought two skinny birds could become all that.”
Clara looked at him.
“Meat gives flavor.”
“Broth stretches it.”
“Dumplings fill stomachs.”
He smiled.
“You’ve said that before.”
“No.”
“You’ve thought it before.”
“Yes.”
They ate after everyone else.
Caleb sat across.
Clara barely touched her bowl.
He noticed.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Lie.”
“I tasted while cooking.”
“Not enough.”
“Caleb.”
He pushed his own bowl toward her.
“Eat.”