Samuel had never once asked her to become smaller.
That was one reason she loved him.
But not the only one.
She loved the way he saved the softest blanket for her.
The way he warmed her boots before cold mornings.
The way he listened when she spoke about her mother.
The way he never laughed at her dreams of growing roses beside the front porch, even though the mountain soil was mostly rock.
And she loved how he looked at her now.
As though there were nowhere else in the world he would rather be.
They continued eating until the great platter was nearly empty.
Then Samuel lifted the final piece.
Clara raised an eyebrow.
"Are you going to eat that?"
He looked at the meat.
Then at her.
"Do you want it?"
She hesitated.
He placed it on her plate.
"You can have it."
"But you've worked harder today."
"And you've cooked harder."
She divided it in half.
"There."
Samuel smiled.
"That's why we make a good pair."
By the time they finished supper, every tender piece of beef was gone.
Only clean bones remained.
Clara gathered the dishes while Samuel banked the fire.
Neither knew that the happiest evening of their winter was about to become the strangest.
The first unusual thing happened shortly after eight o'clock.
Samuel had taken the leftover cornbread to the cold pantry.
The pantry was a narrow room built against the northern wall of the cabin, where the mountain wind kept the temperature low enough to preserve meat and vegetables throughout much of the winter.
It contained shelves of potatoes, onions, dried beans, flour, preserved fruit, and a few remaining jars of salted pork.
Samuel opened the pantry door with his lantern raised.
And stopped.
At first, he thought he was looking at some trick of the light.
There, resting on the middle shelf, was an enormous rack of raw beef ribs.
Not leftovers.
Not bones.
Not a smaller cut forgotten beneath a cloth.
A complete rack.
Fresh.
Uncooked.
Almost identical to the meat they had spent the afternoon preparing.
Samuel stared.
Then he turned toward the kitchen.
"Clara?"
She was washing their plates.
"Yes, darling?"
"Could you come here?"
"What's wrong?"
"Just come a moment."
Something in his voice made her set down the dishcloth.
She walked to the pantry.
Samuel stepped aside.
Clara looked inside.
Her smile disappeared.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered, "Where did that come from?"
Samuel slowly turned toward her.
"I was hoping you knew."
She shook her head.
"That's impossible."
"I thought we cooked the last rack."
"We did."
"Are you certain?"
Clara gave him an astonished look.
"Samuel, I spent six hours cooking it. Of course I'm certain."