Caleb looked at Evan. "Go back to bed," Caleb said. "You sure?" "I've got it. Go."
Evan went. Caleb pulled the crate back to the door, sat down, and put the rifle across his knees again, and settled back into the particular alertness that was going to see him through to morning. The real blizzard arrived on the 1st of December, and it did not arrive like weather. It arrived like a decision.
The sky the day before had been the color of old iron, flat, low, not a cloud so much as a ceiling descended so far that the ridge tops disappeared into it by noon. The wind had been coming down from the north since morning with a consistency that carried information for anyone who knew how to read it. Caleb read it. He spent the afternoon doing what you do when you've lived through Wyoming winters long enough to know what that sky means.
He moved every animal that could be moved into the barn, reinforced the barn doors with a diagonal brace he'd been meaning to install for two seasons, brought extra water into the house and the bunkhouse, and took inventory of everything consumable on the property twice. Mara did her own inventory without being asked, and they compared notes at supper. Not dramatically, just sitting at the table with two pieces of paper and going through them together, the way you might review a set of accounts with a business partner. The numbers were what they were, enough food for 6 weeks if they were careful.
Beyond 6 weeks, it depended on whether the supply roads had reopened by then, which depended on the storm's duration, which nobody in Wyoming in December could tell you with any certainty. "6 weeks is February," Mara said. "Yes." "Supply routes could be out longer than 6 weeks. Could be.
She looked at the paper. Then we stretch what we have. Already planned on it. I can get more out of the stores than you'd think, she said. If I know what I'm working with.
He slid his inventory page across the table. She read it the way she read everything, carefully, completely, without rushing. She made three small notations in the margin and slid it back. He read the notations. She'd found three places where the allocation could be redistributed to extend the range without hitting the threshold where people started actually going short.
He hadn't seen any of them. "How did you—?" He said. "Ohio winters," she said. "My mother stretched a root cellar further than you'd believe possible.
You learn what's necessary." He nodded. He folded both pages together and put them in his coat pocket. Outside the wind picked up with a sound like something large deciding to lean against the house.