Chapter 3 - The First Feast
Dawn broke over the high peaks in a wash of pale gold and bruised purple.
The air outside the smokehouse was freezing, but from the massive stone chimney, a thick, rich column of white smoke billowed steadily into the crisp morning sky. The aroma drifting down the basin was nothing short of miraculous. It smelled of slow-roasted bone marrow, cracked black pepper, wild garlic, and thick, browning root vegetables.
Eli Mercer was the first to wake. He rolled out of his bunk in the bunkhouse, his stomach letting out a loud, hollow rumble. For weeks, waking up meant bracing himself for another day of dizzying weakness. But today, the scent hitting his nostrils made his mouth flood with saliva.
He threw on his flannel shirt, yanked on his boots, and practically sprinted down the frozen path toward the smokehouse.
When he shoved the heavy oak door open, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Long wooden trestle tables—salvaged from the old recreation shed and scrubbed raw—ran the length of the stone floor. Down the center sat rows of steaming cast-iron Dutch ovens. Piles of thick, dark rye bread, baked in the makeshift brick oven Claire had rigged overnight using firebricks from the ruins, sat stacked like cordwood. And beside them were deep bowls of roasted potatoes glistening with rendered beef fat and herbs.
Claire stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a large wooden paddle in her hand. She looked up as Eli stumbled inside, followed closely by Toby and three other groggy-eyed hands.
"Sit down," Claire commanded.
"What... what is all this?" Eli breathed, staring at a steaming bowl of rich, dark stew loaded with tender chunks of beef and thick vegetables.
"Breakfast," Claire said simply. "And if you finish that, there's smoked pork belly coming out of the pit in an hour. Now sit your ass down before I give your portion to the dogs."
Within five minutes, all twenty-two men were crowded around the tables. There was no talking, no joking, no grumbling. There was only the frantic, rhythmic scraping of spoons against cast iron.
Dominic stood near the back of the smokehouse, watching the transformation. He saw the color returning to Toby’s cheeks. He saw the tension leave Eli’s broad shoulders as the hot, nutrient-dense food hit his system. A starving man is a liability; a well-fed man is an army.
Claire walked over to Dominic, handing him a small wooden bowl filled with the same rich broth and tender meat.
"You haven't eaten either," she said quietly.
Dominic took the bowl, his fingers brushing hers. The contact was brief, but it sent a distinct, unexpected jolt through the heavy air between them.
"You're performing miracles, Claire," he murmured, taking a slow sip. His eyes widened slightly at the depth of the flavor. "Vance’s scouts are watching the main gate right now. They expected to see men packing their bags by noon."
"Let them watch," Claire said, wiping her hands on a cloth and looking out the narrow stone slit that served as a window. "A man who hasn't eaten in two months will quit. A man who just ate three pounds of slow-roasted beef and fresh bread will fight to protect his kitchen."
She turned back to him, her gray-blue eyes flashing with absolute resolve. "Now, Mr. Hale. Tell me about the hidden supply cache your accountants didn't want to list on the balance sheet."
May you like
Dominic choked slightly on his broth, coughing once before looking down at her with a mixture of shock and profound wariness. "What cache?"
"The one buried beneath the old dairy barn," Claire said smoothly. "The one with the double-locked steel door that requires a key you keep in your breast pocket. If you want to beat Victor Vance at his own game, we need more than beef. We need flour, sugar, and the preserved fruit your grandfather stored back in sixty-eight. Time to open the vault, Dominic."
