“Sir… I know how to cook,” came a timid voice from behind him, “but I’m too fat.”
Ethan turned slowly. Standing before him was a young woman, her face smudged with dust, her clothes worn thin from travel. She held a small bundle — her only possessions. Her eyes, though tired, carried something rare: quiet courage.
“My name’s Clara Whitlow,” she said softly. “I grew up cooking in an inn. But no one will hire me. They say I don’t look right for the job.”
Ethan studied her. She was strong and round, the kind of woman most people in town would whisper about. But her honesty disarmed him. For a long moment, he said nothing, then finally nodded toward the kitchen.
“If you can cook,” he said in a gruff voice, “I’ll know in an hour.”
The First Meal
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