One man had once asked whether the kitchen stove burned hotter because she stood so close to it.
Loretta had pretended not to hear.
Not because the words didn't hurt, but because she needed the work.
The Copper Pot was the only cookhouse in Red Dog that served hot meals after the evening shift. Its rough timber walls were darkened by years of smoke, and its windows rattled whenever winter winds swept through the valley. The long tables were crowded with men who spent twelve hours underground and expected enormous meals for very little money.
Loretta knew most of them by name.
She knew which men needed softer bread because their teeth were damaged. She knew which ones sent part of their wages home to wives and children. She knew who had been injured, who hadn't received his full pay, and which miners were eating only one proper meal a day because company deductions had grown too large.
Many were decent men.
But a few had discovered that mocking Loretta made them feel powerful.
And that evening, Bram Kincaid seemed determined to entertain the entire room at her expense.
He reached across the counter and grabbed a cooked steak from a platter with his bare fingers.
Loretta looked up.
"That's for the men who came in first."
Bram laughed.
"I decide who eats first."
He tossed the meat onto another miner's plate.
Then he shoved the empty serving tray toward her.
"Fill it."
Loretta tightened her grip on the tongs.
"I'll serve everyone in order."
The foreman leaned closer.
"Not tonight."
She could smell whiskey on his breath.
A young miner near the doorway shifted uncomfortably.
Another stared at the floor.
Then Bram slammed his fist against the counter.
"You're lucky this camp lets a woman your size work in the kitchen at all!"
The room erupted in laughter.
Loretta felt heat rise into her cheeks.
She turned toward the stove.
Not because she agreed.
Because if she looked at him another second, she was afraid she would cry.
Her knees ached.
Her lower back throbbed.
And her hands were beginning to lose their steadiness.
But she kept cooking.
She had learned long ago that sometimes dignity meant continuing to do the work properly even when the people benefiting from it treated you as though you were worth nothing.
Then the cookhouse door opened.
A blast of freezing mountain air swept across the floor.
The nearest lantern flickered.
Snow blew through the doorway.