“She has work.”
“So do I.”
Matilda glanced back.
Their eyes met.
Abigail’s face had changed.
Fear.
Matilda had seen Abigail angry.
Greedy.
Pleased.
Drunk.
Vindictive.
But rarely afraid.
That frightened Matilda more than Jedodiah's fist.
By midnight, the storm worsened.
The telegraph line went down.
The road east vanished beneath drifts.
Somebody from the livery reported the roof over the north stalls had partially collapsed.
The town marshal ordered everyone indoors until daylight.
Prospector’s Rest became shelter for fifty-three people.
Abigail hated every additional body.
Matilda saw numbers.
Flour.
Meat.
Beans.
Potatoes.
Fuel.
She entered the pantry with a lantern and counted.
Enough bread flour for perhaps two days if stretched.
Beans for three.
Salt pork.
Half a venison carcass.
Carrots.
Turnips.
Six cabbages.
Oats.
Dried apples.
Two sacks of cornmeal.
Not enough coffee.
Never enough coffee.
She heard boots behind her.
“Counting?”
Jedodiah.
He had removed his fur coat.
Without it, he still filled the doorway.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How long the storm lasts.”
“Two days.”
“You know?”
“I've watched the mountains since sunrise.”