“You're right.”
That surprised her.
He continued:
“I have information.”
“Not rights.”
Matilda looked back.
“Then give me the information.”
He studied her.
Then reached beneath his shirt.
Not the blue cloth.
A key.
Small brass.
Old.
He placed it on a flour barrel.
Matilda stared.
“What does that open?”
“A strongbox.”
“Where?”
“Black Ridge.”
Her pulse quickened.
“What’s inside?”
“Something your mother told me to give you when you were old enough.”
Matilda laughed once.
“I've been old enough for fourteen years.”
“Yes.”
“Then where have you been?”
The question struck.
His face changed.
“I was looking.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“You knew my name.”
“Matilda Hart.”
“You knew Leadville.”
“No.”
“She died in Leadville.”
“I learned that later.”
“You could have asked.”
“I did.”
“Who?”
“Church registers.”
“Freight offices.”
“County records.”
“Two towns in Wyoming.”
“Three in Colorado.”
“I found a Matilda Hart in Canon City.”
“She was sixty-two.”
Despite herself, Matilda smiled.
He continued:
“Another married a cooper in Pueblo.”
“Another died as an infant.”
“Your mother moved often after Black Ridge.”