“She cooked.”
“Yes.”
“She died owing Abigail seventy-three dollars.”
Jedodiah’s face hardened.
“No.”
“I saw the account.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“Your mother had property worth thousands.”
Matilda's breath stopped.
Jedodiah continued.
“More now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She and a man named Silas Boon bought Black Ridge Station together in 1867.”
The surname struck.
“Your father?”
“Uncle.”
“What station?”
“Freight stop.”
“Trapping lodge.”
“Spring.”
“Two cabins.”
“Barn.”
“Six hundred forty acres.”
Matilda stared.
“No.”
“The deed is in the strongbox.”
“No.”
“Recorded copy should be at county office.”
“Should?”
“Records burned in '74.”
“Of course they did.”
“But the original survived.”
“In your strongbox.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My uncle died.”
“Your mother left.”
“She gave my father custody of papers during the territorial dispute.”
“What dispute?”
Jedodiah looked toward the hall.
“We need more time.”
Matilda's voice rose.
“I have had thirty-two years.”
The storm seemed quieter than her anger.
“Tell me.”
He did.
Black Ridge Station sat northwest of Leadville, high enough that winter isolated it for months.
Before the silver boom, freight trails crossing the mountains depended on scattered private waystations.
Food.