“I did.”
Matilda became still.
“What?”
Jedodiah looked toward the office.
“Two years ago.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“You spoke to her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That you were dead.”
The pantry went completely silent.
Matilda stared.
Jedodiah's voice lowered.
“She said Matilda Hart died during an influenza winter five years after your mother.”
Matilda's hands began shaking.
“She told you I was dead.”
“Yes.”
“You believed her.”
“For a while.”
“Why are you here now?”
Jedodiah reached into his coat again.
This time a folded newspaper clipping.
He handed it to Matilda.
The Leadville Chronicle.
Three months earlier.
A small article about Prospector’s Rest feeding forty stranded rail workers during an early autumn snow.
Near the end:
Credit was given to longtime cook Matilda Hart, whose venison stew drew particular praise.
Matilda stared at her own name.
“I never saw this.”
“I did.”
Jedodiah's mouth tightened.
“Three states away.”
“Then you came.”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
The question escaped before she could protect herself.
“Why?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because I promised your mother.”
Matilda's eyes burned.
“What promise?”
He looked at her.
“To make sure nobody took Black Ridge from you.”
A crash came from Abigail's office.
Jedodiah turned.
Matilda did too.
Then smoke appeared beneath the office door.
For one second neither moved.
Then Jedodiah roared:
“FIRE!”