How can a woman your size stand near a stove?
Not:
Did you fall into the pot?
Who taught you?
Matilda loosened her grip on the towel slightly.
“My mother.”
The giant became still.
“What was her name?”
Abigail stepped forward.
“That hardly matters, Mr. Boon. If the stew displeases you, I'll have her prepare—”
The trapper raised one hand.
Abigail stopped.
He never looked at her.
His attention remained fixed on Matilda.
“What was your mother’s name?”
Matilda’s pulse quickened.
“Eleanor Hart.”
The giant’s expression changed.
Not much.
But enough that she saw it.
Pain.
Recognition.
Something old.
His next breath came slowly.
“Eleanor May Hart?”
Matilda forgot the men watching.
“How do you know her middle name?”
Nobody moved.
The trapper reached beneath the heavy fur at his chest.
Abigail’s face tightened.
For one wild second Matilda thought he might draw a weapon.
Instead his enormous hand emerged holding a narrow strip of blue cloth.
Faded.
Frayed.
He unfolded it.
An embroidered letter E appeared near one corner.
Matilda’s knees weakened.
Her mother had stitched that exact mark into everything she owned.
Handkerchiefs.
Aprons.
Blanket corners.
Even flour sacks she intended to keep.
Matilda stared.
“That belonged to her.”
The trapper nodded.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
He looked around the room.
Too many ears.
Too many faces.
Then at Matilda.
“Your mother gave it to me.”
Matilda almost laughed from disbelief.