“My mother has been dead thirteen years.”
“I know.”
Something about the way he said it removed the possibility of mistake.
Abigail spoke sharply.
“Matilda, back to the kitchen.”
Matilda did not move.
Abigail’s face hardened.
“There are thirty-two men waiting for supper.”
The trapper finally looked toward Abigail.
“Then they can wait.”
A miner near the hearth quietly lowered his spoon.
Abigail straightened.
“This is my boarding house.”
“Then you can cook.”
A few mouths twitched.
Nobody dared laugh.
Abigail flushed.
Matilda whispered:
“Mr. Boon.”
His attention returned immediately.
“What did my mother give you that for?”
The blue cloth looked tiny between his fingers.
He stared at it before answering.
“For keeping me alive.”
Matilda frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“You were eight.”
Her throat tightened.
“You remember Black Ridge?”
She did.
Not clearly.
Snow.
Her mother’s hands.
A small cabin.
A man coughing beside a stove.
Blood on a blanket.
Or maybe she had invented the blood later.
Childhood memories changed shape over time.
“My mother took me there once.”
“Twice.”
Matilda stared.
“You were there?”
The trapper’s jaw tightened.
“The second winter.”
Something moved behind Matilda.
Abigail.
Not toward the kitchen.
Toward the office corridor.
The trapper saw.
His eyes narrowed.
“Mrs. Thatcher.”
Abigail stopped.
“Yes?”