He obeyed.
Jedodiah looked toward her briefly.
Approval.
No surprise.
He stood.
“Who has rope?”
Three men answered.
“Lanterns?”
“Four.”
“Not enough.”
Matilda said:
“Kitchen has two.”
Jedodiah looked at her.
“Oil?”
“Full.”
“Bring them.”
Within minutes, six men prepared to leave.
Jedodiah pulled on his fur coat again.
Matilda carried the lanterns.
At the door, he stopped beside her.
“Keep stew hot.”
“I know.”
“And don't let the injured man sleep.”
“I know that too.”
His eyes held hers.
“You know a lot.”
Matilda swallowed.
“My mother did.”
He looked as though the answer meant more than she intended.
Then he stepped into the storm.
The door vanished behind white.
For the next hour, nobody discussed blue cloth.
Or wages.
Or inheritance.
Because survival was more immediate than secrets.
Two more injured men arrived.
Then a woman.
Then a teenage boy whose fingers had begun turning waxy from cold.
Matilda organized the kitchen without being asked.
Hot water.
Dry cloth.
Broth.
Bread.
She moved benches close to the fire.
Ordered miners away from doorways.
Made coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
When somebody tried giving whiskey to the cold boy, she slapped the cup from his hand.
“Not that.”
The miner stared.
“Since when are you a doctor?”
“Since you're trying to make him worse.”
Jedodiah returned through the door carrying a man across his shoulders.