Not helping.
Carrying.
A full-grown miner.
He set him near the hearth.
“Last one.”
Snow covered him from beard to boots.
Matilda approached.
“Sit.”
He looked at her.
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
A miner laughed.
The trapper stared.
The laugh died.
Matilda pointed toward a chair.
“You're shaking.”
“Cold does that.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
The chair looked absurdly small beneath him.
Matilda handed him hot broth.
He drank.
His eyes closed for one second.
Then opened.
“This.”
“What?”
“The broth.”
She looked toward the pot.
“Same base.”
He drank again.
“Your mother used marrow.”
“So do I.”
“Roasted first.”
“Yes.”
“Wild onion charred against iron.”
“Yes.”
“Thyme at the end.”
Matilda stared.
“How do you know?”
He looked into the cup.
“Because I lived three weeks on it.”
The boarding room was noisy again.
Injured men.
Questions.
Wind.
Nobody close enough to hear.
Matilda lowered her voice.
“Black Ridge?”
He nodded.
“Your mother found me half-dead below Widowmaker Pass.”
“She was alone?”
“With you.”