Chapter 2
“Get out.”
Matilda stared at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Outside, the wind screamed against the windows.
Snow had buried the lower half of the front steps.
“Mrs. Thatcher…”
“Out!”
Matilda's face drained white.
“It's twenty below.”
“Then walking might finally do you some good.”
A few men shifted uncomfortably.
Matilda looked around.
Men she had fed through sickness.
Men whose torn shirts she had stitched.
Men who had eaten her bread when they couldn't afford a meal.
Not one stood.
“Please,” she whispered.
Abigail opened the front door.
The blizzard exploded inside.
Snow swept across the floorboards.
Lantern flames flickered wildly.
Matilda stared into the white darkness.
“I'll die out there.”
Abigail pointed outside.
“Not my concern.”
Then a chair scraped across the floor.
Jedodiah stood.
He crossed the room without speaking.
Abigail's confidence faltered.
The giant trapper stopped beside Matilda, removed the enormous grizzly coat from his shoulders, and wrapped it around hers.
The garment nearly swallowed her.
Warmth surrounded Matilda instantly.
It smelled of pine smoke, leather, snow, and wilderness.
She looked up at him.
Jedodiah turned toward Abigail.
“She isn't going into that storm alone.”
Abigail's mouth opened.
Jedodiah picked up his rifle.
“Because she's coming with me.”
The room went completely still.
Matilda stared at him.
“With you?”
“My cabin.”
“On Black Ridge?”
“Yes.”
Someone muttered a curse.
Black Ridge was nearly six miles away, climbing into country where winter killed careless men before sunset.
“You can't take her up there tonight,” one miner said. “Trail's gone.”
Jedodiah looked toward the snow.
“I found my way down.”
“That doesn't mean you'll find your way back.”
“I will.”
Abigail suddenly laughed.
“Fine. Take her.”
There was something cruel in her smile.
“Let's see how long you tolerate feeding her.”
Matilda flinched.
Jedodiah turned slowly.
“I reckon she earns whatever she eats.”
The smile vanished from Abigail's face.
Then a voice came from the back of the room.
“Boon.”
Everyone turned.
An elderly prospector named Silas Reed sat near the stove.
He had been drinking quietly all evening.
Now his face had gone strangely pale.
“Don't,” he said.
Jedodiah narrowed his eyes.
“Don't what?”
Silas looked at Matilda.
“You don't know who she is.”
Matilda's stomach tightened.
Abigail snapped, “Silas, shut your mouth.”
That made Jedodiah look at her.
Silas swallowed.
But before he could say another word, Abigail marched toward him.
“You've had too much whiskey.”