Jack nodded reassuringly. "It's all right. Don't worry."
She clung to him, shivering back to self-control. This man's presence spelled safety. In the high-laced boots of a mining man, he showed a figure well-knit and graceful, springy with youth, but carrying the poise of power. His clean-cut bronzed face backed the promise; so too did the ease of his bearing.
Moya gave a deep sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed, grown suddenly faint. At last her burden was lifted to stronger shoulders.
"You ain't wanted here, Jack Kilmeny," the standing miner said sourly. He was undecided what to do, perplexed and angry at this unexpected hindrance.
"Seems to be a difference of opinion about that, Peale," retorted the newcomer lightly, kicking snow from the spurs and the heels of his boots.
"Trefoyle and me own this cabin. You'll sing small, by Goad, or you'll get out."
"You wouldn't put a dog out on a night like this, let alone a man. It would be murder," Kilmeny answered mildly.
"There's horses in the tunnel. You can bed wi' them."
Jack glanced around, took in the whisky bottle and their red-rimmed eyes. He nodded agreement.
"Right you are, boys. We three will move over to the tunnel and leave the house to the women."