Page 10 of The Widow and the Wanted

Inside the wagon are my companions’ belongings, Bobby’s hunting knife among them, bound in leather. I draw it free, clutching it to my chest. If that fabric moves so much as an inch, I will lunge with this. I will run this blade right through his putrid heart. A sharp wind cuts through the seams, seeps through the fabric, as if nature seeks to remind me of its dangers as well.

I should have never come to this lawless territory. Tears streak my cheeks and I can’t stop trembling from fear, from cold, from the waiting. I never thought I’d cry for my mother again, but in the darkest corner of myself a child’s voice rises up, thin and desperate, calling for her comfort.

God, help me. Not her memory. Not now.

That well is empty. There’s no sense in wasting any time I might have left seeking water from it.

But it’s too late.

Mother’s letter unfolds in my mind. How I might die without ever having forgiven her. What if she’s changed? What if it could have been better if I’d merely let it?

I force it away. Eli, isn’t there a place in heaven where husbands go to look after their widows? My mind goes back to planchette, to Mae’s little game of ghosts and spirits, communing with the dead, and how I wondered if Eli was haunting a Chickamauga battleground instead of stopping by to say hello.

Perhaps when these men find me I will haunt this place, my ghost clinging to a hunting knife along the Verdigris.

The canvas walls press in, and suddenly I hear horses riding away. Men’s voices, growing distant. The wagon settles, boards creaking.

If they’re gone, what now?

I’ll search for survivors in the snow.

I’ll tend to their wounds.

Together we might live to see another sunrise.

Now I wait, torn holes peppering the wagon tarp letting in strips of moonlight overhead. Glimpses of the stars. Cold air and frozen damp from the heavens make their way inside like the last bits of dusty flour from a sieve.

I don’t move. Not yet. I keep the knife tight to my chest and wait for my hands to stop shaking. Wait for the courage to peek outside.

Okee

We stumble through the deepening snow. Boone yanks the canvas back. Inside, curled up against a crate with a blanket clutched around her, is the blonde woman. Her face is blotchy from crying, hair wild, and a small knife shakes in her hand.

“Get back!” she chokes out. “Don’t you come near me!”

I crouch so she can see my face and hold up my hands. “We’re not here to hurt you, miss.”

She doesn’t lower her knife and shrieks once she sees the carnage behind me.

“You killed them all!” she screams, face soaked with tears.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” is all I can say. It’s an idiotic thing to say. What good would an apology do her now? “I… We⁠—”

“We ain’t signed up for this,” Boone cuts in, mercifully. “We might be many things, but we ain’t ones to raise a hand to no lady.”

She studies him a moment longer, then me, lowering her knife a fraction. “You. You’re the one who shot that man.”

“I am,” I say.

The wind blows harder. Boone turns toward the storm. “Goddamn storm’s comin’ in fast.”

The snow is thick now. Falling hard, swirling sideways in sheets.

I glance around the clearing. Red-black patches already half covered, outlines of bodies softening under the white. Not a horse left in sight. No wagons sound enough to be of use, except the one we’re standing beside.

“Ma’am,” I say carefully, “we need to take cover here. You’re safe now. I give you my word.”

The woman keeps her knife lowered, but her breath comes short and fast. “Your word.” She stares at Boone, then at me—two men dripping in snow and blood. The last people she should ever trust.