Page 104 of The Widow and the Wanted

He glances over. “Something you need?”

There’s an edge in his voice. I rise from the water, the heat making my knees want to quit holding me up. “Reckon there might be,” I say, knowing full well I’d beg to be run through so deep King Arthur himself couldn’t draw Okee out of me with both hands.

Okee’s eyes move down over me. Slow enough to make my skin tighten. He takes the towel in both hands and drags it once across his chest, unhurried.

Just as I step out of the tub, a knock hits the door.

The door swings open and Pearl inches in by feel, head turned away from us, one hand shielding her eyes.

“Lord have mercy,” I bark, snatching for the nearest towel and damn near losing my footing on the wet boards.

“Gentlemen, I’m real sorry, but Goldie says you have to go straight to your room right this minute and you are not to come out under any circumstances. I’m supposed to take you the back way so nobody sees.”

Okee moves faster. One second he is standing there bare as birth, the next the towel is around his waist and knotted tight, his shoulders squared as if a cavalry officer had just stepped in instead of a fourteen-year-old girl with her eyes shut.

“Pearl,” he says, voice clipped. “You should have waited.”

“I was told it was urgent.” Her face stays turned hard toward the wall. “Mr. Everett is here,” she goes on.

“Who?”

“One of Hollister’s paper men.”

I reach for a robe. “What do you know about Hollister?”

“Me? Nothing. Only Goldie says any girl who breathes a word of you being here can sell herself down by the freight yard.”

Okee stills. “Why would she say that?”

Pearl swallows. “On account of Hollister wanting you dead, I expect. And Mr. Everett being the sort who’d know what to do with that, I suppose.”

The words drop heavy as lead shot. For a beat the only sound is water dripping from the copper tubs.

“Get dressed,” Okee says, voice flat.

I’m already moving, yanking on my damp shirt and trousers, fingers clumsy with haste. The room that was all heat a moment ago turns mean with cold. My skin prickles. My boots are still damp. My hair drips down the back of my neck as I shove my arms through my coat.

Pearl stands pressed against the wall like a dainty sentry, both hands clamped over her eyes.

When we are decent enough, she leads us through the room to a narrow door tucked behind a curtain and stacks of towels. She shifts things out of the way and pulls it open.

Beyond it is a steep stair.

She tiptoes up, and we trail behind her quiet as thieves. The cramped wooden passage smells of pine and mold. The sounds from the saloon filter through the walls—piano, men placing bets at card tables, women putting on ridiculous laughs to fool jokes that ain’t funny.

We keep climbing.

At the top, Pearl opens another door, and cold night air knifes through my wet clothes. Every bit of damp on me wants to turn to ice, the hair at the back of my neck chilling me down my spine.

“Where you takin’ us?” I whisper.

Pearl hurries out as if she might outrun the cold. “Shortcut,” she says.

We step after her into the dark.

From up here, you can see all of Fort Gibson spread out below, lamps winking through the mist like watchful eyes. She points a finger down the fire-lined thoroughfare.

“That fancy building down there? That one is Hollister’s.”