Page 105 of The Widow and the Wanted

The fog shrouds it in haze, but I see it, set apart from the patchwork of shabby structures—a barber, an undertaker, an outfitter. Hollister can kill a man, trim him, dress him and bury him in one afternoon.

Pearl leads us across the roof to another door tucked into the far side. She lifts one hand, warning us still, then presses her ear to the wood.

No one moves.

The warm air hits us the second she cracks it open, thick with lamp oil and old smoke. She slips inside first, then waves us after her into a narrow hallway.

“Over there’s Goldie’s office,” she whispers, pointing to a closed door on the right. Her voice drops even lower. “And that one goes straight to your suite. We take it this way, nobody lays eyes on you.”

She moves ahead without a sound, opens the next door, and ushers us into our room on the second floor. Pearl closes the door and lets out one hard breath, like she’s been holding it since the roof. “There,” she says, pleased despite the nerves still riding her voice. “Goldie says you’re to stay put and not come out under any circumstances. She’ll come see you herself when it’s safe.”

Okee scans the room once. His gaze marks the window, the door. Then he looks back at Pearl.

“Where’s Lula?”

Chapter 28

Lula

Beneath wavering torchlight, past low log buildings, canvas tents, and wagon ruts gone black with mud and woodsmoke, I promenade alongside the man who’d once ordered me killed.

Not me, per se. But he is a company man, and we were a company problem that needed solving.

But before he offered his manicured hand, before Mother smiled like a poisoner with a vial tucked up her sleeve, there was the matter of introduction.

“Mr. Everett, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Mae Eld.”

We stood beside the faro table on the main floor, cards snapping beneath the dealer’s hands while cigar smoke hung thick as fog beneath the lamps. Mother’s satin gown pinched where it oughtn’t and sagged where it should fit proper. My breasts were pressed high against the whalebone stays, near enough I feared they might spill over the bodice. I dipped into a slight curtsey.

“Evening, sir.”

He looked near thunderstruck, smiling with a warmth too bright for the moment. Dew shone across his smooth cheeks in the lamplight, lending him a boyishness at odds with the silver threading his dark hair. Hooded brown eyes studied me beneath trimmed brows, made mysterious under the shadow of his bowler hat. I might have mistaken them for kind if I did not know better. His mustache was neatly waxed and styled just so. A dark frock coat cut close through his narrow waist, the brocade beneath stretched tidy across his taut middle.

“Had you not said it plain, ma’am, I’d have taken you for sisters.”

“Oh, you do lay it on thick.” Mother laughed softly behind her fan. “Still, I’d hoped to make the introduction. Mae’s come to stay on and help me run the Gemini. I wondered if perhaps you might show her round camp proper, help her get acquainted.”

“You honor me.”

Mother leaned nearer, lowering her voice as though confiding a scandal. “Well now, she’s a widow woman, and you are a wealthy unmarried gentleman.” Her smile curled slow behind the edge of her fan. “I assure you, my intentions are entirely selfish.”

“Mother,” I scolded, just as she instructed me upstairs before plotting this very conversation.

Mr. Everett let out a low laugh, the tips of his ears reddening beneath the silver at his temples. His gaze settled on me again, lingering a moment too long before he offered his arm.

“If Miss Eld’s willing, I’d be pleased to show her the camp.”

Mother patted my wrist lightly. “Go on, Mae. A young woman can’t spend all her hours cooped up with her mother.”

I slid my hand into the crook of his arm before I could think better of it.

Now, outside, Fort Gibson glitters beneath torchlight and frost. Men move between saloons and cook fires in heavy coats and muddy boots, their laughter rolling through the cold night air. Somewhere farther down the hill a piano clangs out an awful tune.

Mr. Everett guides me careful over the wagon ruts, polished boots avoiding the worst of the mud.

“And what do you make of our humble little camp so far, Ms. Eld?”

“Mae,” I correct automatically.