Page 106 of The Widow and the Wanted

His mouth curves.

“Mae, then.”

The way he says it feels practiced. Like he knows exactly how his voice lands on women.

“I’ve not yet decided whether your camp is civilized or merely pretending very hard to be.”

That earns a laugh from him. Warm. Easy. Entirely at odds with the kind of man who hires armed riders beneath false lumber contracts.

“Oh, we abandoned civilization months ago,” he says. “It proved expensive and unpopular.”

We pass a row of tents where men hunch around dice games beneath lantern glow. One calls something crude after me before falling abruptly silent when Everett glances his way.

Interesting.

Fear follows him faster than respect.

“Mother seems fond of you,” I say carefully.

“Your mother is fond of profitable people.”

Honest enough to surprise me, accurate enough to earn a smile. “And are you profitable, Mr. Everett?”

“Wildly.”

Ugh. I’ve known men of his ilk. All their puffery rooted in gold, and yet this man, with his baby cheeks and soft manicured hands, looks as if he’d collapse like a house of cards if breathed upon too forcefully.

“And what must a gentleman do to become so wildly profitable?”

He smirks, as though I’ve flattered him. “Own what other men require.”

“Land?”

“Yes, and resources upon land.”

“Oh my. Gold?” I feign ignorance, though Mother had already provided all of the important details. Only, of course, once we’d tired of arguing.

After Pearl, Okee, and Boone left Mother and me alone to recount our past grievances, she admonished me for feeling anything other than gratitude.

“What more’s there to say on it? You were a married woman grown, no longer needing me to wipe your nose, and I saw an opportunity to do something better.”

She swept an arm wide round the Gemini like a queen showing off her kingdom.

“You reckon I oughta stayed flat on my back in that flea-bitten old hellhole we used to call the Gemini? Look at this place. Crystal lamps. Velvet curtains. Men lining up nightly to throw their wages at my feet.”

Then her eyes landed on me, sharp as broken glass.

“And look at you. And look at me. Both alive. Both standing.” She jabbed a finger toward my chest. “So what exactly is all this fretting meant to fix?”

I opened my mouth, and she cut me clean off.

“Nothing! And if I had the likes of Hollister Timber after me, I’d set my attention on setting that straight and not carry on about old wounds that no longer mean a thing.”

I started to speak again, but then⁠—–

“The stars have given you a gift,” she said. “To bring you here and set your problem so squarely in my bailiwick to solve.”

Of course. It must be true. As true as her claim that she could spot a lie by looking into my eyes, or that if I held a foolish face too long, it would freeze that way forever. But there was no profit in arguing about something as silly as the stars.