Page 11 of The Widow and the Wanted

I stay crouched beside the wagon, rifle across my knees, snow stinging my cheeks. Inside, the woman trembles beneath a wool blanket.

A gust of wind slams the canvas, rattling the wagon’s frame. The storm’s near whiteout now. Snow climbs the wheels fast, swallowing blood, bodies, footprints—all of it vanishing.

The woman inside wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “You killed the men who did this,” she says, voice faint. “But you came with them.”

I close my eyes. “We did,” I say. “But please. We need to take shelter or we’ll die out here.”

She laughs. A breathless sound like something torn loose from inside her.

“Take shelter?” she echoes, eyes flicking to the corners of the wagon like it’s the first time she’s seeing it. Her breath plumes out white, uneven. She clutches that blanket like it’s the only thing holding her. Boone drops his gaze to the snow, jaw working. I don’t blame her for the fury. Were it not for her shaking, she’d probably stab me clean through the heart and be righteous doing it.

She squeezes her eyes shut, shoulders trembling hard enough the blanket rustles. The wind hits again, a violent shove that rocks the wagon with a groan. Snow drives in sideways.

Boone steps closer to block some of it. “Storm’s settin’ in fast,” he mutters. “White-out. If we stay out here, we freeze.”

She lets out a broken breath. “Then freeze.”

The words hit like a slap. Boone nods like he accepts her sentence.

We both rise slow, careful not to spook her. I take one step back from the wagon. Boone takes another. Snow bites at my neck, blows down my collar. The cold hits like a fist.

“Ma’am,” Boone says. “Know we made it sound like you had a choice. That was us bein’ polite. Now, you’re lettin’ us inside. We ain’t gonna hurt you, but we ain’t dyin’ out here. Move aside.”

She’s at the edge of the wagon’s opening, blanket clutched tight around her shoulders, the knife still in her hand but lowered to her side. Snow blows past her, catching in her hair. She shakes her head. “Fine.”

I hold still. Boone does too.

She swallows hard, as if fighting revulsion, then crawls back an inch, clearing space inside.

“You can stay,” she says. “Just stay over there. And don’t come near me.”

Boone exhales, shoulders dropping like someone loosened a vise around his ribs. I nod once, slow, careful.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “We’ll keep to our side.”

She backs into the dim wagon interior again, sinking down with the blanket clutched to her chest.

Chapter 5

Lula

We were drawing flowers.

Admiring the stars.

Now the cold has sunk so deep into my bones I can hardly feel my fingers. My teeth knock together. Wind whistles through every seam of the canvas, and the wagon might as well be made of paper for all the warmth it keeps. I curl beneath the blanket, blade clutched tight against my chest. The warmth I trap lasts only a breath before the cold steals it.

The two men huddle on the far end of the wagon, a heap of my friends’ belongings between us—sketchbooks, shawls, the little tin of graphite sticks. All that’s left of them.

Sweet Mae. Dear God. How could this have happened?

The white man rummages through the pile, then pauses when he catches me staring. “I’m looking for something to keep warm. If that’s all right?”

His voice shakes from the cold, and though his words seek permission, his piercing stare suggests I’ve no choice and he’s at the end of his diplomacy.

“None of this is all right,” I manage, jaw trembling, unable to stop shivering.

He nods, eyes down, continuing to scavenge.