Page 110 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Let us, for the sake of argument, say that I am an evil sorceress sent here by Lucifer himself. What do these supernatural powers have to profit from targeting you, you buffoon?” she snaps. “Look at me in this ridiculous gown. All evening swooshing around the gambling floor and trudging through icy mud. I ought to return home and leave you two to sort out your bounty on your own.”

She has a point. Though it proves nothing.

“Why are you dressed like that?” I ask, sounding quite confident despite the fact that these deeply implausible coincidences have threatened my grasp on reality.

“Because Mr. Everett asked to walk with me.”

Boone goes very still.

I feel my own spine straighten, sobering instantly at the thought. “He what?”

“Mother thought it useful that I be introduced. He knew only that I was her daughter.” Lula crosses her arms. “He took me around the camp. Spoke freely enough, believing I knew nothing. He blamed it all on the Aces and said a rich bounty would see you captured soon enough.”

My thoughts, moments ago tangled with devils and signs, shift suddenly toward something far more earthly.

Everett.

Hollister.

That should be it. The bounty. The danger.

But I see a company man’s hand on her arm. His mouth near her glove. Fire blazes across my chest and I draw in a quick breath.

“You went off alone with him.”

Lula blinks. “That is what you take from this?”

“You should have told us.”

“A moment ago you were one breath shy of calling me a witch, and now you object to my manners? Do you expect me to request your permission?”

“Christ almighty, Lula,” I reply with a grunt. I take a beat, every muscle in my jaw drawn taut enough to snap.

I take a breath. My shoulders fall. I drop my face into my palms, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. The muted piano and tomfoolery downstairs drift up through the floorboards.

I would sooner return to that day at the hiring line. I would find another way to survive winter. Any other way.

But then there would be no Lula.

Here, in this absurd suite, with Boone sitting bare-chested in a bathrobe beside a paper full of ghosts and signs, I feel the world shifting beneath my feet.

“I cannot make sense of all this,” I say, finally.

“Maybe you ain’t meant to make sense of it,” Boone says, stalking over.

“The signs. The timing. Her.” Boone nods toward Lula, then at me. “You’re talkin’ devils because you’re scared. But why’s it got to be devils?”

His gaze drops to the symbol inked into his skin.

“Why’s it got to be wicked just because it’s strange?”

Lula’s expression changes.

Boone’s voice softens. “Ain’t it uncanny, how well we fit?” He gestures helplessly, almost embarrassed by his own sincerity. “She tends us. You steady us. I keep us from bein’ miserable bastards all the time. Maybe something powerful we don’t understand set it in motion. Gave us marks. Gave us each other. Put us in this room, under this roof, at the very hour Everett sat downstairs thinking himself untouchable.”

The clock ticks.

The penny sits still on the paper.