Page 112 of The Widow and the Wanted

“You knew what it would cost you.”

“It did not cost me much.”

“That is not true.”

She looks away first. “We needed protection. Information,” she says. Her eyes narrow slightly. “You are not the only one capable of difficult and dangerous things.”

I have spent so long thinking of Lula as something stumbled upon—a woman we dragged accidentally into our mess—that I have forgotten she has walked into danger willingly. Again and again.

For us.

I take up one of the folded cloths and wet it in the basin. The water clouds faintly when I wring it out. Then I hold it toward her.

She takes it, but instead of using it, she stares down at the damp linen as though uncertain what to do with my gentleness.

So I say, “May I?”

Her lashes lift again.

The room grows very quiet.

After a moment, she gives the smallest nod. “All right.”

I turn her by the shoulders, gently, until she faces me. Then I take the cloth and touch it to her cheek.

The rouge comes away in peach streaks.

She watches me with a solemnity that makes my chest ache. I wipe carefully beneath one eye, then the other. The color from her mouth stains the cloth pink. She looks younger without it. Not innocent. Lula could never look innocent. But less carefully arranged.

“You had no obligation to help us,” I say.

Her chin rises. “Don’t start making me sound charitable.”

“You had no obligation,” I repeat. “We brought danger to your doorstep. We mistrusted you.” Boone sits up slightly, poised to object. “I mistrusted you,” I correct myself as I rinse the cloth, watching the water turn gray and rose. “I had fear. Not just today. But with the Osage. I confused it with anger, and I was cruel.”

Her breath catches, barely.

I touch the cloth beneath her chin and lift her face so I may clean the last of the powder from her jaw. In the mirror, I see myself behind her: too tall, too stern, shoulders broad enough to cast her in shadow.

My hand falters.

Lula sees it. “What?”

I set the cloth down.

There, reflected before me, with her in her thin white chemise, I understand at last what has been wrong with me since the trail. Since the Osage camp. Since the first moment she stepped into danger and I discovered my reason had no dominion over terror.

My gaze meets hers in the glass. She must see something change in me, because her scowl falls away.

I lift my hand and drag one knuckle, slowly, down the outside of her arm. Her skin rises beneath the touch.

I let it pass again from her shoulder to the soft bend of her elbow.

“When you stepped into that standoff, all I could see was what might happen to you. Every possible harm arranged itself in my mind with perfect clarity. I saw you insulted. Struck. Dragged away. Shot. I saw Boone bleeding again. I saw myself unable to prevent any of it.” My voice lowers. “I have always trusted intellect, because intellect gives the illusion of control. But there are moments when feelings render me stupid.”

Lula’s throat works.

“I could not command the danger,” I say, “so I tried to command you.”