Page 125 of The Widow and the Wanted

Everett follows my gaze. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Do you want them?”

Of all the questions, that one lands closest to bone.

I make myself breathe.

“Wanting is a dangerous thing. I prefer to find myself grateful for whatever gifts the good Lord sees fit to place in my path.”

“That is a wise answer. I’ve also heard you are a Midwife, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And herbalist.”

I slow my pace. Mother told him that I am a widow. The war felt like a natural assumption. The first question had swept right past me, but we’d never spoken of my occupation. I laugh as if he’s said something silly. “Where have you gotten your information?”

His mouth curves. “I make it my business to be well-informed.”

My pulse quickens. “I’d be careful what information you accept secondhand, sir.”

We turn toward the busier stretch near the saloons. The mud deepens where wagon wheels have cut the road into black ruts. Everett keeps me on the planks, his hand coming over mine whenever a man passes too close.

Everett says, “You are not an herbalist, then?”

My tongue is heavier, clumsy. “Well, I’ve no formal education on the subject, but I do find it rather uncanny the way the earth provides. Do you agree the earth provides, Mr. Everett?”

His gaze lingers on me a moment longer than what is comfortable. “Why yes, of course. You’re speaking to a lumber man, after all.”

I nod agreeably, a smile plastered on my face. “That’s right.”

“If you recall, last we spoke I revealed a bit about my station with Hollister Timber.”

“Of course I remember. It was just last night.”

“Might you be interested in accompanying me to my office?”

I let my smile linger while my thoughts scatter like mice beneath a broom.

His office.

No. Not under any circumstance.

Mother said a stroll. Through camp. Seen by others. Lamps, planks, mud, eyes.

“How kind,” I say, buying myself a breath. “But Mother would tan my hide if I vanished into a gentleman’s office before supper.”

“Goldie knows where to find me.”

“That is not as comforting as you seem to believe.”

His mouth curves. “You distrust me.” A little amusement returns to his face, but not enough. His gaze moves over me like a finger finding a seam. “Please. It is only a short walk, and I’m sure a woman of your intelligence would find it fascinating,” he says.

“A desk?”

That earns me a laugh. I look toward the Gemini’s lamps, as if merely conscious of time and not the fact I have nearly walked myself into a bear trap with my own mouth.