Page 126 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Not just a desk, Miss Eld. I’ve quite a collection of photographs and maps of the region. They’re quite lovely,” he says, with a boyish sway. “I promise to return you before supper.”

I laugh as though charmed, but inside, my guts turn to acid as Everett turns my carefully laid plans to embers. His office could be rife with evidence. Information enough, perhaps, to vindicate Okee and Boone. But he knows things. Things he oughtn’t know. The frightening truths flip over in my stomach.

But we have come this far. I mustn’t quit now.

“For a few minutes then. Before supper. Mother was quite firm.”

“I fear Goldie offers no other disposition.”

We saunter through the chaos of the camp, arm in arm. We stop in front of a building with an emblem over the door of a ridge of pines. Around it the words HOLLISTER AND CO. TIMBER form a circle. He retrieves a key from his pocket.

“Is the office closed?”

“Yes. I sent my men home before dark.”

Well.

That is exactly the sort of thing a woman does not want to hear from a man unlocking a door.

I glance back toward the camp. Men drift between saloons and tents, but fewer here. Hollister’s office sits a little apart, sturdier and more stately. The Gemini is still visible down the muddy street. Not near enough. Not far enough. I can still make out the ridge of storefronts beside it. There’s some comfort in the thought they might be watching somehow. No matter how foolish or false, it eases the tension in my chest.

I let myself look toward the Gemini a breath too long. Imagining them there.

The house glows through the damp, its crooked roofline black against the bruised sky. For a moment I see nothing but smoke dragging low from the chimneys and the shine of wet tin.

Then Everett’s key turns in the lock, and the sound cuts clean through me.

“You’re looking a bit green, Miss Eld. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes.” I brush it off. “I’m still acclimating to the…camp…air.”

He nods slowly. “Right.” Then with a wave of his hand, he says, “After you.”

Chapter 33

Lula

The office is warmer than I expect.

Danger ought to be cold. Drafty. Ill-lit. The Hollister office is none of those things. A neat little stove glows in one corner, its iron belly ticking softly. Lamps sit ready on the desk and sideboard. Everett lights one, then another, and the room blooms gold.

Paper everywhere.

But they’re neat. Arranged.

Contracts in tidy stacks. Ledgers shelved by size. Rolled maps in a brass stand. A wall map of the territory pinned flat behind the desk, its edges weighted with polished wood. The room smells of ink, sealing wax, dry paper, tobacco, and the faint clean scent of freshly mopped floors. No blood. No mud. No screaming.

My heart skips a beat.

“Handsome office,” I say.

“Thank you.”

He removes his hat and sets it on the desk. His hair gleams silver at the temples in the lamplight. A very pretty devil, all told. If hell keeps a parlor, I imagine he would be asked to receive guests.

I step farther into the room, careful not to let my skirts brush the stove. The warmth settles over my shoulders, too pleasant for the tremor moving under my skin.

Everett crosses to the wall map and gestures with one hand. “Look.”