Page 128 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Stop.” The word comes out before I can dress it.

His expression softens in a way that makes me want to slap him. “I am sorry. Truly.”

“No, you are not.”

“Of course I am,” he says after a moment. “This is ugly business. But necessary, I’m afraid.”

There is the man. There, beneath the polish.

I lift my chin. “What do you want?”

“Only to speak plainly.”

I quiet, and he gives the smallest nod, as if thanking me for giving him the floor.

“One of my men saw you with the Aces. At first, I was told it was Goldie. Ridiculous, of course. Goldie does not skulk through town with hired killers. She only does that behind closed doors.” He taps the paper. “Then you arrived. Goldie’s daughter. A widow from West Virginia. The image of her mother. Small. Blonde. Alive.”

My pulse pounds at my throat.

“Congratulations,” I say. “You have solved a parlor puzzle.”

“I have found the last credible living witness. I can assure you this carries much more weight at Hollister than you’d expect.”

I look toward the door. Not long. Long enough.

He sighs, as if I disappoint him. “Mrs. Clay⁠—”

“Do not call me that.”

“Lula, then.”

My name in his mouth feels like a hand where it does not belong.

He knows it too.

“You are in a precarious position,” he says. “But not a hopeless one. In fact, I believe you may be the most fortunate survivor in the territory.”

I laugh once. It sounds mad.

“Fortunate?”

“Yes.”

“My friends are dead.”

“Yes, that is true. Sadly, lesser men mistook broad instruction for license,” he says dismissively. “But nothing you do will resurrect them.”

Cruelty, calmly said, is a colder thing than anger.

I stare at him. His face remains composed.

“But you,” he continues, “may yet profit from survival.”

“I am not for sale.”

“Everyone is. The only question is whether a buyer understands what the seller wants.”

“I want to leave.” I take a step toward the door and he grabs my wrist, yanking me back.