Page 129 of The Widow and the Wanted

“No. You want the freedom to live as you please, and we offer the kind of wealth that will allow you to do just that,” he says, hand still firm around my arm.

The words land so hard my breath leaves me.

“Unhand me.”

He releases me, holding up his hands in apology. “I only ask that you hear our offer.” He reaches into the file again and removes a folded letter. My own handwriting. I recognize it with a sickness so deep it nearly doubles me. My application. A long letter from before the expedition, into which I remember pouring my every dream in hopes of convincing Dr. Bowering to include me on his journey.

Lula’s Apothecary.

There it is. My foolish little future, stolen from a page and placed on his desk like bait.

“How did you get that?”

“Your application was very sweet. Lies, mostly, as far as your training goes, but sweet nevertheless.” His voice is not unkind. That makes it worse. “Hollister can give you enough to open your shop anywhere you like. Fort Smith. St. Louis. Memphis, if you prefer the river. New Orleans, though I would advise against the climate. Maybe even right here in Three Forks.”

I cannot seem to look away from my own handwriting.

A sign over a door. Shelves of tinctures. A room no one enters unless I permit it.

My hands curl inside my gloves.

“All you need do,” Everett says, “is confirm what everyone in this camp already knows to be true. The Aces are responsible for the massacre.”

“They saved my life.”

“They are wanted men.”

“Because of your lies, but they are better men than you.”

The words leave me, clean and sharp. Everett goes still.

For the first time all evening, I see irritation. Not much. Just enough to know there is blood under the varnish. The stove pops. Outside, a wagon passes, wheels sucking through mud. The world is close. Too close not to hear me if I scream. Too far to save me before he stops it.

“Be that as it may,” Everett begins as he gathers the papers back into the file, aligning the edges carefully, “here is what I need from you. A statement. Written, signed, witnessed. Boone Maddox and Okee Collins massacred the expedition, abducted you, and forced your silence. You escaped to your mother in fear for your life. That is all.”

“That is not all. They’ll be killed. Law or no law, the people here will have them drawn and quartered.”

He nods, as if it is a sad but unavoidable reality. “Yes, it is a conclusion already reached by most, I’m afraid.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“As it turns out, mobs are a bit like a wildfire. The scrub could be dry as dust, the air hot as a brand, and yet without a spark, there is no fire.”

I taste bile.

He says it like a man discussing laundry.

“If you sign,” he continues, “you will have more money than you’ve ever known. Protection. Not just a future, but the future you have always dreamed of. And all you must do is tell a convenient lie. I know you’re capable. Professor Abernathy of Women’s Appalachian University? That letter of recommendation was quite inventive, if I must say. Even offered in a distinct hand. I was quite impressed.”

“And if I do not?”

The room seems to lean toward him.

“Well, that would be foolish. You, a vivacious spirit with ambition enough to venture west into dangerous land for a dream. Why would a woman like that abandon her own dreams for a pair of drifters she hardly knows with a silly name?”

“I asked you a question.”

Everett rests one hand on the file. He thinks for a pause, then says, “I see no profit now in comforting you with lies.” He stalks to his desk and opens a drawer, reaches inside, then lays a gleaming pistol on the table, polished enough it may just have arrived from the gunsmith. “Lula, you’re a clever girl. I think you know that whether you agree or disagree, some solutions were proposed that required no conversation at all.”