Page 131 of The Widow and the Wanted

The deputy sits up front with the reins. I can see only his bony shoulders through the little forward window. He has not spoken since helping me in.

Helping.

As if I stepped into this carriage by choice.

Everett sits across from me now, one gloved hand resting on his knee.

“I regret the necessity of this,” he says. His voice is low, pleasant, almost tender. The sort of voice a doctor might use before setting a bone.

I keep my hands folded in my lap so he cannot see them shake. “Then do not do it.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “If only regret and restraint were the same virtue.”

The carriage turns, wheels grinding over gravel. The Gemini must be behind us now.

Mother. Pearl. Boone. Okee.

I do not let myself think their names too long.

Everett leans forward. Not quickly. Never quickly. He does nothing that might be called force if a witness is watching. “I must ask one more unpleasant thing of you.”

My throat tightens. “You have already asked several.”

“Yes.” He looks almost sorry. “And you have borne them with admirable composure.” From inside his coat, he withdraws a strip of black silk.

“No.”

“It is for your protection.”

A laugh tears out of me, small and sharp. “And I am to believe you give a damn about my protection, and not just your own?”

His eyes flicker. Only once. Then the softness returns.

“I will not pretend you have no reason to distrust me.” He unfolds the silk with careful fingers. “But where I am taking you must remain discreet. If questioned, you cannot reveal what you do not know.”

The honesty chills me worse than a lie.

He shifts to sit beside me. The carriage suddenly feels too small, all varnished wood and trapped air. I press back against the wall.

“I give you my word,” he says. “I will be a gentleman.”

The silk brushes my cheek. His hand settles, light as a blessing, at the back of my head.

I go still.

Not because his touch is rough.

Because it is not. Because every movement is measured. Gentle. Apologetic. The silk comes over my eyes, cool and soft, and he ties it behind my head with such care that he does not pull a single hair.

Darkness swallows me.

“There,” he murmurs. “You see? No harm done.”

The carriage rolls on.

I sit blind beside him, listening to his breathing. I breathe in the clean scent of shaving soap. Wool. Supple leather gloves. Nothing monstrous.

“All of this over a timber concern,” I mutter.