Page 132 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Timber is rail ties. Bridges. Towns. Churches. Coffins, when necessary,” he snaps, as if I have just insulted his child. “It is paper for contracts and newspapers. Whoever controls timber controls what gets built, what gets printed, and what gets buried.”

The carriage rattles. Frosty air slips in at the seams, our breath hanging in the air like fog.

He clears his throat, then softens slightly. “You are right that this mess has spread quite unpleasantly. But with your help, we will soon tidy this up and put it all behind us.”

The screams. Gunfire. Bitter cold inching through my clothes with slow, cruel death. The flashes of light in the dark. Blood on snow.

“I will never put this behind me.”

At that, I can feel him twist slightly, placing a gentle hand on mine. “Of course you will, dear,” he says gently, as if reassuring me. “Providence grants forgetfulness as a mercy. The sharp edge of sorrow cannot last. No constitution could bear it. Time will wear the blade dull.”

A hot, helpless pressure gathers behind my eyes. I will not weep blindfolded in front of this man. I will not give him tears.

“So this is the kindness you offer?” I ask. “Time will blunt it? The mercy of lost memories will sweep my friends under the rug?”

His hand lifts from mine at last. The place where it rested feels colder than before.

“Your party entered disputed land. Hollister’s men were told to remove the problem. They performed that task badly.”

“Badly. Had they done it well, what would that have looked like?”

A pause.

The air is changing now. Less town smoke. More damp earth. Old wood. River rot.

We’re near the water. Marshland.

“Your friends would have returned home empty-handed and shaken. Another senseless attack in dangerous territory. Nothing to tie it back to Hollister, no bodies to bury. It was handled disastrously. I can admit that.”

I force my mind to focus. To listen.

The carriage rattles, wheels grinding against gritty earth. It slows, turning hard enough that my shoulder slides along the wall. Gravel gives way to softer ground, then wooden planks beneath the wheels. A bridge, perhaps. Or a yard laid with boards to keep wagons from sinking. The scent of minerals is thick in the air, along with the earthy bite of sediment and plant decay.

A gate creaks open, then shuts behind us.

My stomach drops.

The carriage rolls another short distance before stopping. Up front, the deputy murmurs to the horses. Leather creaks. A boot strikes ground.

Everett’s hand appears at my elbow. “Careful now.”

The door opens and cold air rushes in. He helps me down as if we are arriving at a supper party. My boots touch packed mud. Somewhere nearby, water moves sluggishly. A chain knocks against wood in the wind.

“Where are we?”

“All you need know is we are in a safe, quiet place.”

He guides me forward, hand light at my arm. I count steps. Ten through mud. Three up onto a wooden threshold. A door opens. The scent hits me first: sawdust, lamp oil, damp timber, and beneath it, something green.

Everett releases the blindfold with a delicate tug of ribbon. My head lifts.

A warehouse.

There. Not fresh flowers. Not pine. Something sharper, medicinal, and wrong.

We are in a low building stacked with crates, rolled maps, survey stakes, and bundles of paper tied with twine. A stove smokes in one corner. The deputy stands by the door with a bored expression. Everett watches me blink myself back into sight.

“Temporary,” he says. “Comfortable enough, I hope.”