Page 137 of The Widow and the Wanted

The clock on the mantel ticks loud enough to mock us.

Okee drags a hand down his mouth. “What if this is not protection?”

I look up. “What?”

His voice lowers. “What if bringing her here was not protection? What if we mistook all of this for safety because Goldie looked like a solution at the time?”

I scratch at my jaw, cold sweat prickling under my collar, though the room is warm. “She’s her mother.”

“She has not seen Lula in over ten years.”

“Still her mother.”

“My father is my father.”

That shuts me up. For a few breaths, there’s only the clock. The piano downstairs. Wind rapping at the window. Goldie ain’t conventional. That’s for certain. But that don’t make her evil. He paces, running both hands through his hair.

“Lula was not even certain she would visit with her mother at all. We should have asked when she brought it up instead of your rushing to judgement.”

“Rushing to what? What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” he says, words spilling out bitter and one after the other. “Glared at her like she was a heartless excuse for a daughter.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did,” he says, louder, fidgeting with his cuff. “What if you laid guilt on her that was too heavy to bear so she gave in to it, but this woman does not have her best interests at heart?”

There’s a nervous energy rising off him, just under his skin like he’s ready to burst. That ain’t a thing I see from Okee Collins. Not in a gunfight. Not with horses screaming in snow. Not with cannon fire turning men into red mist around us and boys calling for their mommas from ditches.

Okee knows how to be afraid. Any man who says otherwise is lying or stupid. But fear in him usually goes quiet and sharp. It lines up facts. Counts bullets. Measures distance.

But all of the careful order turns to dust the moment Lula Clay is out of sight.

I step closer. Slow. Like he’s a skittish horse and I’m the fool who loves him enough to risk getting kicked.

“Hey.”

He does not look at me.

“Okee.”

That gets his eyes on mine. Black as wet river stones and mean with fear.

I put my hand over his. “Don’t get ahead of what’s happened. This is what she chose to do.”

His mouth twists like he hates the truth. “If he hurts her⁠—”

“He won’t get far.”

“He should not get near enough to try.”

“No,” I agree. “He shouldn’t.”

His forehead dips, and for a second he looks so tired it near breaks me. I cup the side of his neck, thumb tucked beneath his jaw where I can feel him clench.

“We wait,” I say. “Not because Goldie told us. Not because I like it. Because Lula asked us to trust her.”

His eyes shut.