Page 146 of The Widow and the Wanted

Good.

The hours crawl. Everett reviews maps and papers, calm as ever. I pour him more coffee when he asks, shielding the cup with my body while I work another flake of root into the grounds. I stir once, twice. Then pour my own cup down the sink when no one is looking.

He drinks.

And drinks again.

Nothing happens.

I begin to believe the root has lost its power, or that God has once more shown His peculiar sense of humor. Everett remains upright, composed, only complaining once of the coffee’s bitterness with a small, condescending smile.

Then, in the late afternoon, he presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

A small thing. But I see it.

He lowers his hand. Our eyes meet. For the first time, I cannot read him.

Outside, the yard comes alive with horses, wheels, and men. The wagon is ready.

Everett folds the map with finality. “We leave within the hour. For the Gemini.”

As we step outside, his stride is still steady. Too steady.

Then he coughs.

Once. Dry. Small.

He covers it with a gloved hand and keeps walking. No one else notices. But I do.

I climb into the wagon. Hepburn follows, rifle across his knees. The canvas flap falls, dimming the world to brown cloth and thin gray light. The wagon lurches forward toward the Gemini, toward my mother, toward Boone and Okee waiting beneath that terrible notice.

Outside, Everett’s voice carries—calm, controlled, still giving orders.

I close my eyes, the last of the root hidden in my shawl, and pray.

If You mean to answer me, God, do not take Your time.

Chapter 38

Boone

Goldie Eld don’t say yes.

That’s the trouble with it.

She don’t say no, neither.

She stands behind her desk with the notice laid flat under one jeweled hand, reading it over though she’s read it twice already. Maybe three times. The lamplight catches in her rings, sparks red and green and gold. Okee stands to my left, still as a fence post.

Outside, the street is growing louder.

Not roaring yet.

A mob ain’t born all at once. It gathers wind first.

“We told you what happened,” I say. “Every damn bit of it.”

Goldie lifts her eyes. “You told me a story.”