Page 148 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Shame on this house!”

Goldie lifts one hand.

Damned if half the street don’t quiet from that one gesture alone.

That woman’s power ain’t soft. Ain’t warm. It’s the sort that trains men without them noticing until their mouths shut when her fingers rise.

“Neighbors,” she calls, voice carrying bright and clear over the mud. “If you have come to break my windows, I ask you kindly to wait until after my remarks.”

A few nervous laughs twitch through the crowd. That helps.

Then a wagon rolls into view. The laughter dies.

It comes slow through the packed street, men parting before it. Canvas-covered. Guarded. Two mounted men ahead, one beside, a thin man with too-big clothes and a star that looks like it’s too heavy for the caved-in chest it’s pinned to sitting stiff on the rear bench with a rifle across his knees.

My heart kicks so hard my vision spots.

Inside the wagon, through a gap in the canvas, I see pale hair.

Lula.

I move without thinking.

Okee’s hand clamps around my forearm, hard enough to bruise.

Not yet? She’s there.

Ten yards. Maybe fifteen. Close enough that if the porch rail weren’t packed below with men eager to test rope, I could jump it and run. Close enough that I can see one little flash of her face through the flap.

Alive.

She sits straight-backed in that wagon like a queen being carted to trial, but even from here I can tell something’s wrong. Her mouth is too pale. Her eyes too wide. Her shawl is wrapped tight around her hands.

Everett steps down from the wagon.

Fine dark coat. Gloves. Silver at the temples. Mustache trimmed neat. A man any church lady would trust to hand her down from a carriage. He moves with that careful ease rich men get when the world has never once made them wait. One hand grips the wagon side a touch too long. His face is pale beneath the shave. Sweat shines faint at his upper lip, though the day is damp and cold.

The driver sets a crate near the wagon wheel. Everett steps up on it, then onto the wagon bench, making himself taller than the crowd. Not as high as Goldie on her balcony, but high enough to perform.

Of course.

Man brought his own pulpit.

“Good citizens of Fort Gibson,” he calls.

His voice is rich. Smooth. Damn him, it carries.

“I thank you for coming in the name of justice, decency, and remembrance. This morning, notices were posted asking this town to gather peaceably. I repeat that word now. Peaceably. For we are not animals. We are not savages. We are not men governed by appetite, violence, or lust.”

His gaze flicks toward the Gemini when he says lust.

The crowd hears it. A murmur rolls.

Goldie stands above him in red silk and black lace, one hand on the rail, the ledger tucked beneath her other arm. She gives no sign she’s been struck.

Everett turns slightly, presenting himself to both street and balcony.

“We are here because innocent souls were taken at Verdigris. A scientific party. Travelers under no flag of war. Women. A professor. Working men. Slaughtered.”