Page 150 of The Widow and the Wanted

Damn him.

He’s good.

So good that for a terrible heartbeat I can see ourselves through their eyes. Bloody outlaws. Men who did ride with that posse. Men who did kill Hollister’s hired guns in the snow. Men hiding behind painted women in a house built on secrets.

Hell, I’d hang us too if I didn’t know better.

Goldie steps forward to the balcony rail.

The crowd hushes again, but not kindly this time.

“Mr. Everett,” she calls, sweet as pie.

Everett’s smile tightens. Sweat has gathered at his temple now. He dabs it with a handkerchief. “Miss Eld.”

Goldie rests the ledger on the balcony rail.

“I have listened to your account of the matter. And I must confess, you are correct on one point. This house does keep secrets.”

A low sound moves through the street.

Everett’s eyes sharpen. Goldie smooths one hand over the ledger’s cover.

“Men come to the Gemini for many reasons. Cards. Whiskey. Comfort. Conversation. Privacy.” Her smile widens, but there ain’t a lick of warmth in it. “Especially privacy.”

A big man by the butcher’s stall takes one step back.

“I have made my living,” she continues, “by understanding the difference between a secret that belongs to me and one only placed temporarily in my care. There are gentlemen standing before me now who have trusted me with business arrangements, family troubles, political preferences, debt, illness, false names, true names, and affections their wives might find educational.”

A few women turn to look at their husbands.

Lord have mercy. Goldie ain’t fired a shot, but I can smell blood.

She opens the ledger. Pages whisper in the damp air.

“I could read from this book,” she says. “I could read all afternoon. I could explain who met with Mr. Everett in my blue parlor and on which dates. Who carried which messages. Who purchased which girl’s silence, which deputy’s attention, which newspaperman’s ink, which surveyor’s signature, which mapmaker’s conscience.”

Everett’s face changes. Just a little. Like a door closing in his eyes.

Goldie looks down at the street. “But I will not.”

The crowd blinks at her, confused.

She lifts her chin. “Because unlike some men, I know the value of restraint. I know the cost of careless accusation. I know that one secret shouted loose in public can take innocent wives, children, and households down with guilty men. And I have responsibilities.”

Her gaze sweeps the crowd. It touches men one by one. I see them feel it.

“I can say only this,” Goldie continues. “Everett is not an honest man. I have proof enough to satisfy my own conscience and more than enough to trouble his. I have proof that his dealings with Hollister Timber have been dirtier than the boots of any outlaw standing under my roof.”

Everett steps down from the wagon bench to the crate, then thinks better of it and climbs back up, needing height. His hand trembles worse now.

“That is a lie,” he calls. “A desperate lie from a woman who profits by corruption.”

Goldie’s smile turns bright.

The first man steps forward from near the blacksmith’s awning.

He’s short, bald, mustache drooping over his mouth. I saw him day we arrived, back at a faro table, drunk enough to mistake his own cards for somebody else’s.