Page 162 of The Widow and the Wanted

He replies with an exhausted wave of his hand, as if he no longer has the energy to protest. My fingers feel up his spine while he sits stiff as a fence post. Nothing appears broken. A strain, most likely.

“What happened?” Momma asks.

Okee shoots her a look.

“Oh,” she says with a raise of her eyebrow and an amused smirk. “Who says mischief only happens after dark? I ought to start waking up earlier.”

Mr. Collins draws a measured breath.

“I only tried to understand,” he says.

Boone tilts his head and squints. “I ain’t never known understanding to improve from a cane upside the head.”

That’s when I notice the bruise on Okee’s cheek. No wonder Okee has been giving me the stink eye since I helped his father out of the mud and invited him into our home.

“You struck him?” I ask.

“It is a father’s right to discipline his child.”

My hand swings back before he even finishes his sentence, and I crack him across his face. Everyone gasps, except Momma, who cries “Ooooo,” with excitement.

“How do you like it?” I ask.

He holds his cheek, and for a moment, I expect him to strike back. I hold my breath and tense up for a blow but he lowers his hand.

“You struck me,” he says.

“You bet I did. Okee is not a child, and you will not raise an unkind hand to anyone in this household.”

His gaze wanders again, as if to challenge the definition of the word.

“That’s right,” I say. “This is our home. That we share. The three of us.”

He shakes his head. “I cannot approve. I will not pretend otherwise.”

Boone lifts his chin, but the hurt has already shown itself. “Sir,” he says, voice rough and low, “ain’t nobody here interested in your approval.”

Mr. Collins opens his mouth.

Boone speaks over him. “You can think what you’d like, but Okee’s got a home. He’s got work. He’s got people who love him. If that troubles you, maybe you ought to think on why.”

“Because it is sin,” he says plainly. There’s no accusation in it now.

“Well, I seen what you call virtue and I ain’t much impressed neither.”

Mr. Collins looks at him then. Really looks. Then he stands, slower now, one hand braced on the cane and the other on the table. With careful dignity, he adjusts his coat. Momma retrieves his hat from where it was set on the chair and hands it over with an expression too pleasant to be trusted.

“This way, Mr. Collins,” she says. “Watch it with that cane.”

He takes one step toward the stairs, then pauses at the landing, hand closed around the banister. For a moment, he does not look back at any one of us in particular, only over the room itself—the bed, the stove, the shelves, the three lives crowded plainly into one small space.

At last, he says, “This place is not what I expected.”

No blessing follows. No apology. No softened farewell.

Only that. Though I suspect in its own odd way he means it as a sort of apology.

Then he lowers his hat onto his head and descends the stairs with Momma at his side. Pearl nods at us with a smirk then follows behind. The three of us stand there, still as stone until the door jingles once more.