Page 2 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone screams, “I don’t mind explaining why you fell off the wagon, you filthy son of a bitch—I’ll goddamn kill you!”

I move fast, hook my arms around his waist. He’s still swinging, still cussing, breath hot against my cheek as I drag him off.

“That’s enough,” I call out.

His fists loosen. He sags against me, chest heaving, sweat and dust sticking to his face.

The prisoner’s a heap in the dirt now, moaning, blood all down his chin. One eye’s already swelling shut.

Boone spits once.

I keep hold of him until his breath slows, both of us standing there in the dust. The horses flick their ears, restless, then settle again. The prisoner is still, but he’s breathing.

I glance around. Just miles of flat, open earth and the hiss of icy wind through dry grass. No lawmen. No witnesses.

“Was that necessary?” I ask.

He nods once, body still trembling. “Reckon now we can get some peace and quiet at least,” he mutters, fingers sliding through mud-brown hair that hangs to his shoulders.

I brush it back, cradling the back of his head in my palm. My other hand clamps onto his shoulder, grip tight.

“One more job,” I remind him.

He swallows hard, contrite. “I know.”

“One job, then a well-stocked, quiet, peaceful winter. All right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” I say, releasing him.

Unholstering my pistol, I amble to the bound man in the dirt, point it at him, and pull back the hammer. “On your feet.” He doesn’t dare look at me now as he struggles to his knees.

I shove him into the wagon, then join Boone on the bench. He spits in the dust and clicks his tongue at the horses to start them forward, wheels crunching over dry earth.

I look out at the plains, the breeze coming in sharp, bending the tall grass. Boone’s attention is on the trail, the reins, the horses, and the wide open country. It’s under a mile before his shoulders relax. He looks over with a wink, calm as still water.

He hums a few lazy bars, then sings.

“I come from Alabamy with a banjo on my knee.

Goin’ to Lou’siana, my true love for to see⁠—”

Chapter 2

Lula

November 10, 1870

The trees along the trail have been made sparse by logging, though the flora and fauna the expedition hoped to find along the Verdigris seem to have been disturbed. The abundant harvesting of black walnut has spoiled the soil, destroying nesting and breeding. Dr. Bowering believes the cutting too systematic for homesteads or firewood. He suspects commercial harvesting, though no claim markers we found match the map he carries.

I’ve been tasked with indexing the affected plants carefully: draw their silhouettes, annotate the parts used in medications. I imagined framing each one on the wall of my future shop, telling customers how I’d studied in the plains and mountains both.

Nevertheless, it is quite peaceful here. I’ve never seen so much flat land. Nothing like the hills and mountains of West Virginia. Prairie tallgrass in shades of gold and brown as the frost takes hold, wild herbs gone to seed. Milkweed bursting, wild persimmons ripe on the branch, the deceptively delicate lace flowers of water hemlock sprouting dense in the marsh. Cruel a plant so deadly would grow with such abundance.

It’s been two weeks in the field now, not counting the long train ride west and the rattling stagecoach to Fort Smith, Arkansas, where I first met our party. It’s been a dream to live among scientists for a time, even as we camp under pine-framed shelters, each night nearer to freezing.

This expedition is not the kind of thing proper women do, but I am doing it. I am not mourning or wallowing or hunting for a man, as if a husband is just a worn pair of boots.