Page 20 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Didn’t mean any offense,” she says.

“Ain’t offended. You ain’t wrong. I am a sensitive soul. And I been a drifter since summer of ’59 when the river sickness come through the holler. First took my youngest sister, then my momma a few days later. Daddy lasted a week longer, till thirst broke him. By the time the leaves changed colors, I was the only one in the cabin. Cut timber, hauled freight, trapped small game, whatever was needsome to survive. I was ten.”

With that, he fixes her with a dry, contemptuous squint. “That’s when I became a man. War didn’t make me one.”

No grin. No wink. And though I already knew every word, my throat tightens anyway.

Lula’s posture softens, and for the first time since we met, she doesn’t look ready for a fight.

The wind shifts.

I catch it then—the faintest thread of smoke that isn’t ours, riding the wind off the river.

Chapter 8

Lula

There are hopeless stretches, miles long, of nothing but the blue sky and white ground in every direction. Distant barren trees thin enough to reveal only more ground to travel.

“Step where I step,” Okee says, and keeps moving.

Boone glances back once, making sure I do. I manage well enough for maybe ten minutes before the snow starts swallowing me to the ankle, then the shin, and each wrench free sends a fresh ache up my legs. By the time the wind finds the gap at my collar, I am no longer thinking about grief, or dignity, only shelter.

After hours of struggle we make it to the tree line. The sparse forest thickens and the crunch of our boots drowns out a faint sound. Okee’s head jerks up. “Shhh,” he says. We freeze where we stand. “You hear that?” he hushes.

I listen.

The rush of a river, maybe. Or perhaps a stream. Low voices. A pot lid clinking.

My heart, already beating fast from constant movement, seizes up in my chest. The gunfire, the blood of yesterday churn in my gut. Boone leans forward, peering through the scrub.

“Camp,” he breathes.

We steal to the edge of the leafless cottonwoods and look down upon the river bend. Along the bank, stands of water hemlock thrust up through moss and black mud. I wrap my hand in my shawl, tear a root loose while the men keep their eyes on the far ridge, then tuck the poison deep into my satchel.

Mother used to tell the girls a woman can never be too ready to see to herself. Kept a Derringer in her bodice and a dagger at her thigh. It was good advice for whoring, and better for running with two strange drifters.

A travel party has made itself a small town on the bank—wagons in a loose crescent, canvas tops dulled by frost, cook fires smoking, people gathered near the water with buckets and basins. Twenty or so, maybe more, including children. A dog noses at a pile of scraps. Men wear hats and worn coats. Women have shawls clutched around them.

Off to the side—set apart from the noise—horses stand picketed in a long line. So many I cannot clearly count them. A light wagon sits idle near the end.

Boone’s gaze moves over the spread before turning to Okee, who surveys the camp a while longer with silent intensity, appearing to quietly note the expanse, the number of men, the distance to their horses and wagons. “By my count, they look like they can afford to lose a horse. Maybe a wagon,” Okee says.

“You intend to steal from these people?” I ask.

He turns on me, irritation plain in the wrinkle of his brow. “You shrink from a stolen horse, yet those folks below us ride west only because other men were driven off this land before them.”

“Did your mother never teach you that you cannot mend one wrong with another?”

A dark growl rumbles in his chest, then breaks into words. “Men do whatever they must to survive. Then, once they're warm and fed, they build themselves a porch and call it civilization. I am not yet comfortable enough to enjoy hypocrisy. So yes—I plan to take what we need. Now, we can keep walking and camp outdoors again overnight,” he says, “or you can help us get to the cabin before dark.”

The ache in my legs and back leave me unable to tolerate a moment’s argument. Boone nods once, satisfied.

“Are you going to kill them?” I ask.

“Not if you do things my way,” Okee says.

“And what is that?”