Page 26 of The Widow and the Wanted

Who are these men, really?

I know what kind of courage it takes for men to turn on their own. It costs something dear. Men that betray their own for the sake of strangers—women, especially—it’s too good to be true. Yet they have. For my friends. For me.

The water laps softly as I lean back and let my head rest against the rim of the tub. What will become of any of us when morning comes? In the small room, with the bathwater warming my skin and the storm shut outside, I allow myself a moment of peace for having survived it all.

Later, after I dress, Boone and Okee wash in turn with the remaining hot water, adding another kettle or two from the fire.

By the time we are all washed and dressed, the stew has cooked down to something rich and fragrant, filling the cabin with the smell of meat, onions, and herbs. Boone dishes it into bowls, and we gather near the fire to eat.

It’s thick enough to stick to the ribs, the fire snapping while snow hisses against the panes. Whiskey warms my throat and loosens something behind my eyes.

Boone leans back and studies me over his tin cup. “So,” he says, “you grew up in a saloon…”

“A polite word for it,” I answer.

“Bet you’ve got stories.”

“It was loud,” I say, and find that I mean it more than once. “It smelled of smoke and spilled liquor and sweaty men.” I roll the cup between my palms. “It was the Gemini House. Most folks just called it the Gemini.”

“Gemini,” Boone repeats, fumbling the sound like it’s a foreign coin. “What’s that mean?”

Okee finally lifts his eyes. “You know what it is.”

Boone glances at him. “I do?”

Okee’s expression stays flat, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth. “Orange and blue,” he says.

Boone blinks once. Then his face shifts, recognition hitting like a delayed shot. “Oh—hell.” He gives a short laugh. “You remember that, huh?”

“How could I forget? Any time there’s a clear night—‘there we are again,’” Okee says, pointing at the ceiling like a sky, borrowing a version of Boone’s accent. Affectionate, not cruel.

“I don’t follow,” I say.

“The Gemini constellation,” Okee explains. “The stars always appear together, so Boone used to joke it was us.”

“Ain’t no joke,” Boone barks, pouring another whiskey. “Never reckoned that’s what they were called, though. That’s a fine coincidence.”

“The owner just liked the way it sounded,” I clarify, realizing they’re giving the Gemini’s owner far too much credit. “He’d say, ‘Liquor and ladies. Two lines o’ work, one roof. Fancy name like that, suddenly a whiskey shack sounds like a goddamn establishment.’”

I hadn’t invited his voice into my head, but there it was. The bastard. The men laugh in earnest at my imitation, and a surge of elation washes over me for managing to feel welcome in their circle.

For one foolish second, I grin too wide, but then I remember myself and bite it back before it can spread any further.

“It also means a matched pair,” Okee mumbles against his whiskey glass.

Boone turns his head. “You been sittin’ on that this whole time?”

Okee shrugs. “I thought you knew. It’s Latin.”

Boone barks out a laugh that sounds closer to a choke. “Okee. Look at me.” He drags a hand down his own face. “Do I strike you as a man who knows a damn thing about Latin?”

Okee’s mouth twitches. “You knew enough to point at it,” he says. “I only supplied the name.”

Boone falls quiet, some of the fight gone out of him, and I feel like I’ve stumbled into somebody else’s private story. For a long moment, it’s just the three of us and the fire and the weight of those two stars hanging over our heads, even with the roof in the way.

Later, when the snow has piled so high it presses at the windows, Okee crosses to an old cabinet and draws out a small parlor guitar, wood dark and scarred.

Boone’s head snaps up. One hand lifts, palm out. “Now hold on⁠—”