Page 30 of The Widow and the Wanted

Instead, we have managed a week of quiet coexistence. We share meals from the hunt over polite dinner conversation. We step out of one another’s path with gracious little bows whenever we inevitably collide in this blasted coffin they call a cabin. I find what little privacy I have in the cold loft above, pretending not to hear the two of them giggling like schoolboys until the sound fades into snoring. Can men stage such convincing kindness? And to what end? My body? My silence? My gratitude?

Perhaps they truly feel guilt, or some other sense of duty, having swept me up in all this mess. The more I turn it over in my mind, the less certain I am of anything at all.

I’ve known bad men. Shiftless thieves, marauders, deviants.

None quite like these.

I dress and join them outside, greeted at once by the sharp bite of cold. Boone stands with his coat open, scarf hanging slack, as if shaking his fist at winter. Okee turns his collar up against the wind.

“Good morning,” Okee says. “I’ve paced the distance to those cans at precisely twenty-five yards. No guesswork required.”

Is that important?

I smile at him. “Very precise.”

Behind him, Boone spins his pistol and shoves it into his holster as if practicing for speed.

“See that?” Okee asks me, gesturing toward Boone. “Don’t do that. That’s a good way to shoot yourself in the face.”

Boone chuckles at Okee’s disapproval and continues his tricks.

Okee steps behind me, and all at once there is less room inside my own skin. His hands rest on my shoulders, close enough that I can feel his breath shift against my hair. He moves me into position and rests a pistol in my hand.

It is heavier than I expect.

“You might button your coat,” I say to Boone over my shoulder. “You’ll catch your death.”

“Well, listen to the pair of you. Next you’ll be tellin’ me how to lace my boots.” He holsters his gun and spits into the snow. “Short on height and long on opinions.”

My fists tighten fast at my sides. The taunt sends a little surge of fire through me, and I plant my boot hard, earning a pleased snort from Boone, who lights up from the inside at dancing on my nerves before breakfast.

“Enough,” Okee says.

He raises my arm and bows closer, looking down the barrel with me. “Grip high,” he says, folding his larger hand over mine, firm enough to guide and careful enough to irritate me. “Thumb along the back strap. Keeps the hammer from biting you.” His other hand slides mine into place beneath the barrel, guiding without hesitation.

His voice sounds too near my ear, and my knees lose all loyalty to me.

He lets go, and the weight settles into my palms, unfamiliar and solid.

Could it be this serious gentleman has greeted the morning with newfound charm?

His boot nudges my heel. “Feet apart. Knees soft.” His voice drops. “Bend your elbows, just a touch.”

I do, aware all at once of how close he still is. Of Boone watching from the fence rail, arms folded, icy blue eyes sharp and amused.

“Good,” Okee says, tapping the hammer with one finger. “Cock it smooth.”

I swallow wrong and cough. The tickle tortures my throat, and I try to swallow it down, eyes stinging with choked tears. “What happens if I thumb it too fast?” I rasp.

Okee nods once, approving the question, and takes the Colt back just long enough to demonstrate.

“This is a single-action,” he says. “Means you have to cock the hammer deliberately before the trigger will drop it. Four distinct clicks as she comes back. Listen.”

One. Two. Three. Four.

My chest steadies.

“Sights even,” he continues, and hands the gun back. His fingers graze mine just long enough for me to recognize the choice in it.