Page 39 of The Widow and the Wanted

It would be simpler if only Boone had noticed her. Simpler if I could call this jealousy and be done with it.

But I had seen her too.

That is the part I cannot forgive.

In the morning, I rise first.

The cabin is gray, the fire gone to ash. Cold has worked its way into every seam between the logs. I coax the hearth back to life and set the kettle to heat.

Behind me, Boone stirs in the cot, hair mussed and pale eyes barely open.

The ladder creaks.

Lula descends in a pretty patterned dress, the fabric drawn close by the climb in a manner I have no business noticing. Her hair lies in two thick braids, one over each shoulder. In the weak dawn, her eyes are the color of evergreens in fog.

It is one thing to resent a woman in theory. It is another to have her come down a ladder looking like that, all sleep-warm and sharp-eyed.

“Coffee?” I ask.

“I cannot have you serving me the entirety of our exile,” she says. “Let me do my part.”

Boone sits up. The blanket pools at his waist, baring the scarred length of his chest. He stretches long and easy, apparently forgetting there is anyone in the room but me.

Lula catches sight of him and turns sharply away, one hand lifting toward her eyes. A beat later, she peeks back.

“Mr. Maddox would seem to be in active revolt against the wearing of clothes.”

Boone glances down at himself. “I’ll get decent. Didn’t figure you’d be awake this early.”

He keeps his eyes off her as he moves behind me to collect his shirt from the back of the chair. Lula’s gaze remains fixed on the kettle, though color rises fast in her throat.

Then she glances over despite herself.

“What have you there? A bruise?”

Boone pulls the shirt over his head, quickly concealing the mark over his heart.

“Ain’t a bruise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s a tattoo.”

He says it plainly, but his eyes cut to mine. It strikes me then that Boone took the mark without ever knowing all it meant. He did not need to. All he knew was that I loved him and wanted us both branded across our hearts.

That had been enough.

I bite back a smile.

“Is that what men do for sport now?” Lula asks.

Boone does not answer.

Neither do I.

“Hmm,” she says, conceding nothing. She moves to the kettle and clears her throat. “Have we set upon a plan?”

Outside, snow drifts down, quieter than the night before but steady enough to matter.