Page 52 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone lays a gloved hand along the beast’s thick neck. The horse leans into him like he’s been waiting for it, its breath fogging the brisk air like smoke as Boone pats him affectionately. His shoulders drop with it, his face loosening into a gentleness I have never seen on him.

Okee comes in from the side and reaches for the cinch, checks a strap. They stand close, two men and a horse crowded in a narrow space, and me up here watching when I ought to mind my own work. Then Boone’s gloved hand leaves the horse’s neck and catches at the front of Okee’s coat, claiming in a possessive way. Okee does not pull back. He steps in instead, and their mouths meet. In one fluid motion, Okee’s hand cradles the back of Boone’s head, his face tilted as he swoops in to deepen their kiss.

It is a brief kiss, placed with familiarity and fire both, like a kiss Eli might have pressed to my mouth for a moment of lust on his way out the door.

My heart leaps into my throat, and the broom slips free from my hold. I catch it a moment before it falls, then stand there in a dumb haze, cheeks scalding as I watch them chat together in the cold—close, the way lovers do.

With the snow flurrying around them and the obvious joy they take in one another, something twists so tightly in my chest that I forget to breathe.

There have been glances too long held. I wondered what they meant, felt in my bones there was more to their closeness than friendship, and now I know without doubt.

I back away from the window. Whatever I have seen is not mine to name, nor mine to untangle.

I take up the broom and busy myself again, though the rhythm of it feels altered in my hands.

When they come in from the cold, I clutch the broom tighter, pulse skipping a beat or two.

The wind’s howl grows louder, then quiets again with the door, and Boone’s voice follows it, loud as ever, complaining of the snow. Okee answers him quieter, something low I cannot fully hear.

I keep sweeping.

“You done somethin’ in here?” Boone says, stomping the snow from his boots. “You perfumed the cabin, little general?”

For the first time, his teasing aches.

Foolish of me, really, to think anything more of it.

Perhaps I mistook his attention for something sweeter than it was.

“Just some dried peel and spices to freshen the air,” I call back, too sharply.

There is a pause. I risk a glance then.

Nothing in them betrays their affection. Boone shrugs off his coat, easy as ever. Okee hangs his with care. They move about the room as they always do. Only I have changed.

In the evening, I sit at the table with my journal open before me, revisiting an old page. Strange how little anything from a few weeks ago seems to matter now that there is a good chance we’ll starve.

Then an off-key whistle cuts through the quiet, sharp and jaunty, followed by Boone’s voice, pitched low and deliberately absurd.

“Oh, I come from Alabamy with a banjo on my knee,” he sings, drawing the tune out shamelessly. “I’m goin’ to Lou’siana, my true love for to see⁠—”

I close the journal with a small sigh and look over at him, a tall pile of pale wood curls piled at the base of his rocking chair.

“Are you just going to leave your shavings on the floor?” I ask.

Boone looks at me then. Two blue beams fixed on me like sunlight through a magnifying glass, meant to scorch. “Floor ain’t harmed none. It’ll keep.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “Point’s you don’t like lookin’ at it.”

“You might allow refuse to simply be discarded on the ground outdoors, perhaps. But inside? In our living quarters?”

“How’s a woman your size built for this much fuss? Bet you could wear a saint to cussin’.”

For a breath, I think Boone might come at me—but instead he lunges for the broom, seizing it like a weapon and sweeping up the shavings with exaggerated strokes, bristles rasping loud against the floorboards. He makes a whole performance of it, jaw set, shoulders working as though he has been condemned to hard labor. When he’s done, he leans the broom against the wall with a flourish, pleased with himself for having survived the ordeal.

The peace lasts less than a minute.