Page 54 of The Widow and the Wanted

Pins and needles spread like wildfire at the base of my skull, then rush through me with a wave that sets my whole body tingling. I force a laugh, sharp and brittle, as my heart races, his insistence that I want him threatening to suffocate me. “Fascinating, indeed. And what profit would I, a woman, have in thirsting after a man who prefers the company of other men?”

I regret the words as soon as I say them.

His eyes narrow to slits, and for one frozen heartbeat he doesn't move—then he surges forward, both palms gripping the beams on either side of my head, caging me in.

“What did you just say?”

The words come out low, almost careful. That scares me more than shouting.

I swallow. “I— I didn’t⁠—”

“You did.” His jaw works. He looks like he wants to shake the words out of me and doesn’t dare touch me to do it. “You say that like it’s safe. Like it’s just somethin’ you toss at a man that won’t get him locked up or hung,” he hisses. “You don’t know what men do with a rumor like that out here.”

The cabin creaks under a gust. Below us, the skillet gives a quiet hiss as Okee shifts it on the coals. The ordinary sound makes Boone’s eyes flash with something worse than anger—fear.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” I manage, because it’s true and because the loft has gone too small to pretend otherwise.

Boone’s shoulders rise and fall. For a moment he looks less like a brute and more like a man holding himself together by force of will.

Then his mouth twists, not quite a grimace. “No,” he says, voice raw. “You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have.”

He shuts his eyes for a beat, like he’s praying for sense, then opens them again, and what’s in them now is plain and awful. “You think you know what I want? What I fuck? You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

“You clearly… You and Okee care for each other a great deal.”

“He’s my other half,” he corrects, hand to his heart as if my words were inadequate. “Ain’t many folks in this world understand what that’s like when it comes to men like us. They think love just looks like husbands and wives but that ain’t the whole of it. Ain’t so simple neither.”

My heart slams against my ribs, and I want to shove him away, climb down the ladder, and pretend this moment never happened. But the loft is too small, and he’s too close, and shame is a living thing clawing its way up my throat.

Then his hand drops from the beam and catches my waist. I suck in a surprised breath, the sudden closeness nearly making my knees buckle. Heat rolls off him, solid and unmistakable. He bends his head, slow enough that I could still turn away.

But I don’t.

I can smell sweat on him. My pulse thrums so loud I’m certain he can hear it.

He moves, his mouth against my ear. “You think I ain’t noticed you?”

My breath snags in my throat. Heat floods me in a merciless rush, leaving me dizzy, aching. I try to hold still, to keep my face composed, but my lips part on a shaky exhale I can’t stifle.

He sees it. Of course he does. His gaze rakes over me—slow, deliberate, undone.

He drags his thumb along my jaw, rough and possessive, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet those blazing eyes.

“You got a mouth on you and a spine like iron, and you look at me like you could bring me to my knees and make me behave and I hate that I want it. Hate that I can’t stop picturin’ you…”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to finish. My eyes flutter. But he swears again, softer this time, and pulls away abruptly, releasing me as though I’ve burned him. I stumble a half step back, heart skidding, the space between us suddenly too empty.

“Christ,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. He turns his face aside. The wood creaks. The fire pops below. Okee hums under his breath, unaware or pretending to be. “Just… Don’t mistake what you don’t understand. And mind your mouth. You’ll get a man killed.”

I swallow against the lump in my throat and nod once.

Boone takes another step back, putting distance between us. He doesn’t look at me again. He climbs down the ladder without a word.

The loft is colder, darker, the small window frosted over so thick I can barely see the night beyond. I kneel at the pallet, pull the wool blanket around my shoulders, and lie down facing the rafters.

Below, their voices drop to murmurs. Boone’s low rumble first, something teasing, something apologetic. Okee’s reply is measured, calm, the way he speaks when he is trying not to laugh or scold. The wind howls against the eaves like it wants to join us inside.

I pull my blanket tighter.