Page 56 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone straightens from the hearth. “I know the way to town. If I leave now, I can make it back before dark.”

“You said yourself it isn’t safe to travel,” Lula says from the loft ladder.

We both look up. I did not hear her stir. Boone recovers first, already reaching for his coat.

“Ain’t safe for you,” he says, shoving an arm into a sleeve. “I can keep my head down. Won’t nobody bother me.”

“You oughtn’t go alone,” Lula says. Her fingers clench around the handle of an empty tin cup. “What if those men are still about? What if others like them are?”

“What if a tree falls on me?” Boone shoots back. “What if the sky comes down? Christ, Lula, I could choke on a biscuit.”

“It is not the same and you know it,” she says, cheeks flushing. “You said yourself winter is when the worst kinds of men travel.”

“Yeah, well.” Boone’s jaw works. “You’re lookin’ at one.”

He checks his pistol, tucks his scarf close at his throat, and heads for the door. When he passes Lula, he pauses a fraction, not touching her, not speaking. Then he looks to me.

“Come back,” I say.

“Always do,” he answers, capturing my mouth in a quick kiss before he goes.

The door shuts behind him. For a moment the cabin seems too still, as if Boone has taken all the motion with him. I stand with my coffee cooling in my hand, aware of Lula across the room having witnessed the brazen show of affection and unwilling to look at her before I must.

I set the cup down and reach for my coat.

“Okee.”

I stop, hand on the peg, and turn.

She has drawn herself up as though preparing for an argument. “I was unkind the other day. What passes between you and Boone is none of my business, and I had no right to⁠—”

“Please,” I say sharp enough to halt her. “You are under no obligation to tidy discomfort.”

She studies me, her brow drawn. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps not.” I hold her gaze then, because not doing so would be worse. “But I prefer not to be discussed as though I am absent.”

A faint color rises in her face. “That is fair. I meant no rebuke.”

I incline my head once to acknowledge it. That ought to have been the end of it. No need to set a bone twice.

But she does not let it end. Her mouth shifts. After a beat, she says, “In truth, it stirs envy in me.”

That brings me still.

“Envy,” she repeats, “of the fierceness between you. The trust. The way you give and take without apology, without need of words.”

The fire snaps, a small log collapses inward, sending sparks up the chimney. My shoulders ease a fraction, though I still cannot quite bring myself to meet her eyes.

“The world does not take kindly to men like Boone and I,” I say.

“I am not the world,” Lula answers. “And I assure you, I will never speak of it beyond these walls. What is yours is yours. I claim no judgment.”

I study her then, looking for insincerity and finding none.

“Thank you,” I say, though even now it is easier to look at the floorboards than at her face. Then, quieter: “It is actually a relief. No longer needing to hide.”

A muscle in her face shifts—minute, but I see it. The wariness rearranges itself into something else. “I never want you to hide who you are on my account.”