Page 6 of The Widow and the Wanted

Dusk is already settling in. The river darkens, the tree line swallowing what little light’s left. Men finish their meals quick, checking blades, loading rifles. Nobody’s talking much now.

We get in the chicken line and split a hen. A deputy sits two tables down, star pinned to his vest, laughing with Hollister’s men like they’re kin.

Figures. The law ain’t out here to keep the peace. They’re here to handle the trouble quiet.

Tables and benches are set up outside a row of food vendors. My mouth’s watering as we sit, eager for a proper meal.

“In the morning we can stock up. Thinking about headin’ west. Maybe we can spend Christmas in the Rockies again this year.”

Okee chews and shrugs like it don’t matter either way. He’s easygoing like that, letting me set the course. He don’t speak.

“Well don’t strain yourself with all that chatter, honey. Might bite your tongue clean off.”

He raises an eyebrow at the term of endearment, head sweeping around to see who might’ve heard.

I smirk at that. His plump bottom lip is glistening with chicken grease, red like it’s been worked over. There’s a hint of a smile there before he finishes, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and grunts, “Fine by me.”

Tearing into the hen with my teeth, hot drippings run down my fingers. The meat’s tender, skin crisp, and the taste hits me like a long-overdue reward after weeks of hardtack and beans. Across the plank table, Okee’s doing the same—ripping, chewing, not bothering with manners. Nobody out here does.

That lip of his stays slick, wetter every time he licks it clean. Makes his mouth look too damn soft. I can’t pull my eyes off it.

He catches me staring once. Don’t say a word, just breaks our gaze and drags the back of his hand across his chin, smearing it instead of wiping it away. My blood’s running hotter than the cook fire behind us. I shift on the bench, clear my throat. “Rockies’ll be snowed in deep by Christmas. Good trappin’, though. Quiet.”

He grunts again, tears off another strip of breast meat, sucks the juices from his thumb. “Quiet’s good.”

The light’s near gone now. Lanterns start flickering on up and down the row of wagons and tents. Men drift away from the tables, plates scraped clean, faces hard again. The easy moment of supper fades, quick as it came.

Okee finishes first, tosses the bones into the fire barrel, stands and stretches. He straightens slow, rolling his broad shoulders back, and as he raises his arms overhead the tail of his work shirt pulls free from his belt. A strip of skin shows—flat, hard belly ridged with muscle, dusted faintly with dark hair that teases down beneath the waistband. The firelight licks across it, warm and golden. He holds the stretch a heartbeat longer than he needs to, like he knows exactly where my eyes have gone, then lets the shirt drop back into place. My cock thickens quick against the seam of my trousers, straining enough that I have to shift my weight on the bench to hide it. Daggum tease.

He turns to me, firelight catching the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint sheen still clinging to the corner of his mouth where the grease hasn’t quite been wiped away.

I want to reach over and thumb it away myself, but I don’t. Not here. Not with fifty hard men milling around, sharpening steel and checking gunpowder.

“Ready?” he asks.

My blood’s pounding too loud in my ears. One wrong move and there’ll be no hiding the tent in my trousers. I stay seated a second longer, pretending to scrape the last bit of meat from a bone I’ve already picked clean.

He turns toward the horses, giving me his back and the space to pull myself together. But even the way he walks—easy stride, shirt still half untucked, hips rolling just enough under worn denim—keeps the heat coiled tight in my gut. I drag in a slow breath of cool night air, willing my body to settle.

Once it does, I stand too, pitch my own bones into the flames. Side by side we walk back toward the horses. Darkness falls quick and full. Lanterns dim. The river’s just a black streak now, the trees a solid wall of nothing.

Time to go to work.

No survivors on the other side.

Clean job, or none at all.

Chapter 4

Okee

By nightfall, it’s quiet but for the sound of a dozen horses clomping slowly through the forest, and a sharp breeze sifting through the leaves. Iron and ice lace the air, sharp and earthy.

“A storm’s coming,” I say. Boone rides even with me, his reins slack.

“Mhm. Quiet, ain’t it?”

I nod. The stillness sinks heavy in my gut. The hair on my neck stands up, and I can’t say if it’s the job ahead or the weather turning but every inch of me is coiled tight as a firing pin.