Page 61 of The Widow and the Wanted

I lean my forehead against the rough plank and breathe through my teeth while pain tries to drag me under.

Move, I tell myself. Move, you damn fool.

When the world bares its teeth at you, you can’t step back into it empty-handed.

I limp to the flour sacks, grab one with my left hand and shake it out.

Start where a man keeps what matters.

I empty the till into my pocket without counting. Coins. A few crumpled notes. Then my hand sweeps up matchboxes—two, three, four—small as nothing, worth more than gold in winter. I shove them inside my coat.

Coffee tin. A bag of salt off the back shelf.

My boot skids in spilled brine near the barrel. My balance goes. I catch myself on the bad side, and pain explodes so hard my knees nearly buckle. Stars burst behind my eyes. For a sick second I’m sure I’ll black out and wake up dead on his boards.

I ride it out with my forehead on the counter. Breathing. Breathing. Waiting for my body to calm. When I lift my head, the wood is smeared dark where my sleeve touched it.

I want to curse, want to scream, want to do anything but stand in that store bleeding into my coat while a dead man watches with empty eyes, but I grab what I can until my strength starts to falter.

Beans. Tinned peaches. Whatever my hand finds first.

The sack gets heavy fast. Cloth saws into my palm. The weight pulls even on my good side, and the bad side answers, washing my vision white.

I hoist the sack, bite back a groan, and step outside.

Wind hits hard—loud. Ain’t many folks out. Bitter cold keeps people inside unless they’ve got a reason to be stupid or desperate.

I keep my head down and move, boots crunching, sack dragging my shoulder. My horse stands tied where I left him, steam rising off her flank. I hook the sack to the mare and reach for the reins. That’s when my eye catches a nailboard by the post, papers tacked there, fluttering, edges curled from weather. Notices. Prices. Some church handbill. I pass it—almost—until the wind lifts one corner just right.

A face looks back at me in rough ink.

My face.

Jaw too square. Eyes too big. The artist gave me a meaner mouth than God did, but it’s close enough to make my insides sink.

HOLLISTER TIMBER OFFERS A REWARD.

Under it, another sketch. Okee’s profile, caught in three strokes: the set of his brow, the straight line of his nose, the broad sweep of his cheekbones. His likeness ain’t near as handsome as he is in the flesh.

Below the drawings, the words swim.

The undersigned offers two thousand dollars for the apprehension of⁠—

My vision goes spotty. Enough to buy a farm. Enough to start a life.

—for the apprehension of Boone Maddox and Okee Collins, known as the Aces, for their suspected part in the Verdigris Massacre of November 10th, wherein a scientific party was slain along the river.

My blood goes colder than the air.

So that’s it. That’s what the shopkeeper saw.

My price.

I yank the paper free so hard the tack squeals, crumple it in my fist, then force myself to smooth it again. Blood smears where my glove brushes it.

I stuff the poster inside my coat—right against the wrapped arm, where it sticks for a second to the damp cloth—and swing up into the saddle one-handed. The movement tears a fresh line of fire through my shoulder. Black creeps in at the edges, but I stay upright.

Every jolt of the saddle sends a hot spear through my shoulder. The bandanna is stuck to me now, wet and tacky under the wrap. I don’t look at it.