Page 64 of The Widow and the Wanted

Okee nods. “We can’t go back into town. We can’t go to the law.”

His mouth tightens. Lula rests her fingertips on her collarbone, staring into the fire.

“Why not? I can tell them the truth,” she says. “You saved me. You didn’t harm me.”

“You’d tell that to whom?” Okee asks.

“To the sheriff. I can prove I am who I claim to be.”

Okee doesn’t argue. He just lays the paper flat and presses it to the table. Then he slides it across to her gentle.

“Two thousand dollars for both of us. That,” Okee says softly, tapping a finger against the paper, “is what truth is worth in this territory.”

Lula’s hand hovers over the sum. “We can tell them who really did it. They can still hold someone accountable.”

“Hollister ain’t never gonna be held to count for nothin’,” I mutter.

Okee leans forward, closer to Lula, voice gentle. “You walk into the sheriff’s office and reveal that you’re alive, you are doing Hollister a favor. You are telling him where to find you.”

“The sheriff is an officer of the law,” she insists, but her tone has less conviction in it now.

“He’s a man,” Okee answers, quiet. “With a family. With debts. With a town that already likes the story it’s been told.” His mouth tightens. “Do you trust he won’t decide it’s easier to keep believing what everyone believes and take what that paper promises instead of what is honest?”

Lula swallows. “You think he’d⁠—”

“I know what money does,” Okee says. His voice lowers. “Lula, who do you suppose hires men like us for ugly work?” He taps the paper. “Hollister isn’t governed by the same constraints as ordinary people. His money buys protection. It buys men willing to look the other way.”

Silence sits heavy a moment. The cabin pops with sap in the logs. I swallow and try to make my tongue work around the ache in my throat.

“So what do we do?”

Okee doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the door like he can see through it—past the timber, past the snow, to the long reach of the world. I watch him think.

“There is someone we can trust,” he says at last.

I wait.

“My father,” he says. “Mother says he’s in Okmulgee. He has political leverage there. If I can reach him, perhaps he can speak to a federal marshal who isn’t beholden to Hollister. With my father’s sponsorship we look like men bringing a case, not fugitives begging for mercy.”

“Yes,” Lula says. “Yes, let’s do that⁠—”

“No,” I say. “We don’t need your pa’s help.”

Okee goes still, a muscle twitching at his jaw as he seems to bite his tongue, like he’s been expecting my protest since before the word father left his mouth.

“This is bigger than us, my love,” he says. “What happens when we leave this place? They could hang us both, but you know as well as I do they will never let Lula live after what she’s seen, all that she knows. She’ll remain in danger.”

He’s right, but there has to be another way. God, give me a few days for the sore shoulder to resolve, I’ll handle it my damn self.

“I ain’t beggin’ any man,” I say, rising to my feet. My throat feels tight and I cough. “Specially not one that already thinks I’m shit on your boot.”

The words come out hotter than they ought. My chest tightens. Jabbing my finger in his direction throws me off balance, and the room tips, just a little at first, like somebody moved the floor under me.

Okee’s expression tightens, and he lunges toward me as if to catch me. “Boone.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my ass making an unsteady landing on the cot. The impact rocks me just enough that the world lurches from the pain. Firelight smears into orange ribbons spotted with black. My stomach rolls hard and sour. Sweat breaks out cold along my spine even with the hearth throwing heat.

I blink once. Twice. The dark doesn’t leave.