Page 66 of The Widow and the Wanted

“I was going to tell him,” he says, tilting his head toward Boone where he snores on the cot.

“About?”

“Us,” he says. “And then he came home shot.” A quiet, humorless sound leaves him. “He rather ruined my timing.”

Us. Two little letters bearing the weight of such consequence. The kind of meaning that should horrify me. We merely kissed, and already he’s decided there is a connection worth naming. But something about the title coming from Okee, a man who chooses each word with such care he needn’t say much for all others to listen, turns me boneless in his arms.

“You can tell him in the morning.”

His eyes go distant and he shakes his head. “I’ll be gone before daylight. To Okmulgee. To find my father.”

I sit up straighter, everything in me sinking at once. “Boone will be furious.”

“He’ll survive it. Despite his stubborn pride, this course is what is best and he knows it. Trust me, this isn’t something I would do unless circumstances were dire—and they are. I don’t know who else to trust outside of these walls.”

The way Boone shouted, the hurt in his disapproval was palpable. I thought he’d work himself up into a fit or pass out. He nearly had.

“What happened that makes Boone hate your father so?”

Okee sighs, dragging knuckles affectionately down my arm. “There was a time when I brought Boone home with me for family occasions. Back when the work we did was still somewhat honorable. At least by the law’s standards. We claimed bounties. Provided protection to families crossing the Territory. Even then, my father felt the work was beneath me. He wanted me to take a post with the Interior. A desk, a salary.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Okee’s mouth tightens, not quite a smile. He keeps his hand on my arm, knuckles tracing once more.

“Because I have already tried his idea of respectable,” he says. “I speak his language. Learned his prayers. Fought in his war.” His gaze drifts to the hearth. “And still, to most of them, I was less than a man. One cannot spend one’s life serving a machine built to grind people down while pretending it is saving them.”

A bitter breath leaves him. “He blamed Boone for my cynicism. For the work. For everything that came with him. But Boone does not bow, does not flatter, and never lets a slight pass unanswered—least of all when it comes to me.”

Okee’s jaw flexes once. “I chose Boone,” he answers simply. “My father still has not forgiven me for it.”

The fire pops. Outside, the wind howls.

“So you stopped going home,” I say.

Okee’s eyes lower, and for a moment he looks very young. “I stopped offering my father opportunities to be disappointed.” His fingers drift from my arm to my hand and lace there as if it is the most ordinary thing in the world. He lifts my hand, knuckles brushing his mouth, before pressing a kiss there.

Although I advise against it, he leaves before sunrise. As I tend to Boone, I feel complicit in Okee’s absence. Though I must trust that Okee is capable of assessing what Boone can tolerate. I don’t volunteer the information. I wait for him to notice for himself.

He’s quite drowsy at first. Forehead too warm. I take water cooled outside and soak a rag in it, folding it and resting it against his head.

“By God, you are an angel,” he says, eyes cracking open.

I cannot help but smile at the woozy compliment, though I say nothing.

“You know that?” he goes on. “A beautiful angel sent from the heavens.”

“You’re feverish.”

“I know my own meanin’, and by God, I can’t stop thinkin’ on what woulda happened if that bastard shopkeep killed me dead.”

“Don’t speak of such things.”

“I should have kissed you. In the loft that day. I almost did, but I ain’t had the nerve.”

The words strike low, beneath propriety, beneath sense. I press the cloth to his brow harder than necessary, with a soft thud against his forehead. “Boone.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt him. “Mean thing, can’t you let a man confess his feelings before he dies?”