Page 69 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Mr. Collins, I trust you’re well.”

There is something tentative about his posture as he sizes me up. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

The room is too warm. The air feels heavy in my lungs.

“May we please speak in private?”

Pausing a moment, he assesses me with a concerned look, then sweeps his face around each corner of the room. He drops a firm hand on my shoulder. “Come.”

He steers me through the crowd like I am a boy again, fingers set hard enough to bruise if I pull away. At the far end of the hall he opens a narrow door and ushers me into his office.

The room is plain, but full of authority: a stack of ledgers, map rolls in one corner, a dispatch box on the desk, and an American flag pinned to the timber wall behind a small plaque that reads ALFRED COLLINS.

My father does not offer me a seat. He takes his own, folds his hands, and says, “I’m surprised you would travel. The weather has a habit of turning quickly as of late.”

“Yes, I know. But it’s urgent. It could not wait.”

“What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

The words land without flourish. He leans back a fraction.

I had come for something simple enough in my own mind: Lula’s statement taken down officially, some government protection between Hollister and the rope, and one man in this Territory willing to treat a printed reward from a rich company as accusation instead of proof.

I take the flyer from my coat and lay it on the desk, sliding it toward him.

The old chair before his desk complains as I settle into it. Clicking his tongue, my father picks up the paper, studies it, nods once, and sets it down again. Then he leans back once more, hands clasped over his middle. His stony expression is worse than anger.

My throat tightens, but I keep my face still. “It isn’t true,” I say, careful not to sound too forceful. I tell him as much of the truth as I believe he could tolerate, talking in circles and squares so as to avoid reminding him of Boone’s existence, and yet he arrives at his judgment all the same.

“I told you this would happen if you kept company with that hillbilly.”

“Please.” The word comes out sharper than I mean. I drag a breath through my nose. “We have committed no crime.”

My father’s brows lift, just enough to show he does not believe me.

I go on, because if I stop speaking, he’ll believe I have rested my case. “The man framing us does not know one woman survived. We have kept her safe. In the cabin.”

For a moment he says nothing. His ring clicks softly on the desk as he taps one finger.

Then a short, disbelieving breath escapes him, like I have handed him a story too ridiculous to believe.

“You follow that man into sin,” he says. He does not raise his voice. He never has to. He lets the contempt simmer between us and the reasons come surging back. The reason why I haven’t seen him in years.

The reason why he will never truly know me.

Never even try.

My hands tighten around the brim of my hat in my lap. I have the urge to stand, but standing would only show emotion, and emotion is weakness. It would make me a boy again in his eyes. I force myself still.

“You do not know him,” I say.

My father’s mouth tightens. “I know exactly what he is to you,” he says. “And I know what perversions have done to my only son.”

My pulse hammers once, hard.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“God will forgive you, Okee. Return to Him. Return to your family. Leave that life behind.” His gaze drifts over me. “You came here because you are afraid,” he says. “You should be.”