Page 71 of The Widow and the Wanted

I move stiffly to my horse and shove the stolen things into my saddlebag. The bottle knocks hard against the leather. I drag it back out, take a long swallow, and return it there.

Then I swing into the saddle and turn the horse toward the open land, away from the council house and the door that has just shut me out.

Chapter 20

Boone

Lula lets in the whole winter trying to drag in a goddamn water barrel. She makes it a few feet indoors, water splashing over the sides. “What in God’s name are you doin’?”

“You’re burning up. We’re bringing the fever down.”

“You’re gettin’ everything wet. Shut the door! It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

“I’m trying,” she says. She wraps her arms around the barrel, crouching down low for leverage, and pulls it back slow. More frigid water splashes over, spilling onto her chest this time, a little on her face. Soon as the cold hits her, she squeals like a piglet yanked by the tail. “Good lord, that’s cold,” she says.

“Ain’t you clever,” I mutter, low enough she can’t hear me. “You suppose the water ain’t known it’s winter?”

The barrel’s far enough inside she can shut the door. It slams shut and she locks it, looks at the barrel and the path to the washroom. “You might need to get in the barrel. I don’t think I can drag this all the way to the tub without getting more water on the floor.”

I bark a laugh. “I ain’t gettin’ in that thing. That’s all our washin’ water, you ding-dong.”

“Did you just call me a ding-dong?”

“Hell yeah, if you think I’m climbin’ into that daggum barrel.”

“Boone Maddox,” she says, hands on her hips, fiery as a she-devil twice her size. “There’s a whole outside full of frozen water. I’m not worried about running out. Now you get in this barrel or I will put you in it.”

Her eyes narrow like she’s sighting down a rifle. She takes one step toward me and I realize she’s serious.

“Lula,” I warn.

Her hands extended, she comes at me like she’s fixing to lift me up under my arms like a child. I jerk away on instinct.

“Don’t you go motherin’ me.”

“Boone,” she says. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine. Just sore is all.”

She catches my chin before I can turn my head, not gentle but not cruel either. Her fingers are cold as creek water. “Look at me.”

Christ, the way she says it makes me want to mind her. Makes me want to be put in my place. Makes my gut go hot.

“If we don’t bring your fever down,” she says, “you can start seeing things. You can seize. You can stop breathing.”

She gestures at the barrel. “Now. You get in.”

I look at the water, at the thin skin of ice already trying to creep across the top where the cold air’s touched it. My heart stutters.

“Ain’t there another way?” I say, and I hate how pitiful it sounds.

Her eyebrows lift. “Hot as you are, every minute you sit here complaining instead of cooling down is cooking your insides,” she snaps. Then, taking a breath, she takes some of the bite out of her nagging and turns it to honey. “I know it’s unpleasant, but you’re burning up. And God help me if you’re not breathing when Okee gets back.”

“Y’all’ll be too worried ’bout kissin’ each other to concern yourself with my dead body.”

“Okay, that’s it,” she says, yanking me forward hard. “I’ll put you in headfirst if I have to.”

“All right!” I shout. I pull my shirt up over my head. “I know this is just a dirty trick to get me out of my clothes,” I tease in protest. I unbutton my trousers. “If you want a looksie, I’ll show you what I got, ain’t gotta go schemin’.” She turns her back as if to make a point. I kick down my trousers, raise a leg and slip in.