Page 8 of The Widow and the Wanted

Laughing soft, sweet. A knot tightens in my gut at the melodic sound of it.

These are not surveyors. They certainly do not pose a threat warranting a dozen men on horseback.

Boone exhales beside me, whispering, “I got a bad feeling.”

A man at the campfire leans back and plays a jaw harp—twangy and thin, half lost in the rising wind.

The ground darkens. I glance up again where the moon’s partially concealed behind dense cloud cover. A hush rolls through the trees, like the forest itself is bracing for something. Then comes a low groan overhead. Wind through bare limbs. The scent of damp.

The man playing the harp freezes.

He sees something.

Sees us.

He runs straight for one of the tents, vanishing inside in a rustle of canvas. Boone’s hand goes to his pistol.

Then the man reappears with a rifle.

“Announce yourself!” he shouts.

The women sit up, gathering close to each other as the foreman emerges first, hands up in feigned surrender. “Good evening, ladies.”

The rifle holds still. If the man is frightened, his countenance does not betray it. There’s steel in his eyes. He’s prepared to fire.

The foreman steps closer with an easy grin. “Didn’t mean to startle you folks. We’re just passin’ through.” The foreman’s gaze slides over the women like he’s picking through stock. The wind picks up, and they tug at their shawls, stirring the fire. Snow flurries drift down in slow, fat flakes.

“Mighty fine group of ladies you got here,” he adds, voice turning slick.

One of the women flinches at a rumble of thunder. The man’s grip tightens on the rifle. “We’re scientists,” he says. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Won’t be no trouble long as you mind what we tell you.” The foreman rubs his hands like he’s cold, smile never reachin’ his eyes. “Storm’s comin’ in. My boys could use a little company to warm ’em up.”

A ripple of laughs and whistles rolls through the gang behind me.

“Back off,” the man says.

The foreman’s smile drops. “I don’t think you understand your situation, Professor.”

He nods, and that’s all it takes. Two of our boys move fast. One grabs a petite blonde woman by the arm, jerks her toward him hard enough she cries out. Another shoves a woman so she stumbles to her knees in the snow, scrabbling for balance. The rest start to fan out around the camp.

“Goddamn it,” Boone mutters under his breath. He looks to me for an answer.

The professor fires. The shot goes wide, cracking into the dark, but it snaps everything clean in two.

The blonde woman twists, trying to wrench free. The man holding her clamps an arm around her waist and drags her toward the shadows past the firelight. A man lunges for one of the other women, who swings at him with a tin cup, wild and terrified.

Boone doesn’t hesitate to rush into the chaos. Before I can blink, his Colt fires twice. The foreman jolts, staggers, and drops face-first into the snow-dusted earth.

I’m already raising my rifle, sights on the man hauling the blonde woman off her feet, and I squeeze the trigger.

He drops like a cut rope.

She falls too, hitting the ground hard, then scrambles on hands and knees for the nearest bit of cover.

Someone shouts, “No witnesses!”

The camp explodes into gunfire.