Page 87 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone crouches low by the doorframe and leans out for half a breath, just enough to look, then jerks back as a shot splinters the wood beside him. “Shooter’s up high,” he says. “Tree line.”

Another bullet punches through the wall, and glass and splintered wood rain across the floor. Shards bite into my palms as I crawl for the iron stove. I have only just curled beside it when the stove snaps with a hard metallic ping.

Outside, someone shouts, “Keep ’em pinned!”

Boone drops to one knee and fires through the broken window. A curse rings out, then the thud of boots retreating over snow.

“They’re spread out, more of ’em,” Boone says. “One by the woodpile. One out near the shed.”

“And Jessup?” Okee calls.

“Still ain’t shown his head.”

“How can you tell?” I ask.

The answer comes a second later in the sharp whine of a shot from above. Glass rains from the loft window. Okee ducks with a hissed curse, and Boone’s face goes flat.

“Tree line,” he says again, certain now. “High up.”

Then the smell hits me. Not powder. Oil.

Boone’s head jerks toward the front wall. “Shit.”

Something strikes the side of the cabin with a wet thump. A bottle, maybe. Then another. I hear liquid glug down the outer boards.

“They mean to burn us out,” Okee says.

As if to prove him right, flame blooms orange at the corner of the window, catches, and begins to climb. Smoke creeps in at once, thin and gray.

“Boone—” Okee starts.

“Can’t let ’em box us in,” Boone snaps. He ducks out into the smoke before either of us can stop him. “We can use the cover.”

“Boone!” I shout.

My voice is swallowed by gunfire. Okee fires twice in quick succession from the loft, covering whatever mad thing Boone is doing outside. Men yell. One screams. Another shot answers from the trees.

Then for one terrible stretch of seconds there is nothing I can see of Boone at all. Only smoke drifting past the broken window. Snow kicking up. Shadows moving through flames.

I press myself tighter into the corner, breathing through my scarf. The cabin fills with crackling heat and the sting of smoke. Above me, Okee works the bolt again. Outside, someone is cursing in pain. Someone else is laughing.

And I am here. Crouched on the floor. Waiting.

Gunshots, shouts. A blur of voices, Boone’s among them. Then a thud against the outer wall. A second. Then silence.

Boots on packed snow.

I hear scraping, hurried breathing, the crunch of snow shoveled by bare hands. Okee rushes down the ladder and outside.

The cabin crackles. Not from gunfire now but from the slow, hungry spread of flame finding dry wood. I press my back to the wall, heart pounding. The smoke makes my eyes sting. I try not to cough. Try not to cry. I can hear Okee outside.

Another shot rings out, closer this time. No return fire.

I crawl out from my hiding place, pull my scarf up over my mouth, cross the room low toward a pistol resting beside the cot, and make for the door. The heat has started warping the boards near the stove.

I can’t just sit around and wait.

Outside, men cuss and bullets scream through the air.