Page 89 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone follows her stare to the dead man in the snow, then looks back at her, resting a hand gently on her back. “Rest of ’em lit out,” Boone says. “We got to get ahead of this fire. Now.”

We move without another word.

Boone takes the bucket to the drift by the woodpile and comes back hauling snow in both arms when the water proves too slow. Lula, coughing into her sleeve, beats at the scorched wall with a wet blanket until steam bursts up around her hands. I climb through the broken window frame and stamp at the burning sill from inside, knocking down embers before they can catch the rafters. The smoke is thick enough to blind. The heat singes my face. More than once I have to drag Lula back from the wall before falling timber or sparks can hit her.

At last the flames begin to die down.

The crackling shrinks to hissing. Orange gives way to black. What remains is smoke, slush, wet ash, and the deep red hue of embers buried in the ruined wood.

We stand in the yard breathing like hunted things and stare at what is left.

The cabin is still standing, though the wall by the window is charred nearly through. Half the roof above the loft has burned away, leaving the upper room exposed to the pale winter sky. From where I stand, the loft looks like it is sitting in a blackened bowl of half-collapsed logs.

Lula stares at it as though she cannot quite understand what she is seeing.

“Your father’s cabin,” she says softly.

Boone spits into the snow. “We ain’t safe to stay here no more. They’ll be back. Send more next time. We take all we can carry and we move on.”

He turns to me. “Okmulgee’s half a day from here. You said he offered you a place?”

My father. I nod once, though my stomach has already tightened against the thought. My father might take Lula in. He would do it for her. But Boone⁠—

I should have said it before. I had hoped I would not need to.

“We can’t,” I say.

Boone’s expression hardens, but not in anger. In resignation. “I’ll eat my words,” he says. “Eat every damn one, if it means you and wild are kept safe.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You do not understand. He will not allow it. Not with you.”

Boone gives a short, humorless laugh. “Hellfire. Your daddy hates me that much?”

I do not answer quickly, which is answer enough.

Lula begins pacing in the snow, one hand pressed hard to her middle.

“How long to Fort Gibson?” she asks.

Boone looks at her as if she has suggested we walk into the jaws of a trap. “Honey, there ain’t nowhere safe for us in Fort Gibson. They’ll be lookin’ for us.”

“There is a safe place,” she says.

The graveness of her tone makes us both look at her.

She stops pacing. Her mouth tightens with the effort of forcing the words out.

“The Gemini,” she says. “My mother.”

Boone frowns. “Thought you hadn’t seen your mama in ten years. How do you know she’ll⁠—”

“She’ll shelter us,” Lula says, cutting across him with a force that surprises even her. “I know she will.”

Silence settles between us.

I look past the ruined cabin to the snow-flocked country beyond it and begin measuring the distance in my head whether I want to or not. From here to Fort Gibson would be a hard ride even in fair weather. In this snow, with roads gone to slush and ice beneath… A full day at least. Perhaps more if the river crossings are bad. Too long in the open if Hollister’s men are still ranging the territory behind us.

But staying here is no option at all.