Page 92 of The Widow and the Wanted

“You lost?” he asks.

“Passing through,” I say.

His gaze slides over Miss Rakko, the wagon, the canvas tied tight against the cold. “White men pass through with wagons, then bring more wagons.”

“We ain’t settlers.”

The old man listens without looking pleased. Another younger fellow cuts in sharp, jerking his chin toward me, toward the pistol at my hip. Then toward Okee.

A couple of the others laugh.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

Okee don’t answer.

The old man does, still watching him. “He asks why a Creek rides guard for a thief.”

My blood heats despite the cold.

“He ain’t riding guard for me, old man. Let us pass, and I’ll forgive the goddamn arrow you stuck in my wagon.”

“Boone,” Okee warns low, teeth gritted.

The old man’s eyes come back to me. For a moment I reckon I’ve killed us all with my mouth, which would not be the first time my mouth has tried.

Then the old man gives the smallest grunt. Just a sound that says he’s heard enough to weigh.

“We have women and children camped beyond that creek,” he says. “You came too close. The arrow was a warning. Turn north. No fire. No camp. No following the water.”

“Horse is tired,” I say.

The young man raises his rifle a hair.

Okee lowers his voice and says just to me, “We go north. She can rest after we’ve rerouted.”

I look at Miss Rakko, steam lifting off her neck. Then at the arrow still trembling in the wagon board. Going north adds another day to this fool trek, at least. It puts us out in the open, closer to the Kansas border, closer to folks who might look to make a small fortune off our hides.

“That don’t square worth a nickel. We ain’t gonna harm none. We ain’t the ones shootin’ first.”

Lula shifts under the canvas, sticking out her head to greet them with a smile and a bright, “Hello!”

The men’s attention cuts toward the sound all at once. Okee turns just enough that I see murder in his eye, and for once it’s aimed at Lula.

The old man notices too. “Who is there?”

“A woman,” Okee says, as if the truth of it scorns him.

“Hello,” she says again, too sweet, as she climbs clumsily out of the wagon.

I close my eyes.

“Good day to you, sirs. My name is Lula Clay. These men are escorting me to Fort Gibson for a visit with my mother. I would be so grateful if you would only let us pass.”

Amusement flickers across the old man’s expression. He says something I don’t understand and is met with a roar of laughter behind him.

Lula don’t let it shake her. She lifts her chin. “Might you be willing to make a trade, sir?”

I nearly choke on my tongue as I growl at her, “A trade? We barely got enough to last the three of us. What do you reckon you got to offer?”