Page 93 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Tell them I have herbs. Remedies,” she whispers.

Okee sighs. “The Osage have deep botanical knowledge. They will not be impressed by your magic medicine.”

She lets out a frustrated huff, then shouts to them, “I have rare items. Imported roots. Ginger! Salves. I have camphor!”

One of the younger men gives a surprised huff. The old man looks at the wagon cover a long beat, then back at me.

“Camphor,” he says.

He steps closer, slow, not taking his eyes off Lula. “Show me.”

She climbs back into the wagon, brings out the valise, and opens it careful. Every man there watches.

She holds up the vial. He leans just enough to take the scent, sharp enough it carries on the air. His face don’t change much, but he knows what it is. That’s plain.

He holds out his hand.

“Will you let us pass?” she asks, holding the jar to her chest.

I shut my eyes.

Okee swears under his breath.

He perks at that, a flicker of amusement lifting his brows. He turns his head slightly, like he means to share the moment with his men. Like even they ought to witness her audacity.

“Mister, if we go north, we lose the road. We’re slower. Easier to follow.”

At that, he squints. “Followed by who?”

“Bad men,” she says, tilting her head toward us. “These men who are escorting me, they’ve protected me. They’re good men. And if we’re forced north, we lose time, and that puts us in danger. Surely you see our predicament.”

Good men.

Those two words hit me harder than they ought. Warmth washes through my chest, and for a breath I’m back in that wagon after the massacre, seeing the way this little blonde woman looked at me then, like I was some cruel beast in a man’s coat. That look had set something crooked in my soul.

Now the same woman stands here calling us good.

It don’t wash the blood off anything. Still, it smooths out something in me I didn’t know was still rumpled.

The old man narrows his eyes, studying her a long moment with open suspicion. Then he grunts and calls something sharp over his shoulder.

“Keep your medicine,” he says. “You will pass the road. You don’t return.”

Relief hits me so hard it damn near makes me dizzy. I nod once, slow.

“Thank you,” Lula says, setting the glass jar back in her valise and clasping it shut.

The young one looks like he’d like to argue, but the old man cuts him off with a look.

They step aside. Not friendly. Just wide enough.

I don’t wait on it. I climb back to the bench and set her forward, keeping the mare steady as we ease past. The wagon creaks behind me, that arrow still trembling in the board like a reminder.

I don’t look at them.

Only when the trees start to close in again do I let out a breath.

We roll on in silence for a stretch.