Page 107 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Gold?” he repeats, amused. “No, Miss Eld. Gold is for dreamers and fools. Timber’s far more reliable.”

“How fascinating,” I say. “You wouldn’t happen to be associated with Hollister Timber, would you?”

We walk farther down the rise where camp thins toward the river. Frost glitters silver across the muddy ground, and somewhere in the darkness a mule brays loud enough to startle me.

“Indeed I am.”

“Goodness me. Mother warned about the dangers of the Territory. I’m told there was a terrible attack on Hollister land.”

His arm remains steady beneath my hand.

“A dreadful business,” he says. “Two outlaws slaughtered the entire party, leaving no survivors. Quite tragic. The killers were former soldiers, I’m told.”

My fingers tighten against his sleeve before I can stop them. I loosen them at once and let my mouth part, foolish and troubled. “I’ve read about them. Some foolish name. The Clovers, was it?”

“Aces.”

I laugh as though there’s hardly a difference. “Have they been caught?”

“Not yet. But we have promised a rich bounty. I’m confident they’ll be found soon enough.”

I nod agreeably. “And surely the marshals are hunting them as well.”

His gaze slides to me, still pleasant.

“You have a curious mind, Miss Eld.”

“I’ve been told it’s my worst quality.”

“On the contrary.” His thumb brushes once across my gloved knuckles where they rest against his sleeve, and a chill rises up my back. “Curiosity is charming in a woman.”

Patronizing bastard.

“The frontier is not tidy,” he continues. A gust of wind cuts through camp, carrying the stink of mud, horses, woodsmoke, and river rot, as if to prove his point. Mr. Everett draws me a little nearer beneath his arm with the smooth instinct of a practiced gentleman.

The Gemini comes back into view at the top of the rise, golden lamplight spilling into the dark. Men crowd the porch, smoking cigars beneath the awnings while cheers from the gambling floor roll out through the batwing doors.

Mr. Everett slows as we reach the steps.

“I didn’t know Goldie had a daughter,” he says.

His gaze moves over me once, measured and appreciative enough to raise heat beneath my stays.

His mouth curves faintly. “You favor her strongly.”

“I heard that quite often as a child.”

“I imagine you shall continue hearing it. Considering how much business your mother and I have done together, I cannot imagine how she kept you hidden.”

“What kind of business?” I ask. It’s the first question I’ve asked that I haven't already planned.

“Ah, well, that is a discussion for another stroll. Would it be too forward to ask if I may call upon you once more tomorrow evening?”

He says it lightly, but there is calculation beneath it. I’m beginning to understand a man like Everett does not ask for anything he does not already expect to receive.

The porch lamps cast amber light across his smooth cheeks and silvered temples.

I lower my eyes just enough to seem flustered. “I suppose that depends upon your intentions, Mr. Everett.”