Page 124 of The Widow and the Wanted

“I suspect if she’s anything like you, she came that way.”

My mother’s eyes flick to me with the faintest gleam of amusement. I would like to kick them both.

“You are prompt,” Mother says.

“It would be foolhardy to keep the most beautiful women in Three Forks waiting.” As he says it, he bows forward, collecting my gloved hand with his. Piercing eyes see through me as he presses a kiss to my knuckles, the heat of his mouth through the silk sending a rush of heat to my belly. My body truly has no survival instincts, reacting to a cretin like him this way.

Everett offers his arm. “Shall we?”

I take it before Mother can give me another instruction or Pearl can make another moon-eyed face over my shoulder. Everett’s coat smells of cold air and wool brushed clean. He is not a large man compared with Boone or Okee, but he carries himself like a man accustomed to claiming space without having to shove for it.

He leads me from the receiving room into the side hall. The music from the gambling floor leaks through the walls, piano notes muddied by men laughing and chairs scraping and the constant click of chips. For one foolish second, I imagine Boone above us hearing it all and gnawing through the floorboards like a bored hound.

No. I put him away. Okee too.

If they cannot survive an hour in a private room without my worrying over them, then we have all misjudged the scale of our troubles.

The side door opens, and cold air rolls over me.

The sky has gone bruised purple over the rooftops, the last bit of daylight thinning behind black lines of bare trees. Smoke hangs low from cookfires and chimneys, too damp to rise proper. Horses shift along the hitching rails, tails flicking.

Everett settles his hat back on his head. “Cold?”

“Yes.”

“We can stay near the lamps.”

“Is that concern?”

“Courtesy.” He looks down at me, amused. “I gather you dislike being tended to.”

“No, of course not. I only dislike being managed.”

“Noted.”

“Not to say, of course, that I felt you were hoping to manage me. I was merely answering your question.”

“We understand each other, Ms. Eld.”

We descend the steps and take the plank walk along the Gemini’s front. The house glows behind us, red glass and golden windows. Men on the porch glance over, then pretend not to. By morning, I expect half the camp will have married me to Everett and the other half will have made me his mistress. Mother will likely be pleased with both rumors provided they are useful.

We pass two freight men standing outside the livery, both smoking pipes and watching with the grave interest of men who have never once minded their own business. Everett gives them a pleasant nod. They answer it quickly.

Power does not always announce itself. Sometimes it nods and watches men step aside.

“Your husband was a soldier,” he says.

My hand rests lightly on his arm. “Yes.”

“Union?”

“Yes.”

“A difficult allegiance in parts of West Virginia.”

“It was.”

We walk past the mercantile, its windows fogged from the stove inside. A little boy sits on the step with a stick, dragging lines through the mud until a woman inside snaps his name and he scrambles up. The bell over the door gives a tired jangle when she pulls him in by the collar.