Page 18 of The Widow and the Wanted

It’s not long before Boone returns, chest puffed and a limp rabbit in his grip. “It’s suppertime, folks,” he announces. He holds up a rabbit by the hind legs, snow dusted across his coat. “Clean shot,” he says, nodding toward the neat red mark above its eye.

“Nice work, partner,” I say. “I’d like to introduce you to Lula Clay.”

His expression slackens and he turns to her, seeming at a loss. “Ms. Clay.”

“Boone,” she says, not warm, not cold. Just a toe in a kinder direction.

He dips his head like a schoolboy caught unprepared.

“Ma’am,” he says after a beat, voice careful. Snow melts down the barrel of his rifle and patters into the fire pit.

“Please,” she says. “Just Lula.”

He opens his mouth like he’s got something else to say, but nothing comes out. Instead he crouches near the pit and starts skinning the rabbit. The silence stretches long and taut.

“Lula tells me she’s from West Virginia,” I tell him.

His eyebrows jump, and he straightens up some from where he sits on the ground. “Well, what a coincidence, so am I. Fayette County, myself.”

“Greenbrier County.”

He tenses, expression neutral in a way that looks forced, wary. “Greenbrier wore gray since the first shot at Sumter, if I recall.”

“Not us. My Eli enlisted with the Union,” she says, lifting her chin. “Bible says love your neighbor.”

“I know that’s right.” The tension in Boone eases, and he smiles. “Didn’t reckon you were married.”

“Widowed,” she corrects.

His lips part and he seems to quietly curse himself. “Sorry for that.”

She nods in acknowledgment. He returns to his task, hands moving slow, methodical, stripping fur from muscle. For once, Boone doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. I watch the flames flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing on a memory. He’s watching her differently now.

I don’t like that I notice.

She’s comely, there’s no denying it, even if noticing after all we’ve put her through feels a bit twisted. I’m only human, and so is Boone. If we’re to look after her, there’s no call to feign ignorance.

Boone clears his throat. “I’ll be honest, I don’t meet many Greenbrier folks who rode for the Union. It takes grit to stand alone.”

“He lost friends,” she says, voice tight. “Even kin.”

Boone looks up at her, something gentler in his face now. “I expect you did too.”

She meets his gaze, finally. “Yes.”

A moment passes. “I’m awful sorry.”

“I know. Just ’cause all your neighbors fly a flag, don’t mean you do too, right?” she says, a hint of an Appalachian accent revealing itself for the first time.

“No, ma’am. It sure don’t.”

We break camp. Lula walks ahead without a word, suitcase in hand, head high as she moves with purpose. Boone drops in beside me. “I swear,” he mutters, shaking his head, “she’s five foot nothin’, marching’ like we’re the ones who ought to keep up.”

I notice it too. There’s something strangely dignified about her pace—quiet, assured, the kind of composure that feels out of place in a creature her size. Like a kitten in a top hat, strutting about like it’s late for a ball. Regal, in spite of herself. Adorable, really.

Except in this case, my legs are twice the length of hers, and somehow I’m the one struggling to keep pace.

“We are,” I say.