Page 23 of The Widow and the Wanted

She nods, clutching the salve and herbs. “Bless you, Lula.”

My heart sinks.

I start to turn when a thin, sharp birdcall cuts through the rabble of voices and river noise and sets my pulse fluttering uncomfortably.

I force my face to stay calm. Smooth my skirt. Close my case with deliberate care, as if I am in no hurry at all.

“Well,” I say, brightening my tone like a woman who is simply moving on. “Good luck to you.”

I don’t let myself hesitate. I squeeze her hand once in a quick, secret apology, then I walk away. Not running, though my feet are tempted.

I’m nearly to the thickening forest line when a sudden chorus of voices, startled and sharp, cries out from behind me. I don’t let myself look, though I pick up my pace slightly before disappearing into the forest.

Chapter 9

Lula

“Miss Thock-oh, oh Miss Thock-oh—” Boone sings from the wagon bench, Okee beside him, reins in his hands. I rest in the back, any regret I feel for tricking those poor people dissolving as soon as I see the world disappear behind us while lying curled under a blanket.

“Her hooves clip-clop, oh, Miss Thock-oh,” he goes on.

“What on earth are you singing?” I shout from behind him. He turns and peeks at me over his shoulder and only answers me with a demure smile.

“He made up a song about the horse,” Okee says flatly.

The thought tickles me. I do enjoy whatever is wrong with this goose of a man. At least he’s somewhat entertaining. Not like the grump he travels with.

“How do you know her name?” I ask.

“I don’t,” Boone says.

“He’s saying rakko,” Okee says, matter-of-fact. “Means ‘horse’ in Mvskoke.”

I cannot help but laugh. “You speak Muscogee?”

“I know a few words,” Boone says with a bashful shrug and a warm glint in his eye. He leans against Okee a beat, oddly affectionate, then says something low I don’t understand.

Okee shoots him a serious look, then shoves him off with his shoulder.

“What does that mean?”

“Just a little joke ’tween the two of us,” Boone says with a dumb grin.

We make one stop before sunset at an outpost of rough boards and barrels where everything smells of salt pork brine. Boone keeps his hat low as he hushes our barter. We leave with bales of hay, a sack of salt, coffee, jerky, flour, onions, potatoes, three bottles of whiskey, and a tin of lamp oil. Enough for now, but not an entire winter.

The cabin emerges between the pines just as the sun is starting to flirt with the tree line, half covered in slush. The men secure the horse to the lean-to before we head inside.

“Cabin’s my father’s,” Okee explains, carrying my suitcase through the doorway. “It’s not much.”

From the outside it’s a plain block of logs: a narrow front porch, the brick chimney shouldering up along one wall. A lean-to off the side half shelters our mare and small stolen wagon. Inside, thick beams span the ceiling, and everything feels sturdy and lived-in. The walls are hung with Native-woven fabrics, antlers, and proud old deer heads. One with a wide rack is mounted just above the heavy crossbeams supporting a small loft. A ladder leans against the logs.

“Do you wish to take the loft?” Okee offers. “It offers the most privacy. Boone and I can keep watch down here.”

“Thank you.” It’s kind of him, thinking of my comfort.

“I’ll chop some wood,” Boone says, already stepping back out the door.

Okee looks at me once we’re alone, a glance that says here we are again.