Page 24 of The Widow and the Wanted

“If you’d like,” Okee says, “once the fire’s going, I can heat some water. There’s a washroom in the back. You could warm up in a bath.”

The thought of disrobing unsettles me—but truth be told, these men have had more than enough opportunity to harm me. They turned on their own. Faced down bullets. Carried me through snow. And now they’re on the run, same as me.

My clothes are still damp with snow, and I’m half frozen through.

“That would be lovely.”

Okee brings out a blanket from the closet and wraps it around me once I’ve settled into a chair by the cold hearth. The weight of it feels like a hug.

Perhaps I have misjudged him. His gruff exterior may have been simply necessary for survival.

“You two are too kind to be outlaws,” I offer.

“Outlaws.” Okee lifts an eyebrow like he’s tasting the word. He turns it over a few moments, then says, “I suppose in the strictest legal sense, one could argue that we are outlaws.”

“You steal horses,” I say. “You kill men for pay.”

The door bangs open, and Boone stomps in with a bundle of wood and a pot of snow balanced on one arm, meltwater dripping from his shoulders. I glance up and catch, not for the first time, the rough irregularity of his face—long, sleepy-eyed, a little crooked in a way that only makes him more arresting.

Okee’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. “With respect, Mrs. Clay, we killed plenty for pay under the flag of the United States. Forgive me if I don’t see a clean difference. At least now we choose our own work.”

Boone scoffs. “His daddy’s a government man.” He says it as if he’s spitting out a bad taste. “Don’t know what tale he’s sellin’ you, ma’am, but we took that job for pay. Ain’t a lick of virtue in it.”

Okee exhales through his nose. “Just because it was for pay doesn’t make our motives immoral.”

“Our motive was pay,” Boone shoots back, setting the pot by the hearth. “And eatin’ through winter,” he adds, turning to me like a lawyer smoothing over his client’s sins. “He just likes to win arguments.”

Okee’s gaze slides to him, flat and warning.

I watch them a beat longer than manners allow. The magnetism is there. But it’s not tense. It’s worn. Comfortable.

After, Boone hovers in the middle of the room, as if he has nowhere safe to put his hands. He watches Okee strike flint, then looks away fast, scanning for some other task.

I notice a small shelf tucked in the corner, lined with books. One spine catches my eye—herbal remedies—set high. I rise, but I’m a hand short.

Boone steps over and pulls it down without asking.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Glad to be of service,” he says, then adds with a playful grin, “barely knee-high as you are.”

“I’m five-one,” I tell him, taking the book.

“If you say so, Mrs. Clay.”

“Lula,” I remind him.

His grin doesn’t falter, but he pats his thigh as if he’s storing the boundary for later. Okee sets the first flames breathing, and the hearth begins to catch.

A scrabbling sound comes from the corner near the root cellar door.

Boone’s head snaps that way. “Damn mice. Bet the little bastards already chewed through whatever was left.”

Okee frowns. “We’ll need traps. Or poison.”

“No need.” The words come out before I’ve decided to speak. “They loathe certain scents. Peppermint. Catnip. I sewed sachets. Extras ought to be in my case.”

I cross to it and the memories surge. Cold mornings. Firelight. Mary’s soft laugh. I’d given her a sachet to keep rodents away from her tent. That poor, sweet woman.