Page 40 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Best way to hear God laugh is to declare your plans out loud,” Boone says, reaching for his tobacco. “Specially in winter. Right now I reckon we gather firewood and keep it dry.”

Her brows pinch. “This will not do at all. I must return to Fort Smith. All my belongings are with the station agent, who would be glad to enjoy Eli’s pension if I cannot return to reclaim it. Every penny I have saved for my shop is there. It has been over a week,” she goes on, too briskly. “Those men must have moved on by now. Have they no other matters requiring their attention? I certainly do.”

“That ain’t how this works, miss,” Boone says, voice sharpening.

“Well, of course we cannot leave today. But perhaps once the snow melts a bit.”

She says it sweetly, as if coaxing agreement from a difficult child.

I look at Boone.

First light. No food. No coffee in his belly.

Unwise.

I lean against the wall beside the stove and let her walk into it.

“Snow melts, roads turn to soup,” Boone says, the edge in his voice sharper with every word. “Wagons sink plumb to the hubs. Horse’ll lame hisself in a hole he cain’t see. Cricks’ll rise and drown you before you even know you’re wet. Freeze on the road. Starve waitin’ out storms. Get turned around when the sky drops and there ain’t a landmark left worth trustin’. Next thing you know, you’re wonderin’ which one of us looks most like supper.”

I huff a laugh before I can prevent it. Cannibalism seems a touch extreme, though I have heard stories.

Lula’s eyes cut to me, unimpressed.

Boone rolls a cigarette with hands steady as church bells. “And that’s before you get to men. Marshals don’t ride in weather like this. Most folks keep to their camps. Which leaves you alone with whoever’s willin’ to chance it. Desperate men do what they got to, not what’s decent.”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it again.

Boone glances at the window, where snow drifts past like pale dust. “We move when the ground firms up and the cricks mind their banks. Not before.”

She mutters a curse.

Boone scoffs, licking his cigarette shut. “Woman behaves like we aim to be here any more’n she does.”

Her shoulders rise and square at him. “Do not pretend this arrangement injures you as it injures me!”

His eyes snap to hers. “I’m injured by your fit-pitching and carrying on!”

“There is no call to raise your voice, sir.”

“You took to hollerin’ first!”

“That is enough,” I cut in, stepping between them. “Both of you. Calm down.”

Boone leans back against the wall, calm returning to him like a pistol sliding into a holster.

“I am calm,” he says flatly, a ploy to aggravate her further, no doubt.

Lula glowers at the kettle as if she is considering bashing in Boone’s skull with it.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder which will end us first: the winter outside or the fire we keep feeding inside these walls.

Chapter 13

Okee

Ibusy myself keeping the cabin livable, clearing snow and ice while taking stock of our dwindling wood and hay. The mare needs feed, but every ration we spend makes escape harder. Once or twice, I catch Lula watching from the window. I tell myself it is only curiosity.

Outdoor tasks complete, I return inside with my arms full of split kindling, snow creaking under my boots as I stamp it off on the threshold. The door thuds shut behind me. Lula is at the hearth with a small pot set just off the boil, pine needles floating on the surface. The steam rises sharp enough to bite, clearing my head with the scent of green things.