Page 65 of The Widow and the Wanted

Lula is on me in an instant, palm flattening against my sternum like she can press calm back into my body. “Enough,” she snaps—at me, at Okee. “Both of you.”

“I—” Okee starts.

“No.” She doesn’t raise her voice. “He’s bled. He’s feverish. You can argue in the morning. Let him rest.”

I try to grit through it, but my throat gives a weak swallow and my vision tunnels. The room swims with each breath. Lula tucks the blanket up under my chin, and I go warm like when my momma used to tend me.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning close enough that I can smell the soap on her hands. “There is nothing we will solve tonight.” Her eyes cut to Okee. “He needs rest.”

Okee’s jaw works, the fight still in him, but he nods once. Reluctant. Obedient.

Lula turns back to me. “And you,” she says, softer but not kinder, “are going to heal. You are going to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter 18

Lula

We sip whiskey on the floor in front of the hearth, and I’m stuck in a haze that took hold as soon as Boone rode in half dead. It’s only begun to fade. Okee is somewhere else in his mind. Carried off by his thoughts as he often is. The warmth of the fire, of the spirits, soothes me, and I hum without intending to, then open my eyes. Though his earlier attention was fixed on the flames, as soon as my eyes open they’re met with his. Those dark eyes catching the firelight until they seem almost black, reflective as polished onyx. He looks away with a grin.

“What?” I ask.

He chuckles, shaking his head like he’d rather not say.

I flex my foot and tap him against his knee. “What? Tell me.”

“The way you were sitting just now. Your little smile. Like you were in a hammock and not hiding for your life in a cabin with strange men.”

I laugh, embarrassed, struck, suddenly, by the firelight carving the planes of his face, the long fall of dark hair at his neck, the stillness of him.

“I’m just so relieved. He’s not clear of it all just yet, but he’s on his way back, I think.”

He shifts, almost imperceptibly, closer. Not enough to alarm. Just enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Heat transfers. I don’t move away.

Minutes pass. Or seconds.

At some point, without either of us quite deciding it, we are sitting fully together—my side against his chest, his arm settling around me. I fit there more easily than I expect. The weight of him is steady, protective. His hand rests at my upper arm, thumb warm through the fabric.

I lean back, cautiously at first. When he doesn’t tense, I allow myself to settle. The fire breathes and whiskey hums in my veins. And for a moment, I do feel like I’m lounging somewhere peaceful. There’s something steady about him. Solid. Even Boone yields to it. When a problem arises, all eyes are on Okee. It’s a curious power, and even now, as we take sanctuary in this small cabin with not nearly enough supplies to survive winter and the frost taking hold outside, I feel secure under Okee’s wing.

His chin dips, just slightly. I can feel his breath at my temple. Then his hand shifts—careful. He turns my face a fraction, and he kisses me. It’s so tender that, if I weren’t already sitting, I’m certain my knees would give out.

He pulls back, resting his forehead to mine. “Thank you. This would have gone differently were it not for your competent hands.”

The words hit me strangely. Men have thanked me before, certainly. Men have wanted me before. But never like this.

Competent. A word for ledgers and stitching and keeping one’s head when others lose theirs. Yet in his voice it becomes something intimate. A kind of admiration I have never been offered without condition.

My throat thickens and heat rises in me. I think of every time I’ve been praised for being pretty. For being sweet. For being agreeable. And now here is a man kissing me and thanking me for being capable—as though that is what draws him close.

I swallow and manage, “I only did what the moment required.”

“Yes,” he says, gently, as if he won’t allow me to make myself smaller to fit the moment. “And you did it well.”

His thumb brushes once along my cheekbone. “Boone is alive because you were steady.”

My legs lose all feeling. I run my fingers through his long black hair. They glide through it, smooth as strands of silk.