Page 67 of The Widow and the Wanted

“You are not dying. I’ve seen buckshot bigger than that little pea bullet I picked out of you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes bright and unfocused. “One second I’m buyin’ beans and the next I’m bleedin’ on a shop floor. Now I’m burnin’ up. It’s the rot settin’ in. My soul startin’ to slip.” His gaze catches mine again, sudden and intent. “And all I can see is you. Up in that loft. Lookin’ at me like you could put me in my place. Body soft in all the right places pressed up against me. Good night alive, don’t you know what you do to a man?”

Heat crawls up my throat.

“Don’t be stupid,” I whisper, but it has no authority.

Boone’s hand drifts, searching—clumsy with fever—until his fingers find my wrist. His grip is urgent. He tugs as if he means to pull me down onto him.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

He tries to lever himself upright on his arm. Pain flickers across his face, but desire or delirium has him stubborn. His mouth lifts toward mine, eyes half-lidded like he’s already decided the outcome.

“No,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I intend. I press him back to the bed with the flat of my hand on his chest.

He exhales, frustrated—then winces as the movement tugs his wound. “Christ,” he mutters. “You got a spiteful streak.”

“You are not to sit up. You are not to kiss anyone. You are to heal.”

“You don’t want it?” he asks, and there’s a brittle sort of hurt in it that makes my insides twist. His forehead is damp, cheeks flushed.

I hesitate. That is the danger. One pause, and the truth spills.

“I do,” I say carefully.

Boone’s gaze sharpens by a degree. “Then what is it?”

I draw a breath.

I could lie. I could let this pass as mere delirium. I could wait until Okee returns and make him bear the weight of it.

But Okee is not here.

And Boone does not deserve to wake up and be ambushed by absence and silence both.

I keep my hand on his chest. “After you left,” I begin, and my mouth goes dry, “I kissed Okee.”

For a beat there is only the crackle of the fire and Boone’s breathing. He pushes up again, abruptly, as if surprise has restored the strength the fever took from him. Pain flashes through him. His face tightens, but he doesn’t stop.

“Where is he?”

“Boone—lie back.”

“Where is Okee?” he repeats, louder now, the words cutting through the cabin like a scythe.

“He left,” I say, because the truth will not be held any longer. “To Okmulgee.”

Boone goes still. The stillness is worse than shouting.

“Goddamn him,” he grunts. “Leavin’ me in bed, half dead, to let his bastard father save the day with a big ol’ told you so.”

“You are feverish,” I insist, because it is the only rope I have to hold him with. “And wounded. Now isn’t the time to be upset.”

“You’re the one keeps givin’ me upsettin’ news.”

I pause. He’s right. I flip the cloth, pressing the cool side to his skin, then say, “I’m sorry. You must think ill of it⁠—”

He drags a breath in, trying to gather himself, but steam keeps leaking through the seams. “I should be out there with him. Protectin’ him. And goddamn it, why are you tellin’ me? Why didn’t he tell me?”