He flicked my fingers away and buttoned my blouse. A round of howls began, the dogs echoing throughout the camp. I lost the ability to breathe, the sweep of his thumb against my chemise. His jaw clenched, his body right before mine, his fingers on the button at my throat. He smelt of oil and of frozen water, salty and fresh.
He skimmed his fingertips above the gash at my temple. “I’ll kill him.”
“You will not.” I stepped back. “This is my battle.”
“No longer.”
I shoved my shirt into my skirt. Exasperated that he kept grasping after pieces of my life. “And what are you about, confessing to my crimes.”
“I didn’tconfess.”
I inhaled, then tried to fling my cape round my shoulders.
“I couldn’t allow folks to target the Browns,” he said. “How about I go to town, after we get you settled, and I’ll confess. Tell the marshal I dropped them in self-defense.”
“You will do no such thing.” I tugged on the hem of my cloak.
“I cannot fathom another solution. In my past, when everything went off the rails, I spiraled. For years. I didn’t know how to hold on to control. Didn’t know how to balance honor against vengeance.” He stepped forward, pulled the fabric of my cloak around my body, held my shoulders a second longer than a heartbeat. “I don’t know how to keep you safe.”
“Then let go,” I said, my voice threadbare.
He shook his head, mouth a firm line. “That’s not the solution neither.”
I leaned my forehead against his collarbone, closed my eyes, allowed him to slip his arms round my waist, myself completely unmoored.
“You won’t allow me to take the blame?” he asked.
I stepped back. “No.”
He stared at the floor. His hip cocked, one gun visible, bandolier strung across his chest. Somehow this outlaw had become my dearest friend. His jaw ticced, muscles flexing on his neck. I wanted to press my fingers there, feel his warmth.
“When he hurt you, Ezra became my concern.” He transferred his weight. “Why did you come here? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Cricket came here. Niabi’s closer to Ezra’s—and she’s a healer.”
“So am I.”
I swallowed, the air between us charged with questions and smoke. “What happened—with Bitter Creek and the outlaws?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “If there are intents on my life, Wa-ah-zho found me first. Thank you.”
I nodded. I picked up Niabi’s salve and screwed on the cap. The thread misaligned. “Is that why they shot you that day down in theholler, because they suspected you?” I sighed, tried again to screw on the lid. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”
He reached for the salve. I held it back. He said, “You still don’t trust me.”
“Course I trust you,” I whispered, quick and harsh. I finally capped Niabi’s salve, tucked the pot into my satchel. Then I fussed with my gloves.
“No, actually.” I loosed a weak, wet laugh. “I don’t know you.”
I jabbed at my gloves, trying to shove my fingers into the bunched wool. He walked up behind me. His heat pressed on my shoulders, the gust of his breath on my neck. I yanked off the gloves and threw them down, then lifted my hair, shoved some pins into a twist. My hand shook, my shoulder shattering with the movement.
He laid a palm on my lower back. “Just stop.”
He took the hairpins from me and wound my strands into a bun, then pressed the pins through, his fingers slipping through the strands, brushing my neck, the texture of his calluses along my skin. A draught rattled the hide, his fingers in my hair. Then he took my bonnet and placed it on my head. His voice low, blowing the loose tendrils of hair at my nape. “What do you mean, you don’t know me?”
I heard laughter, perhaps women down by the swamp. I’d fled Kansas determined to build a new life alone. But that hadn’t been reasonable. That wasn’t the way of life. We all yearned desperately, disastrously, for a place to call home.
Stot was interwoven with mystery and wonder. I wasn’t sure what was truth and what was story. What made up the knowing of a person? Was it who he was, this moment, his hands all about my hair? Or those stories that stretched wide across the prairie? I turned, studied the white knot of his bandanna.
