Chapter 9 #2
The terror of it comes over me in waves, sharp and cold, no matter the heat of the bath.
I cannot make sense of how I’ve arrived here, how one moment everything becomes horror and the next I’m taking shelter in this unknown place.
All of my possessions, aside from the clothes and remedies in my suitcase and my notebook, are back in Fort Smith.
I’m tempted to pity myself, but then Boone barks a laugh outside, and it’s such a ridiculous howl I catch myself in a smile, remembering all the small, charming ways he’s proven himself a ninny.
It’s a cruel thing to smile while grief still makes a tangled knot of my nerves.
Who are these men, really?
I know what kind of courage it takes for men to turn on their own. It costs something dear. Men that betray their own for the sake of strangers—women, especially—it’s too good to be true. Yet they have. For my friends. For me.
The water laps softly as I lean back and let my head rest against the rim of the tub. What will become of any of us when morning comes? In the small room, with the bathwater warming my skin and the storm shut outside, I allow myself a moment of peace for having survived it all.
Later, after I dress, Boone and Okee wash in turn with the remaining hot water, adding another kettle or two from the fire.
By the time we are all washed and dressed, the stew has cooked down to something rich and fragrant, filling the cabin with the smell of meat, onions, and herbs. Boone dishes it into bowls, and we gather near the fire to eat.
It’s thick enough to stick to the ribs, the fire snapping while snow hisses against the panes. Whiskey warms my throat and loosens something behind my eyes.
Boone leans back and studies me over his tin cup. “So,” he says, “you grew up in a saloon…”
“A polite word for it,” I answer.
“Bet you’ve got stories.”
“It was loud,” I say, and find that I mean it more than once. “It smelled of smoke and spilled liquor and sweaty men.” I roll the cup between my palms. “It was the Gemini House. Most folks just called it the Gemini.”
“Gemini,” Boone repeats, fumbling the sound like it’s a foreign coin. “What’s that mean?”
Okee finally lifts his eyes. “You know what it is.”
Boone glances at him. “I do?”
Okee’s expression stays flat, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth. “Orange and blue,” he says.
Boone blinks once. Then his face shifts, recognition hitting like a delayed shot. “Oh—hell.” He gives a short laugh. “You remember that, huh?”
“How could I forget? Any time there’s a clear night—‘there we are again,’” Okee says, pointing at the ceiling like a sky, borrowing a version of Boone’s accent. Affectionate, not cruel.
“I don’t follow,” I say.
“The Gemini constellation,” Okee explains. “The stars always appear together, so Boone used to joke it was us.”
“Ain’t no joke,” Boone barks, pouring another whiskey. “Never reckoned that’s what they were called, though. That’s a fine coincidence.”
“The owner just liked the way it sounded,” I clarify, realizing they’re giving the Gemini’s owner far too much credit. “He’d say, ‘Liquor and ladies. Two lines o’ work, one roof. Fancy name like that, suddenly a whiskey shack sounds like a goddamn establishment.’”
I hadn’t invited his voice into my head, but there it was. The bastard. The men laugh in earnest at my imitation, and a surge of elation washes over me for managing to feel welcome in their circle.
For one foolish second, I grin too wide, but then I remember myself and bite it back before it can spread any further.
“It also means a matched pair,” Okee mumbles against his whiskey glass.
Boone turns his head. “You been sittin’ on that this whole time?”
Okee shrugs. “I thought you knew. It’s Latin.”
Boone barks out a laugh that sounds closer to a choke. “Okee. Look at me.” He drags a hand down his own face. “Do I strike you as a man who knows a damn thing about Latin?”
Okee’s mouth twitches. “You knew enough to point at it,” he says. “I only supplied the name.”
Boone falls quiet, some of the fight gone out of him, and I feel like I’ve stumbled into somebody else’s private story. For a long moment, it’s just the three of us and the fire and the weight of those two stars hanging over our heads, even with the roof in the way.
Later, when the snow has piled so high it presses at the windows, Okee crosses to an old cabinet and draws out a small parlor guitar, wood dark and scarred.
Boone’s head snaps up. One hand lifts, palm out. “Now hold on—”
“The snow is high,” Okee says, low. “No one’s out there. Play soft. Sound won’t carry.”
Boone stares at the guitar like it might burn him. Then the fight drains out of him on a long breath.
“One song,” he concedes, rough, as if he’s angry at himself for giving in.
He settles on the edge of the bed and cradles the guitar against his chest. His long fingers find the frets with surprising care. He plucks a few tentative chords, testing, tuning. It twangs, sharp in some places and flat in others.
Then a quick, simple picking pattern—plain, bouncy.
“Two aces walkin’, tall and hard,
Knee-high trouble—she’s a wild card—”
He doubles over laughing at his own foolishness. Okee joins him, soft and boyish.
“I like that,” Okee says, through a brilliant smile. “Wild card.”
“Quit calling me knee-high,” I tell them, nudging Boone with my boot.
“Do another,” Okee says. “One you know.”
Boone’s laughter fades. He swallows once, and the next notes come slower, as if he has to pull them up from somewhere deep.
When he sings, it isn’t pretty in the way parlor songs are pretty. It’s raw at the center. The firelight carves hollows under his eyes, his cheekbones, as he sings about the pines with a kind of ache that feels both private and sincere. It feels so honest, heat floods my face.
It must be the whiskey. The fire. The strange peace of being alive after so much blood.
Across the room, Okee watches Boone, not like a man judging a song, but like the song is doing something to him.
The last note fades. Boone sets the guitar aside too quickly and won’t look at either of us.
“That was pretty,” I say.
He nods once, eyes on the floorboards.
Silence rushes in.
I turn, and Okee is still fixed on Boone, hand clenched on the chair’s edge. Boone’s eyes flick up and lock with his.
It’s only a heartbeat, maybe two. The air in the cabin feels too thin to breathe. I shouldn’t be here for this, whatever it is.
“It’s late,” I say, too brisk. “I think I’ll retire, if that’s all right.”
Okee blinks as if I’ve pulled him from somewhere far away. “Of course,” he says, half rising, uncertain whether to follow.
“I can manage,” I say quickly, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
I climb the ladder slowly, careful not to look back. The loft is small—bedroll, low window caked with frost. I settle onto the blankets and watch the firelight flicker across the rafters.
Below, the silence stretches, soft and heavy. Boone clears his throat. Okee moves across the floor. The cabin creaks.
What did I just witness between them?
I close my eyes. Manners demand I keep such thoughts to myself. But my gut says I recognized a connection I cannot yet define.
Perhaps it’s only the whiskey.
I put it out of my mind, hoping sleep will come easy.
It won’t. But for now, I am alive. And I am safe.