Chapter 41
Boone
The door creaks and the bell rings, three of the Morton young’uns rush in, barefoot and bold, with dirt on their hems and pond water still drying in their hair. They ain’t strangers. Every few weeks, one or another finds a reason to nose about our shop.
Jars of camphor sit cooling on the counter, ready for rubbing on chests.
Elderberries bubble, black and sweet, on the stove.
The front counter’s a mess of jars and powders as I restock.
I count all their dirty little fingers, watching for the one that might pocket something if they think I ain’t looking.
“Morning, Mr. Maddox,” one sings out, hand already plunging into the candy jar. Another drags a finger along the shelf, leaving a smudge on the glass.
“You young’uns got business here, make it quick,” I tell them, keeping my tone even. “This ain’t a playhouse.”
They snicker, dropping their pennies on the counter.
“My ma says y’all got unnatural vices,” the smallest one, Millie, blurts, bright-eyed with daring.
“Shhh,” an older one scolds, shooting me a guilty look.
I cover the mouth of the jar with my hand and drag it back. “That so?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says proudly, with a gummy toothless smile. Too damn adorable to begrudge her. Child don’t know what she’s saying.
“Then I reckon your ma wouldn’t want you lingerin’ ’round the likes of us. Best you skedaddle.” I shake my head, picking out three pennies’ worth of candy from the jar, adding a little extra even though they don’t deserve it, then set it on a piece of paper on the counter.
They snatch their candy and spill out into the sunlight, giggling all the way down the steps.
I call after them. “Have your ma come visit when she’s snifflin’ and hackin’.”
They’re already gone. The bell above the door gives a last lonely jingle, then settles.
Later that evening, just before we close up shop, Lula comes up front from the back room, arms full of tinned salves.
“You missed the Mortons casting judgment on us this morning, little bastards.”
“That family can judge all they want,” she says. “Won’t change the fact their daddy spends all day at the Gemini betting their supper money on cards.”
“And spending it on ass,” Okee chimes in, then slaps a ledger on the counter. “The shop was twice as profitable this week compared to the week before.”
Lula’s eyes widen. “Truly?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Clay, you are a bona fide pillar of the Three Forks community.”
“It’s that liver tonic,” she says. “Boone, you are a genius.”
I take a small bow. Fact is, we’re set up right next to a saloon. Goldie gets folks good and drunk—all I said was we should sell the cure for the morning after.
“Who would have ever thought Boone Maddox would have such a knack for business?” Lula adds, swaying her hips just so.
I clap my hands and grab her by the waist. She yelps as I lift her and set her on the counter.
“Ever been up this high, little one?”
She shoves my chest. “Now you have to be quiet for the whole rest of the day.”
“What?” I ask, though the memory of last night has already come creeping back.
We were in bed, and it was Lula’s turn to read a book aloud.
Rules are dealer’s choice, so she read some story she picked about some sisters or something or other.
I’d only just closed my eyes and was wondering how come I ain’t never had a wealthy neighbor like the family in the story when I asked her, “What’s the name of that book again? ”
“Little Women.”
I blinked at her, and when she didn’t smile or laugh, I realized she was serious. I couldn’t help myself.
“Little Women? I thought you said this was fiction. You been reading your autobiography the whole time?”
Okee said I couldn’t go one day without making fun of Lula’s height. I bet them a day without a peep out of me that I could.
Shit.
Now Okee’s cheering. Lula hops off the counter, and they dance between a row of blue tincture bottles, bundled yarrow, and paper-wrapped parcels of dried comfrey.
“What am I supposed to do if a customer comes in?”
“Ah!” Okee shouts. “Hush. Every time you make a sound, we’re adding fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Half an hour.”
Bastard.
I clamp my jaw and glower at them.
Lula grins like she’s won a prize at the county fair. Okee takes up a little two-step, all elbows and long limbs, nearly knocking the glass bottles over.
I point two fingers at my eyes, then at him.
He gasps, clutching his chest. “Mrs. Clay, I believe our man has threatened me bodily harm.”
“Add thirty minutes for violent gestures,” Lula says.
My mouth drops open.
“Two hours,” Okee says, delighted.
I shut it so hard my teeth click.
Fools, both of them.
Lula goes back to stacking salves, still smiling to herself.
She don’t even have the decency to gloat aloud.
Just that little tuck at the corner of her mouth, that soft wicked look she gets when she knows she’s got me caught.
I could lift her back onto the counter. Could throw her over my shoulder.
Could kiss that smugness clean off her face.
Couldn’t say a damn word doing it, though, so I take up the broom instead and sweep like the floor owes me money.
“Silent labor suits him,” Okee says. “Gives the room a certain peace.”
I sweep a hard line of dust right onto his boot.
The evening comes creeping in purple at the windows. Out in the road, wagon wheels clatter past, then fade. Somebody’s mule protests from down by the livery. The Gemini’s piano starts up, tinny and off-key, followed by a woman’s shriek of laughter that makes Lula shake her head.
“Early start over there tonight,” she says.
I fetch the shutters and pull them in one by one. The shop changes when the light gets low. By the time the last lamp is turned down, the shop has gone still.
Lula takes the key from the nail by the door. The bolt catches and the bell above the door gives one soft, sleepy clink as she tests it. Then her footsteps follow mine up the narrow stairwell, Okee’s heavier tread behind hers.
Upstairs, Lula hums while she moves about the kitchen, setting bowls down, stirring the beans, lifting the cloth from the bread.
Okee washes. The floorboards creak under all of us, under the whole shape of our life above that little shop.
Okee crosses the room with that slow, easy way of his, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open at the throat.
Okee sits and leans back, draping one arm along the settee behind me. Not touching at first. Just there. Warmth at my shoulder. His clean soap smell under the sharper notes of the shop still clinging to him. Alcohol, paper, penny copper, mint.
Then his thumb brushes the back of my neck once, slow as a match being struck.
I keep my jaw clamped shut.
That earns me the faintest huff of amusement from him, like he’s pleased with himself. Like he’s found a new use for my punishment.
Before I can think better of it, his hand slides firm around the back of my neck, and his mouth finds mine. My fingers catch in his shirtfront and pull him closer.
He makes a low sound against my mouth. I feel it more than hear it.
I forget about the afternoon. The whole damn wager.
I forget everything but Okee’s mouth and the warm, heavy weight of him beside me.
When he draws back, I follow without meaning to, chasing him like a desperate fool. His eyes drop to my mouth first, then lower. Slow. Deliberate.
My blood kicks hard. I grip his shirt tighter.
He catches my wrist before I can drag him back in, not rough, not gentle either. Okee doesn’t do a thing halfway. He pins my hand against his chest a moment, his heart beating steady under my palm, then guides it down to the cushion beside me.
Then he shifts off the settee with that same awful patience he brings to everything.
One knee touching the floorboards, then the other, right there in the middle of our sitting room above the shop.
The boards creak under him. Lamplight catches the sharp line of his cheek, the dark fall of his hair, the stern set of his mouth.
He runs his broad palms up my thighs and my breath goes clean out of me.
He looks up from between my knees. “Shhh,” he says, holding a finger to his lips.
The lamplight flickers low as Okee’s fingers work the buttons of my trousers open right there in the middle of the sitting room. Freeing me, he don’t tease. He gives me one slow stroke with his callused hand, then leans in and takes me into his mouth in one smooth glide.
Heat punches through me so hard I near forget the rules. A groan catches in my throat, my hips jerking forward. Okee’s tongue presses flat along the underside, and his hand settles heavy on my thigh.
No rush. Just slow, steady suction that makes my knees weak.
Christ.
I bite my bottom lip hard enough to sting.
He knows what he’s doing. Knows better than anybody alive how little quiet I got in me on a good day, and now he’s kneeling between my knees with my cock stretching his mouth, acting like I’m the one misbehaving.
I glare down at him.
He only raises one brow, calm as Sunday morning, then lowers his hot mouth again.
Slow down. Draw back. Linger.
Okee knows where I’m weakest. Knows what makes my breath hitch, what makes my hands curl useless in the settee cushion, what makes my bones feel like they’ve gone soft under my skin.
He strokes me in time with each pull, looking at me like every part of me belongs in his hands.
That near finishes me all by itself.
“Christ… Okee,” I breathe.
“That’s an hour.”
I let my head fall back against the settee and stare at the ceiling, breathing hard through my nose. His other hand slides lower, confident as anything, cupping my balls with a care that makes my breath catch harder than if he’d been rough.
I try to scowl at him, but it’s a sorry attempt. Hard to look mean when a man’s got his hand around my cock and his fingers teasing my hole like he’s memorized the exact way to ruin me. My whole body jumps, hips lifting before his hand clamps firmer on my thigh.
I want to curse him. Praise him.