His boys waved from the wagon, small hands and uncertain faces. Bellar looked at them and felt something inside her shift, like kindling meeting a spark.
“You’d be mother to those boys,” Boone said.
“I don’t know how,” she said, almost laughing at the absurdity.
“Neither do I,” Boone answered. “We’ll figure it out.”
Bellar’s mouth opened with every sensible argument she had. He’s desperate. You’re desperate. This is foolish. This is dangerous. This is a patch on a torn coat and you don’t even know if the thread will hold. But then she looked at Boone’s hands, callused and honest, and saw something she hadn’t found in all of Langley’s letters: not sweetness, not flattery, but steadiness. A man who didn’t promise easy days. A man who offered shared weather.
“I’m not thin,” Bellar said finally, because shame was a habit and habits spoke even when they weren’t invited. “I’ve been told I’m too much. I’ve been told I’m not enough.”
Boone’s gaze didn’t flicker. “You got a preacher in this town?”
Bellar asked, voice low, like she was daring herself.
Boone’s mouth curved, small and uncertain. “He owes me two favors and a coat,” he said. “That should count for something.”
She stood, smoothing her dress with shaking hands. “Then let’s get it over with,” she muttered. “Before I come to my senses.”
