Cedar’s pulse kicked up a beat. Since his wife’s death, he’d thought he’d never be shed of the pain of grief. Never have reason to feel again.
Until he’d met the widow Mae Lindson.
“I’m gonna take him to the wagon now,” Rose said. “And when you’re of a mind—”
“No.” Mae drew her hand up to smooth her dress, discovered the grasses, and frowned. She let the grasses drop from her fingers. When she looked back up at him, it was with an ounce more clarity.
“Leave your guns and knife here, Mr. Hunt,” she said.
Cedar unhitched his gun belt, then his knife. Set them all down easy on the ground. When he straightened, Mae walked round the fire and stopped right in front of him.
He couldn’t help but inhale the scent of her, always the sweet honey of flowers. They’d been on the road for days now without much more than a splash in a creek or two to sluice the trail dust. But Mae was beautiful, serene. Looking upon her made his breath catch in his chest.
She took his hand and turned it over like she was looking for a wound.
“This blood,” she said. “It’s not yours, is it?”
When she spoke, it was as if a rope had been cut free from around his heart. It was a puzzling thing being near her. A thing that felt so much like love, it might even share its name.
Not that he’d said as much to her. He didn’t know if there would ever be room in her grief to love another.
“Mr. Hunt?” Mae said. Then, “Are you hurt?”
“No.” The beast inside him twisted and dug deep, wanting out. Wanting Mae.
She caught his gaze and held his own hand up so that he would look at it.
“Where did this blood come from?”
He drew his hand gently away from hers. “Man needs burying back a ways.”
Rose stepped up a little closer to rub out a stray ember that popped free from the fire. “We can take care of the dead,” she said, “after the living are tended and resting in the wagon.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Mae asked with a sort of worry he hadn’t heard out of her in days.
He pulled a smile into place, hoping it softened his eyes, eased the hard line of his jaw. Hoping it made him look more like a man who still had his reason in place.
“As well as can be, thank you.”
“See?” Rose said kindly. “We’re all doing fine.”
Cedar tipped his fingers to his hat, then strode off toward the wagon, Rose right behind him.
If he stayed near Mae any longer, he’d take her in his arms. Hold her. Hell, kiss her and do the things a man can do to a woman.
Things she would not welcome. Not with her husband’s death so fresh in her eyes. Not with the tracks of tears on her cheeks. And the nights, every night, her whispering his name like a prayer.
The clatter of metal on metal rose up from the other side of the wagon, louder the closer he came.
The other two Madder brothers, Bryn and Cadoc, were off just a ways from the wagon, cussing over a chunk of brass and tangle of wood equipped with at least three valves that were sending off thin puffs of steam.
Bryn, the middle born, was taller by a finger or two than Alun, but not so tall as Cadoc. His beard was clipped tight, and he wore a brass monocle strapped over his ruined eye. The lens flashed an unnatural turquoise from under his floppy hat as his wide, nimble fingers used a half dozen tools to tinker with the steam device.
Cadoc Madder didn’t much involve himself in conversation unless it was to say something vaguely prophetic. He had on the same denim overalls and heavy overcoat all the Madders wore, the pockets of which bulged with gadgets. Tonight a knit cap sat over the bush of black hair on his head.
Cedar didn’t know what sort of contraption they were trying to fire up, but it appeared to require a heavy hammer and wrench—both currently being used to pummel the thing.
Alun Madder leaned against the wagon wheel, smoking his pipe and watching Cedar with a hard gaze.
“Here we go now.” Rose motioned the shotgun toward the wagon steps. “A roof over your head and a lock on the door. Cozy.”
“You’ll need more than a lock,” Cedar said. “You know where the shackles are?”
“I think so.”
“Find them.” He stumped up the stairs and ducked into the darkness of the wagon.
The wagon was so cluttered with supplies, packages, and oddments, it was like stepping into a town bazaar. Nets and scarves and rope hung from the framed ceiling; boxes, bundles, chests, and shelves were stuffed tight to bursting.
The nets could be set out for hammocks, as the Madder brothers were used to traveling in some comfort. To one side of the nets was enough space for a bed. That’s where Cedar headed.
He ducked a swinging lantern and stood at the bottom of the bedroll spread on a pile of sacks that had fewer hard edges than most the rest of the wagon’s contents.
Wil lay curled on the wool blanket. Even when Wil was in wolf form, his eyes remained the same old copper color and carried an uncanny intelligence. The wolf lifted his head and ears, watching Cedar sit and press his back against the sideboard.
Cedar let his hand drop so Wil could scent the blood, which he had probably already smelled before Cedar had even entered the wagon. Even though Wil seemed able to keep the mind of a man about him while in wolf form, it was plain foolish to bed down near a wolf with unfamiliar blood between you.
Wil sniffed Cedar’s hand, then stared past him at the wagon door.
Rose was coming. He could hear the weeping chime of the shackles in her hands.
But it was Mae who stepped into the wagon.
“Mae?” he said. “I thought Rose was bringing the chains.”
“She is,” Mae said. “I’m here for your curse. To…to make it less if I can.”
She held a bundle in one hand, just larger than a handkerchief. He couldn’t smell what she had wrapped up in it, but Wil whined.
“Do you think you should? Now?”
“Rose saw you kill a man.” Mae spread the kerchief out on a crate, revealing the contents. Herbs, a candle, a small bowl, and a bell. Her hand dipped to touch each item, over and over again, as if doubting their reality.
“I suppose she did,” he said.
Mae pulled the skinning knife from the sheath at her waist. “I don’t think we can wait any longer to…ease this.”
She straightened her shoulders, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion threading her. Mae had spent most of the journey dazed in her saddle and staring at the sky through the night.
It tore him up to see her falling apart more and more each day.
Not that she’d complained. Not once. She’d known that leaving the coven would someday set this cost in motion.
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Lindson,” he said, “but don’t you need your sisters’ help?”
“What I need, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said softly, “is a man with a sound mind.” She swallowed and nodded, as if agreeing with herself. Or with the voices only she could hear.
“A lot of land to cover before winter strikes.” She nodded, nodded. “Your expertise on the trail and surviving the wilds is invaluable. We are relying on you to see that we arrive at our destination. Safely. As safely as we can.”
“Sad day when a cursed man is the sure bet,” he muttered.
“Not sad. Not at all. It’s a practical thing,” she said with a faint smile. “I…trust you. And I will need your blood, Mr. Hunt. Water could work, or tears, or sweat, but for what you carry…” She studied him as if she saw him clothed in another man’s wardrobe. “For that curse to ease, I’ll need the blood that carries it.”
Cedar stood, took off his coat, then rolled up his sleeve.
In the enclosed wagon, with the warmth of the day still trapped inside, her presence was almost tactile. The scent of flowers, the halting rhythm of her breath, and her gaze that searched him as if uncertain, or afraid, of what she was looking for, fell on his senses like heady wine.