did a bit of tidying there, waiting for whatever thought had taken him to bring him back.
“Do you suppose you could break a curse, a curse like mine, for another?” he finally asked.
“I’d have to see this other before I could say.”
Cedar was silent so long, Mae wondered if he’d gone to sleep sitting there with his eyes open, staring at the wall.
“It’s my brother.” Soft, those words, as if they had never been said before. “The wolf was—is—my brother. Wil. Wiliam.”
Mae gave him some time longer. Waited for him to ask her fully, the favor he wanted.
He cleared his throat and seemed to come back from a long distance, breathing deep and rubbing a hand over his face.
When he turned and looked at her again, he was composed. “I still have the boy to find—Elbert. But once that’s set aside, I’ll help you find that killer,” he said. “If you’ll break the curse my brother carries. Provided he’s still alive.”
Mae searched his face, his eyes filled with the pain of losing a loved one. She understood that pain. “I’ll do what I can, certainly,” she said. “Do you know where to find him?”
Cedar thought a moment, as if trying to drag memories out of a thick mud. “Mr. Shunt was there last night. In the forest. He took him. I’d say he’ll be where Mr. Shunt is. If Mr. Shunt is who killed your husband, then our intentions are in agreement. We both want Shunt dead. But I should tell you, I’ve two other promises to keep.”
“You’ve told me as such, though last I asked, it was only one promise you were beholden to. I suppose if we’re going to be hunting and killing together, we may as well tell each other full what we’re beholden to.”
“Don’t recall saying we’d be hunting or killing together,” Cedar said.
“That shotgun was given to me, Mr. Hunt. I’ll be the one who pulls the trigger.” She held Cedar’s gaze until he nodded.
“First, I’ll want my boots.” Cedar stood, and hissed, bending to one side, his elbow tucked tight into his ribs.
“First,” Mae said, “I’ll tend that wound of yours.”
“It’ll heal,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“It will heal faster and far better after I dress it. Remove your shirt, Mr. Hunt,” she ordered.
Cedar’s eyebrow hitched upward at her tone. For the briefest moment, a smile curved his mouth. Then his lips flattened as he carefully kept his face neutral. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better,” Mae said archly, though her cheeks flushed with color. There was something about him that she found pleasant, though she shouldn’t. The man turned into a killing beast at the full moon—not much pleasant about that.
Still, there was a sorrow in him, a familiar pain.
She gathered up fresh cloth, the steeped water, and the last bottle of alcohol she had. She rinsed out her herb pot, a pretty little copper pot she’d bought three years ago from a man traveling from the East, and pumped fresh water into it. She placed the pot on the hook over the fire.
“I’ll wash it out first, then soak another compress.” Mae dropped comfrey into the water and prodded the fire to rise up and bring the water close to a boil.
She turned around. Cedar Hunt stood there, bare to his waist, holding her husband’s shirt in one hand. She glanced up to look into his eyes, which were soft, apologetic, and a little curious. She had a feeling he hadn’t stood half-naked in front of a woman for some time. She had a feeling he didn’t mind it so much.
Mae looked away from his eyes, and studied his chest. Wide claw marks scarred from collarbone to hip, but otherwise, he was strong, lean, the muscles of his body hard from a lifetime of work.
“Would it be easier if I sat?” he asked.
Mae nodded. “It’s just the wound at your side that’s still hurting?”
“Mostly.” He sat on the edge of the chair, turned so that his injured side was facing her.
“Let me remove the compress.” Mae stepped over and touched his elbow gently.
Cedar moved his arm, propping his palm on his knee, his elbow straight. She pulled the compress off. The wound was red and raw and about as big around as her cupped palm. Fluid and blood oozed from the depth out over the burned edges of skin. It didn’t carry an odor, thank goodness, and didn’t seem to have any more black oil in it.
“Feels like I have a hole all the way to my spine,” Cedar said.
“Does the open air pain it?” Mae asked.
“Yes.” He craned his head, and shifted his shoulders, trying to get a good look at the wound. “Stitches, you think?”
“No. Not enough skin to sew together. I think it needs another cleaning, a better cleaning, and then some time to drain. Hold still, now. You’re just making it bleed more.” She pressed the cloth back over the hole. “Just hold that there, while I brew up a new compress and get something to clean it with. It won’t take long.”
Mae pulled over a bowl and put some of the warm water from the copper pot into it, then dropped a cloth into the pot to let it soak. She poured a little more cool water in with the water in the bowl and brought that to the table, dipping a handkerchief into it and, without squeezing it out, traded its place with the compress on the wound. She placed a dry towel at his waist to catch the water cleaning the wound, then squeezed the wet handkerchief into the puncture.
Cedar narrowed his eyes at the pain.
“So where are you from, originally?” Mae asked, hoping conversation would help ease his mind away from the discomfort.
“Boston.”
“Pretty city, or so I’ve heard.” She dipped the handkerchief back into the water and squeezed it against his side again.
“It can be,” he said on a held exhalation.
“Not much need for a bounty hunter in a city,” she said. “Did you come out west for the land or for the work?” She removed the handkerchief, filled it with water, and pressed it against his side again.
“Neither.”
“Family? Your brother?” she guessed.
“West just meant more land between me and a life I’d never have again.”
He might mean the war. Might mean property or family he lost because of it. Mae figured it wasn’t her place to pry into matters that private.
“And yourself, Mrs. Lindson?” he asked, filling the silence before she could. “What drew you so far west?”
“The land.” She soaked the cloth again, pressed it into his side. He wasn’t wincing every time she touched him. She hoped the willow in the water was numbing the pain a little.
“Good rich land here in the Oregon Territory. Plenty of it. Thought we’d follow the river all the way to the sea. But when Jeb saw this valley tucked against the mountains, he said he’d never seen a more beautiful corner of God’s earth. So we set to farming here, living here. It’s been a good life. . . .”
She realized she’d stopped working and was instead just kneeling there, thinking of a life she also could never return to.
Cedar Hunt caught her gaze. There was sympathy there. Understanding. Maybe something more she couldn’t quite describe. A kindness and warmth. In that moment she knew he too had suffered death. But instead of giving her gentle words that would do no good for her pain, he simply nodded once. “Your pot’s boiling.”
Mae was grateful that he didn’t ask her any more. She stood and walked to the kettle, pulling it with a poker away from the fire. Outside the wind lifted on the day, pulling birdsong through the air.
She had known she’d never have Jeb again, but had pushed the reality of it away as often as she could, using anger to keep her mind on her task. But seeing Mr. Hunt here, a man who had left a life behind, who had suffered death and never returned to the life he had once lived, made her realize she was alone. Truly alone. And would have to find a way to carry on, build a new life with no one beside her.
“Mae?” Cedar stood beside her and gently pressed his fingertips onto her arm.
How long had she been standing there, the copper pot hanging from one hand, the wind stirring and nosing
