his head on the pillow. There was just enough room for her along the edge.
Bundling the quilt around herself, she eased onto the narrow space. She lay on her side with her back toward him, comfortable enough as long as she didn’t try to move. From behind her, she could hear each breath ending in a little snore—a hopeful sign. Real sleep was what his body needed.
The rhythm of his breathing blended with the rush of wind in the cottonwoods and the creaks and clicks of the old house settling with the cold. Sarah hadn’t expected to sleep, but before long, she began to feel drowsy. With Joe’s body warm beside her, she drifted in and out of sleep until finally, as the sky began to pale, she eased off the bed.
Joe was still asleep, his eyes closed, his breathing regular. When she brushed his pale, whiskered face with her fingertips, she felt no sign of fever. All to the good, but he wasn’t out of danger. She would need to keep an eye on that deep wound to make sure it didn’t fester. And she would need to get plenty of fluids down him to help his body replace the blood he’d lost.
As she gazed down at him, she felt a surge of tenderness. She willed it away. Joe’s alleged death had cost her nearly two years of grief. He was going to have to answer for that.
Steeling her resolve, she gathered up her clothes and left the room to start her day.
* * *
Joe woke to a pain that felt as if a knife were being twisted into his left side. He groaned out loud as his eyes opened to a gray dawn in a room he’d never seen before. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of a high, narrow window. An unaccustomed soft warmth cradled his body, its subtle fragrance stealing into his senses. He could almost believe he’d died and gone to heaven. But being dead couldn’t possibly hurt this much—unless he’d gone to hell, as he probably deserved.
Fearing that a shift in position might make the pain worse, he lay still, searching his memory for any clue that might tell him where he was and how he’d come to be here.
His exploring hands found the bandages on his head and shoulder and the wrappings around his body that held the heavy dressing to his side. Some things were coming back now. He’d been shot by one of the Calder hands. Slinger and Clem were dead, and he would be, too, if Jesse Trumbo hadn’t recognized him and shown him the miracle of mercy. He had a faint memory of Rusty binding his wounds, and then the agony of bouncing on hard boards in the back of a wagon . . .
Joe’s memory was blurring once more. He barely had the strength to think, let alone raise his head and look around. He must have lost a lot of blood. That would explain his weakness. But it wouldn’t explain where he was or how he’d come to be here.
He struggled to remember. There’d been some mention of a woman, then a woman’s low voice, penetrating the fog of pain. She’d said she was going to hurt him, and she had. The last thing he remembered was biting on something she’d put in his mouth. After that, he must’ve blacked out.
Don’t talk. Until now, silence had been his only protection. But how much longer would he need it? Was he a patient in this place? A guest? Or a prisoner?
He was still pondering the question when a familiar aroma crept into his senses from the next room. It was coffee, hot and fresh. If it was for him, he could use a cup. And it was time he met his rescuer.
Clasping the top of the metal bedframe above his head, he dragged himself backward and upward into a semi-sitting position with the pillow supporting his back. The pain in his side was so excruciating that he feared he was opening up the wound, but he’d had enough of lying helplessly on his back. As soon as he could stand and put on clothes, he meant to get out of here. But right now he needed some answers.
The bedroom door stood slightly ajar. Joe couldn’t see through the opening, but he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps—light and quick, a woman’s.
The door opened. Silhouetted by the light behind her, a petite woman with her hair twisted