Something an awful lot like sadness swept over Vincent’s expression and he sighed. “That was the beginning . . . and the end.”
Chapter Eight
Texas, 1876
VINCENT WOKE TO overwhelming pain. Every length of muscle, every inch of bone in his body ached, and his blood was like fire.
“The pain will fade,” a man’s voice said.
Vincent tried to respond, tried to turn his head to see the speaker, to jump up and defend himself, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate. He lay nearly flat on his back, his head propped up against what felt like rocks. There was a fire burning, though he had no clue if it was the same one he and his brother had been sitting at when they’d been ambushed.
Memory of the attack gave a new urgency to his fears. John had been shot, too. Where was he?
Vincent finally managed to twist his head around, nearly blinded by the brightly burning flames, straining to see into the darkness beyond. But he was unable to find whoever had spoken.
“Where’s my brother?” he asked, shocked at the rough sound of his own voice.
“He was gravely injured,” the stranger responded.
Vincent’s heart clenched and he struggled uselessly. “Is he dead?” he croaked.
“He’s recovering, as you are, although not so rapidly.”
“Who are you? Come around where I can see you.”
A dark-haired man stepped into view. He was short of stature, but trim and fit, older than Vincent by ten or more years. And he appeared to be a man of means, his clothes better than most, his face pale and almost delicate-looking, his hair and beard clean and neatly cut.
“Who are you?” Vincent asked again.
“I am the one who saved your life. So tell me, how did you come to these unfortunate circumstances?”
“We were on our way home from Abilene when those men attacked us.”
“Abilene,” the stranger repeated. “That’s a cattle town.”
Vincent started to nod, then froze when the movement set his head to pounding. He swallowed the nausea and said, “We work on a ranch in Texas.”
“Do you know the men who attacked you? Or why they wanted you dead?”
“No. I imagine they were common thieves, after our horses and money.”
“Possibly. Sleep now. We will have much to discuss when you wake.”
Vincent started to protest that he wasn’t a child to be coddled into sleep, but before he could utter a single word, his eyelids grew heavy and blackness descended.
The next time he woke, the pain was gone. More than gone. He felt better than he had since starting the cattle drive weeks before. How long had he been asleep?
He sat up and stared around. It was nighttime again, and the fire was still burning. It might have been the same campsite or not. One looked pretty much looked like the other. His gear was piled to the left, John’s next to it, but . . . he didn’t see his brother.
“Good evening, Vincent.”
He twisted around, watching as the same dark-haired man strolled into the firelight. He strained to remember, but didn’t recall giving the man his name.
“Are you feeling better?” the man asked.
Vincent studied him before answering. Who was this man? Some Good Samaritan who came upon the two brothers and decided to help? That was unusual enough that Vincent was wary of the stranger. He didn’t look like a priest or a brother whose job it was to help the unfortunate. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny that the man had helped him, had gone so far as to remain nearby while Vincent regained his senses.
“I am better. Thank you. May I have your name?”