Sarah Wagner heard the wagon pull up in front of her house. Who would be calling at this time of night, except for someone with an emergency? She hastily donned her robe and pulled the hood up over her head. Opening the door, she peered outside, her rifle at the ready.

It was the Johnson boys, no threat there. They were both tall and lanky for their age at fourteen, with wavy, sandy-brown hair and brown eyes. "Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah, we got an injured man here." Joshua, the older of the two boys, called to her excitedly. "Come quick."

Sarah opened the door wide and stepped out onto the wooden porch. "Who is it? What is the matter with him?" She pulled the hood of her robe tightly closed to hide the scarred right side of her face. The scars were faded to silver lines, but in her mind, she thought it still had to bother people. It sure bothered her.

"Don't know," Jeremiah, the younger one, answered. "We came across him on his horse, back a ways on the trail. He done been shot."

"Shot up all over," Joshua threw out for good measure. "We thought he was dead 'til he groaned."

"Bring him inside." Sarah retrieved an oil lamp and held it aloft as they jumped in the back of the wagon and began to leverage the man out of it. He was a big man. It was no easy feat for the young boys, so Sarah helped as best she could.

Once inside the door she instructed them to place him on the long table. She was out of breath. So were they. The table used to serve as a meeting place and feeding place for a large family, now it served as a doctor's table of sorts. Sarah wasn't a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but for the town's purposes she was the best they had. Her doctoring skills were the only reason the people accepted her at all and hadn't run her out of the area on a rail.

"I think I will go take care of his horse," Jeremiah offered quickly, seeing the blood all over the man's clothes. "Makes my stomach turn upside down, it does."

"Go ahead," Sarah told him. She knew he would be throwing up all over the place soon if he didn't have something else to distract him. "Joshua, you start peeling off his clothes while I get my supplies. Cut them off if you have to."

"We gots to go home, Miss Sarah. We done been gone too long. Mama is going to be madder than a wet hen as it is now."

"It will only take a few minutes. I will let you go after that." Sarah shook her head sadly. She knew the truth was they didn't want to be in her house, and especially not after dark. They might respect her skills, but they were afraid of her. To this day she was unsure if it was her looks, or the fact she had lived with the Indians for so long. People always treated her like she was tainted somehow, even though she'd had no choice about it at the time. Where one group of Indians killed her family and kidnapped her, another group had saved her and set her feet on the path of enlightenment. "Your mama will understand. You did a good thing to help this man. Now let's see if we can keep him from dying."

"Do you suppose he is an outlaw? One of those gunslingers we hear so much about?" Joshua offered in an expectant breath. "One of those outlaws that has been robbing the town?" He avoided looking straight at her as she turned away to get her supplies. He wouldn't undress the man with her looking on.

Sarah heard the clothes rip as they were being cut from the injured man's body. They were ruined already. A soft, low-pitched groan reached her ears. She plunked down the bowls filled with supplies, and began to set them out in an orderly fashion where she could reach them. Next she set the wood in the fireplace to burning and some water to boiling on top of that.

"All done," Joshua told her, as he covered the man with a scrap of blanket.

"Thank you, Joshua. You were most helpful."

"You're welcome, Miss Sarah. Do you suppose he..." Jeremiah came back through the front door at that moment, interrupting what Joshua was going to say.

"I done brought his saddlebags for ya," said Jeremiah, throwing them down noisily on a chair. "Want me to go through them?"

"Not now. You boys head home. We don't want your mama to be worrying right now with the baby coming any day."

"'Bye, Miss Sarah." Both boys shot out the door in a flash, arguing about who was going to drive the wagon the rest of the way home.

Sarah bolted the door, and then set about examining the injured man's wounds. He had one bullet in the thigh, one in the shoulder and he had a nasty gash on his head. Leg first, then shoulder, she decided. The man jerked abruptly, reminding her he would need to be tied down to keep him from hurting himself.

The ropes were already in place at the head of the table on two of the legs, and she pulled them up and expertly tied him as tight as she dared around his arms. Then she covered him as much as she could with the rest of the blanket to keep him warm and protect his modesty. At this point his modesty would be the last thing on his mind, but Sarah tried to be thoughtful of other people in all ways.

He groaned again, and Sarah's heart went out to him. She rinsed out a cool rag and ran it across his face. Oh, he was a handsome one. He was big, dark and rugged-looking. He had high cheekbones and a well-sculpted face. She left the rag across his forehead to help soak off some of the dried blood, and then concentrated on his leg.

Delicately as she could, she probed the wound with the edge of the knife she'd had lying in the fire.

"Bullet's still in here. Deep, too. It will have to come out." Sarah opened a bottle of whiskey. She lifted the unconscious man's head and poured it down his throat as best she could. Not a whole lot, just enough to help with the pain she knew she would have to inflict on him. She watched as reflex made him swallow, and she traced the path with her eyes down the wide strong column of his neck. She quickly washed her hands and poured whiskey over them and just as quickly poured it over his wound. He jerked and thrashed violently, even opening his brown eyes before he passed out again.

"Feels like fire, doesn't it? But it can't be helped." Sarah began to dig for the bullet, and, in fact, had to cut him even more to get at it, as it was lodged in the bone. "Oh, dear." She hated hurting him. She finally managed to get it out and once more poured whiskey into the wound. This time he never moved.

This was the hardest part, she thought, as she grabbed up a small poker and heated it in the fire until it was glowing red-hot. When it glowed the way she thought it ought to, she held it inside the wound to cauterize and seal it. The smell of the burning flesh nearly made her sick. It also brought painful memories she could not bear to think about. Still it had to be done. He did not move a single muscle.

Sarah bent over the man and watched him closely, his breathing was very shallow, but at least he was still alive. She repeated the process all over again with the shoulder wound. Twice he tried to wake, and twice the pain put him under.

She washed the wound on his temple and stitched it up the best she could. It was much too deep to quit bleeding on its own.

Well into the night Sarah worked on the large man, until she was satisfied his wounds were tended to. He'd lost so much blood. She did not know if he would live to see morning, though. Sometimes it was just too hard to tell and she did not know how strong a man he was.

Finally, exhausted, she loosened his bindings, but did not remove them. She did not want him rolling off the big table by accident. Sarah covered him with two more blankets, for she knew his body would be cold from loss of blood. Sarah took tongs, and removed the smooth, round rock she kept in the fireplace for just a time as this and wrapped it in heavy rags. She slid it under the blankets between his feet, to help keep him warm. It was the best she could do for him tonight.

She stumbled over to a steep ladder that led to the loft where she slept. She climbed it and removed her robe. Looking down upon the man who lay so still and pale upon the table she sighed tiredly. Normally he would have been dark skinned, but he was ghostly white now, even from her vantage point. Once in a while his body would twitch. His longish dark hair was still dirty with dried blood, but she would wash it for him if he still lived in the morning. She had done all she could. For now, she was too tired to do anything but sleep. She carefully turned the wick on the oil lamp way down. It would serve as a night-light if she needed one.

It was the middle of the night when Sarah heard the restless man moaning in the main room below. He was thrashing and fighting his bindings. Sarah turned up the oil lamp and peered over the side of the loft at him. The poor man! He had to be miserable and she didn't even have anything to give him for the pain. There was whiskey, but she needed that for emergencies. She was surprised when he began to mutter in the language of the Cherokee. Real surprised--but then maybe she shouldn't be. As she studied his face in the dim light she realized he was part Indian. It didn't show that much, but he did have the dark complexion and the black hair. She remembered his dark brown eyes. Yes, he was part Indian. Cherokee it seemed. She would bet her last dollar his way was rough in the world, as rough as hers was. Half-breeds didn't fare any better than the Indians. Everyone in the state, it seemed, wanted to see the Indians moved off their lands, away from Georgia. It was a sad state of affairs.

"Ga-do-de-tsa do?" What is your name? Sarah asked him quietly, in Cherokee. He probably wouldn't fully wake up, but she didn't want to take the chance of startling him.

He calmed down a little. "Long Shadow," he answered in an anguished voice. "Hi-tsa-la-gi-s?"

"No, I am not Cherokee," Sarah answered softly in English. "You will be okay, Long Shadow," she reassured him. "Rest and sleep in peace. You aren't alone."

It wasn't long before he was sleeping soundly and quietly again, and she turned down the oil lamp once more.

Lance felt the warm water pour over his head, and gentle fingers as they began to scrub his scalp. Someone was carefully washing his hair. He hadn't had anyone do that for him since he was a boy. He was bone-tired and his big body was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He didn't even open his eyes and try to see who it was. There were lights dancing around underneath his eyelids. He couldn't seem to come completely awake. He felt the water rinsing the soap out. He was just about to surrender to the sleep again, when he felt a warm rag wiping down his face and his neck. A towel followed its path. The washrag moved on, to his chest and stomach. His muscles clenched. He opened his eyes and tried to focus. There was a woman standing over him, watching him with big cornflower-blue eyes, a beautiful woman. She had dark hair and she looked vaguely familiar to him, even if he couldn't say why. He knew he had never seen her before.

"So you are awake," she whispered calmly. "That is a very good sign." Her smile was happy and genuine. It made her look even more beautiful.

"Do I know you? Where am I?" he asked. His throat was dry and raw. He ached all over, and the pain in his leg and shoulder was excruciating.

"Sarah Wagner. This is my home. Who are you?"

"Lance Tremaine. Where is the doctor?" He wanted to ask the doc what his chances were. He thought they must be good. He was still alive. The last thing he remembered was being on his horse.

"There is no doctor," she told him and continued to wash his legs, even his feet, and dried them as she went. She kept part of the blanket over his sex to shield him from her eyes. He appreciated that--not that he wasn't comfortable with his body, but this was a strange woman after all. He didn't want to outrage her sensibilities. At first, he thought she must be the doctor's wife. Now he didn't know what to think.

"You have lost quite a bit of blood, but I have removed the bullets and patched you up as best as I am able. You should be all right now, barring complications."

He frowned. "You saved my life?" He still couldn't believe it, not that he had anything against women taking on the abilities of doctors. This was nearly the wilderness, after all. Women did whatever was needed to survive just as the men did. He was just surprised that such a delicate looking creature could have handled seeing, much less tending, such massive wounds. He knew how badly he had been hurt.

She nodded. "I am as close to a doctor as we have around these parts."

He tried to use his elbows to lever himself up. He couldn't do it. "I have a lot to thank you for, then." He smiled at her weakly. Lance was grateful to still be alive despite the shape he was in. He really thought he had breathed his last.

She laid her soft hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. "Please don't try and sit up yet. You might fall off the table. Wait just a little while and I will see if I can help you over to the bed."

He nodded, very frustrated at his own weakness. He saw that she did indeed have a bed set up against one wall of the room. He thought it was odd to have a bed in a main room like that. The place looked huge, what he could see of it. Was she here alone?

"Where are my shirt and pants?" he asked, noticing again the itchy wool blanket that covered him. He was a bit chilled and clothes would have kept him warm.

"We had to cut them off," she explained, and pulled the blanket around him more securely. Seeing his frown, she added, "But don't worry. There are some clothes here that should fit you when you are ready for them. The Johnson brothers found you on the trail and brought you to me."

"Where's my gun? My horse?"

"What do you need a gun for?" She frowned at him and bit her lip softly.

He could tell it worried her some. He didn't want to scare her, but he didn't want to be at disadvantage either. Keeping a gun handy was a way of life for a man.

"I just like to have it close."

"It's right over there..." She pointed to his right. He could see it then, sitting on a chair. "...with your saddlebags. Your horse is in the barn. He's been fed and he is fine. I'll put him out to pasture later."

"Thanks." He smiled his gratitude.

"Are you ready to try sitting up?" She smiled back at him, encouragingly.

"Let's do it." He tried to push himself up.

Sarah scooted her arms under his shoulders to help him move into a sitting position. Then she grasped his shoulders to help steady him.

"Is the earth moving?" he asked. His hand went to his head as if that would stop the dizziness.

"Okay now?" she asked. "Do you think you can make it to your feet? The bed isn't that far away."

"Says who?" he joked, half seriously. "Okay, let's try it."

She grasped his legs and twisted him around so his feet could touch the floor. Lance stood easily but swayed a little, and she put her arms around his chest. "Steady?" She realized he was thoughtfully trying to keep his full weight off of her.

He didn't seem to care that he was as naked as a jaybird. Sarah had seen too many naked bodies to care or to pretend modesty. Besides, he had a fine, hard body.

He nodded, but his face was pasty white and he had broken out in a sweat. "We'd better hurry," he told her weakly.

He limped over to the bed and sat down heavily on it. Sarah barely got his head pointed in the direction of the pillow before he passed out again. She grunted with the strain and lifted his feet, then covered him with the blanket. "Lance Tremaine." She said his name just to hear it. It was a nice sounding name. She would start some chicken broth for when he woke up, and to do that she had to catch and kill a chicken. In her head she planned all kinds of chicken meals to use over the next few days so none of the meat would go to waste.

Sarah laid down her sewing when she heard him stirring for the third time. He was trying to wake up. He'd been out of it for a couple of hours. She went and stood over his bed.

His face looked strong and rugged. Then his brown eyes popped open to look up at her. They were full of intelligence. The fan of dark lashes that circled his eyes only enhanced them. There were bruised-looking circles underneath them though. That would go away soon enough. He was still a handsome man in every respect. She was almost anxious for him to be alert so she could talk with him.

"Hello. Are you ready for some broth?"

He managed to smile at her pleasantly, despite how bad he must be feeling. Sarah thought that showed strong character--most patients were surly when in this much pain or with illness.

"Starved. Don't you have something heartier than broth?"

He had the nicest smile. She couldn't possibly imagine him an outlaw.

"I do," she smiled knowingly. The patients always thought they could eat regular food right off. "You need the broth first. Let's see if your stomach can handle it." His body had already been through enough of a trauma. He didn't need the strain of throwing up on top of that.

She set about pouring some broth into a cup for him. He could drink it straight from that. It would be easier for him to handle than a bowl and a spoon, especially only being able to use one arm right now.

"It's a little hot." She set it on the table and got some extra pillows to prop him up. The blanket slipped down to his waist, exposing his hair-covered chest. She couldn't help but look, and had to choke back a sigh. He had a smattering of fine dark hair and one nasty-looking wound. She'd better concern herself with that wound and not how fine his body looked. She would clean the wound and bandage it again soon.

She handed him the cup and he took it in his left hand--he wouldn't be using the right one for a while. He sipped at the hot broth. "Thanks."

"Is there anyone I can contact for you? You won't be fit to travel for a while. I can send one of the Johnson boys. I have to go check on their mama this afternoon."

"Yeah, just my deputy, George Rafferty. He can contact my family," he told her and noted her surprise. He remembered taking the shiny badge off his shirt and tucking it in his saddlebags. He didn't want the sun glinting off it and giving away his position when he tracked the three men. "I am the Sheriff of Ophir. The town will send you something for your trouble."

She shook her head sadly. "No, they won't and it doesn't matter if they do, Sheriff. You are alive and that is all the thanks I need."

"Lance," he corrected her, and frowned. "Why do you think they wouldn't send some money for my care?"

"How long have you been Sheriff?"

"Two months."

"Well, Lance Tremaine. I have two of Ophir's former sheriffs buried out back. The Ophir folks wouldn't even come collect their bodies or pay for a proper burial. I have tended lots of their folks, and they have never seen fit to even say "thank you" when a chicken for the pot would have been greatly appreciated." There were only a handful of people from that area who ever associated with her. The ones who did, faithfully paid her for her services. It was the ones who didn't treat her with respect--not even enough respect to pay her for the services rendered--that made the whole town look bad. There were many more of their kind in Ophir.

He grasped her hand. "I will pay you myself." Lance always paid his debts--it wasn't as if he was a poor man. He really did appreciate all this woman had done for him. He wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her.

"It really isn't necessary. I've been doing this for a few years now and I have learned to take care of myself," she assured him, taking his cup. She went back to the hearth to fill it again while he watched. "I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to. I just didn't want you to be disappointed when they didn't do anything."

"It shouldn't be that way." He was still frowning. Was Ophir that bad of a town and he hadn't realized it?

"I know, but folks from Ophir have never been known for their friendliness." She handed him back the cup. "Especially not now that the gold fever seems to have infected everyone."

"I guess I never noticed. They were friendly enough to me."

"Chances are they were hoping you might take out one or two the outlaws that have been plaguing everyone before you were killed. They wouldn't have to pay you that way."

Lance shook his head. "That's a sad state of affairs."

She agreed. Pleasant Dale wasn't any better. They didn't even have a sheriff at the moment, and hadn't paid the ones they'd had any better than Ophir did theirs. No one would even volunteer for the job any more. The outlaws killed anyone who stepped up for the job so they could have free run of the town to rob and loot whenever they had a mind to.

He handed her the cup. "What happened to your face?"

Sarah raised a hand to the side of her face. She'd forgotten for a moment. "A fire when I was a child." She wouldn't talk about what really happened and especially not with a stranger, no matter how nice he seemed.

"It hardly shows. You are a beautiful woman, Sarah Wagner."

Sarah stared at him. He was just being kind. She should remember that.

He yawned unexpectedly.

"Go back to sleep and rest," she told him. There would be plenty of time for talking as his body healed itself.

"You don't have to tell me twice." He waited until she moved off, though, to close his eyes. Lance could tell she didn't believe that he really thought she was beautiful. She was--the best looking woman he had seen in a long, long while.

Lance heard the wagon roll up outside the house. The windows were open for the breeze. He could hear everything now that he was awake again.

"Prichard." Her soft, pleasant-sounding voice didn't sound happy to his ears for once. He noticed the difference right off.

"It's my boy," a gruff male voice answered. No pleasantries were given at all.

He heard rustling of skirts and imagined her climbing into back of the wagon. He struggled to sit up and was rewarded with a small view of the situation. There was a line of sweat on his upper lip now from that small amount of exertion.

"What happened?" she asked a big, burly, rough-looking man. He had dark hair and dark eyes. Lance didn't like the looks of him at all. In his experience, men that looked mean and bad-tempered usually were. This man looked mean in spades. He was every bit as big and tall as Luke Campbell and his new brother-in-law stood six foot seven.

"He done had an accident. A tree fell on him."

Sarah was bent over someone in the back. Someone he couldn't see because the side of the wagon blocked his view. "Second accident in less than a month," she responded warily.

Lance heard the suspicion in her soft voice.

Then she said quietly, "There is nothing I can do for him."

"Why not?" he asked angrily.

"He's dead. There is nothing I can do."

"I got some crops to tend to. I need his help," the man said, as if he didn't believe her.

She climbed out of the wagon. "Then you shouldn't have beat him to death."

"Tree fell on the dang fool boy," he argued angrily and looked like he was getting ready to jump down from the wagon to confront her.

"I got a sheriff in there who just might not think so either, Pritchard. He takes one look at your boy and he is going to know no tree fell on him. I've seen enough of your handiwork on your wife and kids. I know better."

"Why you little witch," he said, and jumped heavily from the wagon. "You are nothing but a damn busybody whore. Does your sheriff know that?"

"HEY!" Lance struggled to his feet, but he swayed and couldn't remain upright. He fell back on the bed. He thought he might pass out from the pain. He struggled against the discomfort to look out the window again.

Sarah pulled a gun from the folds of her skirts. "Get right back on that wagon, Pritchard, and head on out of here. Don't come back neither."

"This ain't the end of it," he warned, and Lance could hear him climb back up on his wagon as it creaked from his weight. Prichard jerked the reins and slapped the horses into a run.

"Don't come back," she yelled after him. "I'm not patching up your kin any more just so you can beat them up another day."

It was a while before she came back in the house. He was worried for her. Lance was about ready to pull his hair out, he felt so weak and helpless. He could tell she'd been crying.

"Are you okay?" he asked her in concern.

"Better than that poor boy is," she nodded. "Pritchard thinks I can't tell the difference between someone being beaten to death in anger and someone crushed by a tree."

"He should be in jail." Lance knew what it felt like to get beat within an inch of his life. At least he hadn't died. His new brother-in-law was the one who had taught him that particular lesson, years ago. In all fairness, he had been trying just as hard to beat Luke Campbell to death, as well. It had been a hell of a fight.

"Jail is too good for the likes of him. I hear tell he's on his fourth wife and I know for a fact that's the second kid he's kilt."

She was angry--very angry--and he could tell that not just from her voice, but the rigid set to her feminine little body.

"Bring me my stuff would you please? I couldn't have gotten up to help you, to save my life." The fact he was so weak was a humiliation to him.

She looked at him warily. "I didn't expect you to. I am used to taking care of myself. I just wanted to scare Pritchard. I wanted to make him think twice about hurting his kin."

"I know, but I heard everything. I may not have been able to get out there, but I could have shot him from here, through the window." He pointed. "I could have at least given him a warning shot if he started to get rough with you."

She looked at the window and his line of sight and nodded.

"I will get your stuff," she agreed.

She handed him his gun and laid the saddlebags on the bed.

Lance watched as she began to prepare lunch in the big, old, cooking area. There was a huge rock fireplace, with a black iron pot hanging over the fire on a rod. She was cooking something delicious in it--it smelled like chicken. She swung it towards her and added carrots and dough.

"Big house. Do you live here alone?" Lance asked. He hadn't seen any evidence there were more people about.

"Yes. It's a lot to keep up with, but it's mine. The mayor gave it to me for saving his son. It was abandoned. Lots of homesteads abandoned around these parts. I have nearly 400 acres, too. He gave me that for a lifetime of doctoring services. Seemed mighty fair to me." She didn't do anything but let her few pitiful cows pasture on them for now. She was only one woman after all, but she had plenty of dreams.

"Dang. More than fair. The mayor's family keep you busy? He has a large family?"

She laughed. "There's four of them, but it is his daughter that keeps me the busiest. She's part tomboy and the other part pure devil."

He smiled in return. He used to have a sister like that until she grew up and suddenly turned into a regular lady. She was married now to Luke Campbell. Married and happy.

She dipped a bowl full of the delicious smelling food and brought it to him, along with a spoon and cloth napkin. "Chicken vegetable soup with dumplings. Hope you don't mind."

He didn't. There were big chunks of meat, and it sure beat his own cooking. Granted, he hadn't done too much cooking since he got to Ophir. He'd been paying the outrageous prices at the only eating establishment in town, just like everyone else. If people couldn't mine or pan for gold, they tried to hike up the prices for goods, determined to get wealth one-way or the other.

"You will be sick of chicken before long. I have some cows, too, but I just can't manage to butcher them. The bacon I got in trade for some eggs and vegetables." She handed him a cup of milk. It was cold and he wondered how she'd managed that. Was there a springhouse close by?

"Butchering cows is a hard job," he nodded. She was an industrious woman and he admired that. She was working her homestead as hard as any man might do. He hadn't seen any sign of anyone else living or working there.

"There's a bowl under the bed with a towel over it, if you need to relieve yourself while I am out. I shouldn't be gone too long."

He nodded, a little embarrassed. She opened the door and left, her skirts swishing behind her. He was glad to see her take a rifle along.

He laid into the food as if it had been days since he ate last. He heard the wagon as it rolled away.

When the food was consumed along with the milk, he stretched out and slept. He knew if he wanted to get well he had to sleep, and it sure beat staying awake and feeling the pain.

When Lance woke again, it was late afternoon. He heard gunshots off in the distance, not too far away and wondered over it. His first thought was of the woman's safety.

She was sitting at the table quietly reading from a book.

"Gunshots?"

"Someone in town acting up, I imagine. It's not that far away. Pleasant Dale is just over the next rise." She closed her book. "Ready to get your bandages changed? I didn't want to wake you when I came back."

"Sure. Thanks," he nodded. He couldn't believe he was sleeping so hard that he hadn't heard her return. It wasn't like him at all. It was just another thing to humiliate him.

"I sent a message to your deputy, via the Johnson boys."

"Thank you."

She brought her bowls and supplies, and sat down next to him on the feather mattress. "This is gonna hurt a bit," she warned, with a soft frown between her lovely blue eyes.

He saw the bottle of whiskey. Rot gut for cleaning? He frowned.

"It's all I have access to out here. Lay down and let me get your shoulder first."

He did, and she unwrapped the bandages gently. She had delicate looking hands, and he watched fascinated, as she poured the whiskey directly into his wound. It burned like fire. She looked up just as he gritted his teeth.

"I am sorry, but it kills any festering."

"We are going to have to do something about getting you some proper supplies." He tried to distract himself from the pain.

She gave him a half smile as if she didn't believe him, and began wrapping him back up. "It looks pretty good, if I say so myself."

She pulled the blanket back from his leg and began unwrapping it. "This is going to be a lot worse. The bullet went clean to the bone and I had to dig it out. You were lucky in that it didn't break the bone in half. It would have taken longer to heal."

It was already taking too long to heal as far as he was concerned. Lance didn't like being wounded and feeling so helpless.

"Ready?" She positioned the bottle over the raw ugly wound.

He nodded, but he grabbed the feather bed with both his hands when the liquid touched the wound. "Damn, that hurts." It stung like the dickens. She poured a little more. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his face and body. He wanted to cuss a blue streak.

"Okay, all done." She wrapped him up again. She poured a small amount on a cloth and dabbed it on his forehead, to cleanse his stitches.

He felt a little bit nauseous and a whole lot weak. He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

"I am sorry to hurt you but really, it will help in the long run."

He felt her move off the bed.

"Are you ready for supper? I made some light bread."

"Sure," he mumbled, feeling a little better now. He sat up on the bed slowly and eased his feet to the floor. "Maybe some clothes later?"

"If you feel up to it," she nodded, and smiled softly. Lance loved her gentle smile. She was a petite little thing. He could span her waist with his hands if he were allowed to try. He watched as she set about pulling bread from her clay oven. Her skirts swished comfortingly. There were tiny patches on the skirt where she had mended it. Sparks from the fire had left them.

He wanted to get out of the bed, but his body just wouldn't cooperate the way he wished it would.

"Milk or water?" she turned and asked him. "Don't get up. I will bring it to you," she warned when it looked like he might be trying to get up. "Now seriously. You aren't going to feel like getting up for quite a few days."

"Water. I feel like getting up now," he argued. He didn't want to be a disagreeable patient, but he felt helpless and bound by his own weak body.

She laughed. "That's your mind talking, cowboy. Listen to your body. I don't have the strength to pick you up if you pass out in the floor."

"That would be just my damn luck, too," he grumbled to himself. How ignoble would that be?

Lance watched as she fixed him a plate of food and gave him a generous helping of light bread. She brought him a cloth napkin and laid it across his lap, then brought his plate and utensils.

"This smells wonderful. Thank you, Sarah." He would have a lot to repay her for, when he was able.

"You are welcome."

Lance ate the food with more gusto than even he expected and watched as she fixed her own plate. Her movements were graceful and he enjoyed watching her. "Where did you learn your doctoring skills?"

"Here and there. Mostly from necessity."

"I hear ya." He ate half the bread in just a few bites. He did love her light bread. She had smeared it with a generous helping of butter.

"Aren't you afraid to live out here all alone?" he asked. She was alone in this big house, not close enough to town to have neighbors to help watch over her.

"I keep a gun close by."

He smiled. "But can you hit what you are aiming at?"

She smiled back at him. "Truthfully, no, but is there anything more scary than when a woman waves a gun around?"

He barked out an understanding laugh. "So true. I can teach you how to shoot, Sarah."

"When you get better and if you still want to."

"Why would I change my mind about that?"

She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "Things happen."

He frowned. Lance could tell she didn't believe he would do as he offered and he wondered who had let her down so much in the past to color her outlook now.

"You look a little red in the face. Are you feeling all right?" she asked with concern, as she watched him.

"I am doing okay." He finished up the meal.

She came to take the plate from him and ran her hand gently down the side of his face. "You have a fever. Let me get you some more water. Drink as much as you can."

"Okay." He puffed out air between still lips. He didn't want to get sick on top of everything else. He watched her as she put the dishes in a wash bucket and from another bucket, dipped him a cup of water.

She handed it to him but didn't leave. "Drink up. I want to get you another one."

Lance chugged the water just to make her happy. He would rather have had whiskey. She filled it and brought it to him again. This time she didn't wait for him to drink it. She went to a trunk and began rummaging in it, finally squatting down to do so.

"You know, I think these might fit you when you are ready." She brought him some dark woolen trousers and a cotton shirt. "Just don't try and get dressed too soon. There is no need. It is not like you are going to be going anywhere for a while."

"Sure about that, are you?"

"I've seen enough gunshot wounds over the years. I don't think you will be any different, no matter how much you might wish it so." She folded the clothes and laid them across the end of the bed.

He grunted. She might be right. He felt pretty bad off. Still it might be nice just to be able to make a trip to the outhouse instead of using a darn bowl to relieve himself in.

Sarah lit three oil lamps as it was starting to turn dusk outside. She sliced an apple pie and brought Lance a slice. She'd never met anyone who turned down apple pie. He was no exception. Then she went to change into her nightclothes.

He had finished the pie and was dozing, with the empty plate sitting on his stomach. Sarah smiled. What a lazy, endearing thing to do. But he wasn't doing it because of laziness--he was doing it because he was healing. Not once had he complained about the pain he must be feeling, or complained about anything, for that matter.

He never noticed when she took the plate. He never noticed when she stood over him either and admired what a fine, handsome man he was. She pulled the blanket further up his chest and went to wash the evening dishes. He would sleep for quite a while, maybe even all night.

Sarah was woken once again in the middle of the night, hearing Lance's soft moans and the talking he was doing in his sleep. She listened for a while and, when he didn't return to sleep, she turned up the oil lamp and looked down on him.

He had kicked off his covers and his nude body shone magnificently in the gentle glow of the oil lamp. She sighed just a little--she couldn't help it. His massive chest was covered in fine, dark hair. His arms and legs were muscular and firm. He was broad at the shoulder and narrow at the waist and hips. She tried not to stare at his sex nestled in dark hair, but she couldn't help herself. She would probably die an old spinster and never know the true way a man and woman loved. Oh, she'd had the bad way, and all she could remember was the humiliation and the pain. She'd been so young, truthfully she hadn't known what was going on.

Sarah wondered if she would ever be found acceptable to a man. She was considered tainted after all, even though she didn't feel tainted. It was as if she wore a secret mark that told men and women alike that she was dirtied somehow. The people of Pleasant Dale never quite accepted her fully. They only started treating her with any thing less than open hostility after she had saved the mayor's son from illness. Then they had slowly started to avail themselves of her doctoring skills.

Lance moaned again and flipped over onto his side restlessly. She heard him call out the name Luanne. So, a woman named Luanne had this handsome cowboy's heart. She envied her. When he settled down once more, she lowered the light on the oil lamp and tried to go back to sleep herself.

Not even an hour later he was tossing and turning again, and nearly ready to throw himself off the bed to the floor. Sarah once again turned up the oil lamp and then climbed down the ladder. On bare feet, she padded over to the side of his bed. She touched his face. He was burning up to the touch. That wasn't good. It could only mean an infection was setting in. She pulled the blanket up over his nude body.

Sarah mixed some powder in a cup of water for him. He was still tossing and restless. "Lance?" she called his name softly. "Lance?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "Wake up and drink this. It will help with your fever."

He barely opened his glassy brown eyes, looking dazed. "How did you get so pretty?"

Sarah shook her head and chuckled. "Gosh, are you out of it! Drink this please." She helped him lift his head while he drank the whole cup full. "This will help with your fever."

"How come you don't believe you are pretty?" he asked, surprising her. His brown eyes were a little more alert.

"It is the fever talking," she smiled at him kindly.

"No, it's not. I know exactly what I am saying. You are a beautiful woman, Sarah Wagner."

It was time to stop his amorous talk, especially since he couldn't really mean it.

"More beautiful than Luanne?" she asked, to remind him of the woman he spoke about in his sleep.

He jerked and looked at her as if she had just slapped him. "How did you know about Luanne?"

"You called for her in your sleep. I figured she was a wife or a woman friend."

"Ah, so you wanted to put me in remembrance?"

"Yes."

He looked at her momentarily. "I am not married and Luanne is dead."

"What happened to her?" Sarah asked quietly.

"She didn't love me enough to go on living."

Sarah cocked her head to the side. She didn't understand and she wanted to.

"She took her own life a little over two years ago," he expanded patiently.

"I am so sorry." Sarah unconsciously put her hand on top of his.

He pulled away. "So am I. Can I bother you for some more water since you are up?"

Her touch disturbed him for some reason--or was it her sympathy? "It is not a bother." Sarah got him another cup full and left an extra one to leave where he could reach it.

When she went to climb back up the ladder, he stopped her. "Are you sleeping up there?"

"Yes." She turned to look at him.

"Why? There looks to be plenty of rooms in this house."

"To be near you in case you need something." She continued up the ladder. It wasn't the only reason, but he didn't need to know the other. That was personal. "Night, Lance."

"Good night, Sarah, and yes, you are even more beautiful than Luanne. You will just have to take my word for that."

His soft-spoken words thrilled her more than just a little. It was a long time before she actually got back to sleep.