A Victorian Christmas (5 page)

Fara swallowed and read the article a second time. Then she sat up and looked out the window toward the little cabin. Six-three. Two hundred pounds. Blue eyes. Brown hair. Wounded in the left forearm. Phoenix. She tried to make herself breathe. A wanted gunslinger was lying in Papa’s cabin!

Throwing back the covers, she slid out of bed onto the cold pine floor. She quickly pulled on her buckskin leggings and warmest flannel skirt, knowing she would need all the protection she could get for a ride into Pinos Altos in all the snow. After buttoning on a blouse and jacket and pinning up her hair, Fara headed down the stairs.

The scent of frying venison wafted over her.

“You slept a long time, Filly,” Old Longbones said. He gave her a snaggletoothed grin. “Look, I have your breakfast ready. Venison steak. Eggs. Oatmeal.”

“I’m going to have to ride down to Pinos Altos,” she said. “It’s an urgent matter, Old Longbones. Breakfast will have to wait.”

“
You
will have to wait.” He gestured to the window. “Still snowing. No trail.”

Fara bit her lower lip. She had to get to the sheriff before the man escaped . . . or died. Maybe he was dead already. In some ways, that would be a relief. Then she wouldn’t have to fool with the situation.

“Sit down, Filly,” Old Longbones said. “I will fill your plate.”

“No, really. I can’t. Not right now.” Should she tell him? What if her old friend wanted to go down to the cabin? She couldn’t put him in any danger.
Armed and desperate
, the article had said. In her hurry to get back to the warmth of the ranch house, she had neglected to check the man for weapons. As for his level of desperation, only time would tell.

“What’s the matter, Filly? You’re usually so hungry in the morning—just like your papa. The two of you could—”

“There’s a man,” she blurted out. “I found him last night in the snow. You remember the dogs barking?”

“When I called down, you told me you were all right.”

“It was nothing. This fellow was lying out by the cabin. Wounded. But now I know he’s a desperado, Old Longbones. He’s wanted in three states. I have to get to the sheriff.”

“A desperado? He told you this?”

“I read about him this morning in the Silver City newspaper I brought with me. He’s a train robber.”

The Indian let out a long, low whistle. Fara knew he wouldn’t be too troubled by a man who robbed trains—those long black snakes, he called them. Apaches rarely spoke of snakes, creatures they feared and hated. When they mentioned the reptiles, they used only mystical terms, as though serpents were unfathomable spirits from another world. In Old Longbones’s mind, trains fell into the same category.

“He’s a horse rustler, too,” Fara said. She knew that to an Apache, horse thievery was a different matter altogether from train robbery. Rustling was an offense that deserved the most severe punishment.

“What man did he steal horses from?” Old Longbones asked.

“I don’t know. But I do know he hunted down and shot a prominent citizen in Phoenix. The poor gentleman is near death at this very minute.”

“Filly, are you sure this desperado in the newspaper is the same man you found in the snow last night?”

“Absolutely. It’s Hyatt, all right. I dragged him into Papa’s cabin. He’s lying down there half-frozen and sick to death with a putrefied gunshot wound.”

“Putrefied?” Old Longbones looked up from the skillet. “Is it infection—or gangrene? I had better check him.”

“But you don’t understand. He’s a terrible man. He might harm you.”

“Filly.” The Apache gave her a long look. “Once I was the enemy of your people. My friends and I raided the White Eyes’ towns and attacked your settlements. Like that desperado in your papa’s cabin, we stole guns and horses. Sometimes, Filly, we killed. But in my time of greatest need—when I lay wounded, abandoned by my friends, and near death—Jacob Canaday took me in.”

“I know the story, Longbones. But this is very different.”

“It was not easy for your papa to do this thing.” The old Apache went on speaking as if he hadn’t heard her. “The White Eyes of Pinos Altos were very unhappy with Jacob Canaday. It was a great risk. For all he knew, when I came back to health, I might kill him . . . and his little golden-haired daughter. But Jacob Canaday always followed the teachings of that Book.”

He pointed to the well-worn Bible on the mantel. “In the Bible there is a command we Apaches have never understood,” he said. “‘Love your enemies.’ That is not our way. To us it seems foolishness and weakness. But Jacob Canaday showed me the great strength of those who can follow that command. Jacob taught me about God’s love by loving me enough to take such a risk. Because of the love of Jacob Canaday and his God, I learned to accept the White Eyes as my brother. And I learned to love the Son of God as my savior—the One who freed me from the consequence of my many wrongs. Now tell me, Filly, shall we let that desperado with his putrefied wound go to his death? Or shall we love our enemy?”

Fara averted her eyes. She had been brought up reading the Bible while nestled in her papa’s lap. Many times his gentle voice had spoken that command:
“Love your enemies.”
She had always believed it—in the abstract. It had come to mean tolerating her nosy neighbors or inviting the owner of the competing brickworks to her Fourth of July picnic. But to really put herself out for someone else? someone who might harm her?

“Old Longbones,” she said softly, “I hear your wise words. But if this Hyatt fellow were to hurt you—”

“He told you his name was Hyatt?” The Apache set the skillet away from the fire and picked up his leather coat. “I am surprised a wanted desperado would tell you his true name.”

“He didn’t, but—”

“Then how can you be sure? Come on, Filly. We will examine this wounded man of yours.”

Before Fara could press her argument further, Old Longbones had placed a pot of hot oatmeal into her arms. He shrugged on his coat, grabbed the steaming skillet of eggs and venison, and headed out the door. “Maybe some warm food in his stomach will revive our desperado,” he called over his shoulder.

Hugging the oatmeal, Fara stumbled behind Old Longbones through the foot-deep snow. Almost blinded by swirling flakes, she could barely make out the Apache, who was scuttling along as spryly as any teenager. It did her heart good to see her friend so animated. From the time Fara and her father had moved down to Silver City, Old Longbones seemed to wither before their eyes. When Jacob Canaday died, the Indian’s mourning had been as intense as Fara’s.

“Where are the horses the desperado rustled?” Old Longbones asked as he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin and stomped the snow off his moccasins. “Did he bring them into the mountains? Do they have shelter?”

“He was on foot. He told me his horse had snapped a leg.”

“That is bad.” Old Longbones winced as he pushed open the door and called out, “Are you still alive, desperado?”

Fara swallowed before stepping inside. Memories of the stranger’s blue eyes had disturbed her all night. In spite of his ramblings, she had sensed his strength—a strength that fascinated her. Few of the men who courted her spent their time out of doors. They loved ledgers and lists and money—Fara’s money. But Hyatt seemed different. Intriguingly different.

Telling herself not to be silly, she slipped into the small room. The man lay on the floor, unmoving. At the sight of his still form, her heart constricted in fear. She set down the oatmeal and fell to her knees.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

She laid a hand on his hot forehead, and his blue eyes slid open. “Angel,” he said. “You came back.”

She glanced at Old Longbones. “He’s delirious.”

“Maybe . . . maybe not.” The Indian frowned and crouched beside her. “You are still with us, White Eyes, but maybe not for long. Do you feel pain?”

“My arm,” the man grunted.

“Will you let me look at it?”

Hyatt nodded, and Old Longbones directed Fara to stoke the fire in the stove. Thankful to escape, she hurried across the room. Why did the sight of the stranger’s bright eyes double the tempo of her pulse? Why had the thought of his death suddenly terrified her? He was a gunslinger—the worst sort of human being. One whiff of her gold and silver fortunes would elicit his most despicable traits. Greed. Selfishness. Ruthlessness. Treachery.

“Filly,” Old Longbones called, “I will need your help now.”

She shut her eyes. So much for lying around the ranch house reading books and relaxing by the fire. She was going to have to participate. She was going to have to reach beyond herself and touch this man’s life. Letting out a deep breath, she lifted up a prayer.
Father God, I confess I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to
be around this disturbing man. Give me strength.

“We need to move our friend onto the bed,” the Apache said as Fara approached. “Then we will have to work some strong medicine. What is your name, White Eyes? Where are you from?”

Fara stiffened.
Don’t let him be the Phoenix gunslinger, Lord. If
he’s anybody else, I can do this. But don’t let him be Hyatt.

“My name’s Hyatt.”

Old Longbones glanced at Fara. She shook her head. “Let me take him down to Pinos Altos,” she whispered. “The sheriff can handle him.”

“No, Filly. God has given this man to us.” He placed a gnarled hand on the man’s brow. “Mr. Hyatt, we are going to take care of you. Me and this . . . this angel.”

Fara rolled her eyes as Old Longbones bent over Hyatt. She had never been angelic in her life—and she wasn’t about to start now. There was nothing for it but to slip her arm around those big shoulders and begin to heave. Hyatt did his best to help, coming to his knees and staggering to his feet.

Leaning heavily against Fara, he lurched toward the narrow bed beside the stove. As she grunted under his weight, she wondered how long it had been since she’d allowed any human to come this close. Even though the man smelled of his illness and his many days’ travel, he was warm and solid. His big hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Angel,” he murmured.

“My name is—” She stopped herself, realizing the penalty for revealing her true identity to such a man. “I’m Filly.”

He looked into her eyes as she lowered him onto the bed. “Filly. That’s like . . . like a horse.”

“Papa gave me the name. He said I was too feisty and high-spirited for my own good.” She drew the blankets up to his chest. “He thought about calling me Mule.”

Hyatt’s face broke into a grin. “Stubborn, are you?”

“Just don’t push me, Mr. Hyatt.”

“Ready, Filly?” Old Longbones asked. With a pair of tongs, he carried a glowing ember from the stove. “You help me hold him still.”

“Whoa there,” Hyatt said, elbowing up. “What are you planning to do with that coal?”

“You have a gunshot wound in your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” Longbones explained. “The bullet went through, but the powder burned your skin, and the wound has become infected. I think some of the flesh may even be dead. You know the meaning of dead flesh? Gangrene. If you want to live, we must burn away the sickness in your arm. Then God will begin to heal it.”

Hyatt clenched his jaw and nodded. “All right. Do your work.”

Fara could hardly believe a low-down horse thief would submit so willingly to the ministrations of an Indian. But Hyatt drew his injured arm from under the covers and laid it across his chest. Not wanting to witness the terrible burning, Fara looked up into the desperado’s eyes.
Help me, angel,
they seemed to plead. She hesitated for a moment; then she took both his hands in hers.

“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, Mr. Hyatt,” she said softly. “But you need distracting.” She kept her focus on his and began to sing:

“When peace like a river attendeth my way;
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say—”

“It is well,” Hyatt ground out as the red-hot ember seared his festering wound. “It is well with my soul.”

Surprised the gunslinger knew the words, Fara continued to sing. “It is well.”

“With my soul,” he forced the words.

“It is well . . . with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.”

The cabin filled with the stench of charred hair and scorched skin, but Hyatt barely winced. Instead, he gripped Fara’s hands with a force that stopped her blood and made her fingertips throb. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and thick neck. The blue in his eyes grew brighter and hotter as he stared at her.

“Angel,” he said in a choked voice.

“I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m with you.”

When she thought the burning could not go on any longer, Old Longbones rose. “Enough,” he said. “There will be a scar, Mr. Hyatt. Perhaps your hand will move stiffly in the years to come. But if God wills it, you will live. Now I will go and search for nopal.”

“Let me go,” Fara said. “You shouldn’t be out in the blizzard.”

The Apache dismissed her with a wave of his brown hand. “I know where the nopal grows, Filly. I can find it even under the snow. You stay here and feed this man some breakfast.”

“But, Longbones—”

“And wash him, too. He stinks.”

The Apache shut the door behind him, and Fara could hear him moving across the porch. Glancing at Hyatt, she saw he had finally shut his eyes and was resting again. But when she tried to detach her hands, he tightened his grip.

“Don’t go, angel.”

“I told you I’m no angel. I’m a headstrong, stubborn—”

“You’re an angel.” His lids slid open, and his eyes found hers. “You ran off the wolves. You hauled me out of the snow. You took me into your cabin. You brought the old Indian to heal me. I owe you my life.”

For half a second, she was drawn into the music of his words. All her adult life, she had longed to hear a man speak to her with such sincerity, tenderness, warmth. And then she remembered Hyatt was a con man. A desperado. A gunslinger.

“You sure are a smooth talker,” she said, pulling away. “But I ought to warn you that a silver tongue won’t get you far with me. I respect a man who speaks straight and tells the truth.”