A Victorian Christmas (6 page)

“I am telling the truth,” he said. “I’m grateful to you. You saved my life.”

“And you twisted mine up in knots. It’s almost Christmas, and I’ve been looking forward to a few days of rest. Now you’re here, and Old Longbones is ordering me to give you breakfast.”

“And a bath.”

“Not a chance.” Flushing, she walked over to the stove. The very idea of touching him again flustered her. Maybe the Apache would take it upon himself to tend the wounded man. He needed something to do, and this would fill the bill nicely. But could she trust the gunslinger not to harm the old man?

Fara filled a plate with eggs and venison. Then she ladled a large dollop of oatmeal into a bowl. She was as hungry as an empty post hole, but she didn’t like the idea of eating with Hyatt. It smacked of acceptance. She wanted him to understand that— as a good Christian—she would see to his welfare. But she would never consider him an equal. She would tolerate him, but she would never like him.

“Here you go,” she said, holding out the plate.

He eyed the steaming eggs. “They smell good.”

“Better than you.”

He smiled. “I think I can manage the eggs, but I won’t be able to cut the steak.”

“All right, I’ll do it.” Fara sat on a rickety stool near the bed. “But just this once.”

She sliced off a chunk of steak, speared it with the fork, and placed it in his mouth. He let out a deep breath and began to chew. “You know how long it’s been since I ate a hot meal?”

“Since Phoenix, I reckon.”

His brow narrowed. “How did you know I’d been in Phoenix?”

Fara’s blood chilled. She mustn’t let Hyatt know she was aware of his crimes. It would put her—and Old Longbones—in grave danger. All the same, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. He was a criminal, and he had committed a heinous crime. Never let it be said that Fara Canaday would let a villain get away easy.

“You kept muttering about Phoenix,” she said. “Last night.”

“What did I say?” He had stopped chewing. “Did I talk about the shooting?”

“Nope.” She popped another bite of steak into his mouth. “So, who pegged you?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t remember his name.”

Sure,
Fara thought.
You’d only been tracking that poor Mr.
Copperton for years.
“Seems strange that a man you didn’t know would take it upon himself to shoot you.”

Hyatt leaned back on his pillow, eyes shut and brow furrowed. “It happened so fast,” he said. “I turned on the staircase landing, and there he was. He . . . he was aiming to kill.”

“Lucky for you he missed. Did you shoot back?” She waited, wondering if he would tell the truth.

“I shot at him,” Hyatt said. “He hollered out he was hit. But his men came after me.”

“So you ran?”

The blue eyes snapped open. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Depends. I’m not walking in your shoes. Maybe you had some kind of a history with the fellow. Maybe you held something against him that needed settling. In a case like that, only a yellowbelly would run.”

“A yellowbelly?” Hyatt’s eyes crackled with blue flame, and his good hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. “I’m no coward. I never saw that man in my life. I was ambushed.”

She leaned close and jabbed a forefinger into his chest. “You swapped lead with him, buckaroo. Then you took off like a scorpion had crawled down your neck. Doesn’t sound to me like you’ve got enough guts to hang on a fence. And you’re a sinner besides.”

“Now listen here, lady.” He elbowed up until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ll have you know I’m a Christian man—”

“Trying to get yourself out of trouble by taffying up the Lord?”

“I’m as straight as a—”

“You’re so crooked—”

“I got the nopal.” Old Longbones stepped into the cabin carrying an armful of the flat, fleshy stems of the prickly pear cactus. At the sight of the man and woman, he stopped, his brown eyes darting back and forth. “Filly?”

She straightened, clutching the plate of now-cold eggs. “You found the nopal.”

“Yes. But I see you have already brought color to our patient’s cheeks. And a sparkle to his eyes.”

CHAPTER THREE

Hyatt knew the woman didn’t trust him. He studied her busily heating water and fussing with the Indian. She wasn’t an angel, she informed the old man, and she didn’t take kindly to a stranger pinning such labels on her. Especially a stranger who had showed up in the middle of the night with a gunshot wound. The Indian didn’t pay her much heed, just went about his work on the prickly pear stems.

Hyatt felt as though the devil himself had been gnawing on his arm. His wound burned with a pain so intense he could hardly concentrate. Yet for some reason, the woman’s distrust of him was a greater torment. He could understand her doubts about the character of a man with a bullet hole through his arm. But to call
him
—Aaron Hyatt, owner of one of the most profitable gold mines in California, builder of two mercantiles, a hotel, a grocery, and a church, and a good bronc buster to boot—a coward . . . and crooked?

He might not have minded the insults if she’d been a creature of little brain and less beauty. But this woman—this Filly—was intriguing. On the one hand, she clearly was poor. She lived in a run-down cabin, and she dressed like the prospector’s daughter she probably was. That flannel skirt obviously had been on horseback more than once, and Hyatt had glimpsed the buckskin leggings at her ankles. The only friend she seemed to have was the Indian. Not that the old man was bad company, but he certainly wasn’t the high society type who consorted with Hyatt’s usual female acquaintances.

On the other hand, Filly was a dazzler. Her thick gold hair gleamed in the early morning light, and those brown eyes of hers put Hyatt in mind of sweet blackstrap molasses. More than her fine figure and slender waist, her spunky spirit beckoned him. Had a woman ever stood up to him the way this Filly had, poking him in the chest, calling him names, putting him in his place? Not a one. This golden angel had him downright mesmerized.

He came to a decision. While he was here in her cabin, he would do more than tend his arm and get back on his feet. He would convince this woman of his kind, generous, intelligent— and equally stubborn—nature. Maybe he’d even win a kiss for his trouble.

“I won’t wash him!” Filly announced, setting her hands on her hips. “It’s not proper.”

“Just wash his face and that arm, Filly,” the Indian said. “He can take care of the rest himself. You start with the arm, and then I can put on the nopal.”

Jaw clenched, she turned those big brown eyes on Hyatt.“I don’t suppose you’re well enough to wash your own arm, are you?”

He held back a smile. “I’m feeling a mite poorly, Miss Filly,” he said. “I’d be much obliged if you could do it.”

Pursing her lips, she heaved the bowl of steaming water over to the stool and knelt beside it. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” she said, dipping a clean rag into the water. “I doubt this will hurt any more than what Old Longbones did to you a few minutes ago.”

As she pushed up his sleeve and began trickling warm water over his splotchy skin, Hyatt took a closer look at her face. Long dark lashes framed her eyes. A pair of perfect eyebrows arched beneath the fringe of soft golden bangs she wore. When she cradled his arm to dab the wound with clean water, a look of concern flashed across her brow.

“Don’t cry out or jump now,” she said.

“I reckon I’ve broken more bones than you ever knew a man had. You won’t hurt me, Miss Filly.”

She looked at him, her brown eyes serious. “How’d you break those bones? Jumping off trains?”

Hyatt scowled.
Trains?
What on earth made her think he’d want to jump off a train?

“Horses,” he said.

She nodded. “I guess keeping a remuda just ahead of the law could be dangerous work.”

“What? Why, I never stole a horse in my life,” he exclaimed, propping himself up on his good elbow. “I may have pulled a few wild tricks in my younger days—and I came out the worse for my foolishness. But I’m a breeder now. And I enjoy breaking a high-strung stallion . . . or a filly.”

Ignoring the bait, she dropped the rag into the pot of water. “A breeder, are you? Then why don’t you tell me what a bitting rig does?”

“It teaches a horse to flex at the poll . . . that’s the top of his head just back of his ears.”

“I know where the poll is.” She leaned closer. “What’s a hackamore?”

“A bitless bridle.”

“Mecate?”

“A hackamore lead rope. You aren’t going to trip me up, Miss Filly. I’ve been breaking horses since I was a colt myself.” He studied her face, the elegant tilt to her nose, the fine paleness of her skin. “How do
you
know so much about horses?”

She shrugged. “Old Longbones, I’ve washed him,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s all yours.”

“You fed him, too?”

“She’s been talking too much to feed me,” Hyatt said. “Chatty little creature you’ve got on your hands, sir. Would you be the one who taught her about horses?”

“No.” The Indian took Filly’s place on the stool. Hyatt tried to hide his grin as she strode toward the door to dump the wash water. For some reason, he was enjoying their give-and-take immensely.

“Filly’s father taught her to ride,” the Indian said. “He was a good man.”

“Was?”

“He has been dead almost a year. Filly covers her sorrow with much talk and busyness. But her pain is great. Her father was the joy of her life.”

Hyatt let his focus follow the young woman as she returned to the stove to pour more hot water into the bowl. Though Filly was clearly his opposite in education and social standing, he felt her sadness as though it were his own. His father’s death had been a hard blow, and one he would not easily set aside. He had loved, admired, and learned so much from the man. Respect for his father had driven Hyatt from California on this ill-fated journey. He knew the elegant Fara Canaday awaited him in Silver City, and having come this far, he would complete his dreaded mission. But he already regretted the moment he would leave the presence of the fiery Miss Filly.

“The nopal will bring you healing,” Old Longbones said as he laid the fleshy disk of split cactus stem on Hyatt’s wound. “We Apaches have used the prickly pear for many years. It is good medicine.”

“And you’re a good man to take such care of a stranger.”

“Filly’s father once cared for me when I lay near death. His love brought more than healing to my body. It was healing to my empty heart. Perhaps here you will find such healing.”

“I thank you, sir, but I don’t believe my heart is empty.”

The old man grunted. “Something drove you into the mountains with a bullet hole through your arm. Were you not following your heart?”

Hyatt pondered the Indian’s question. “Not long ago, my father died,” he answered in a low voice. “Before his death, he asked me to travel here. He wanted me to find someone.”

“Was that someone God?”

Hyatt shook his head. Years ago, he had surrendered his life to Christ, and since then he had tried to walk the straight and narrow. He was honest and truthful and fair. Though he didn’t associate with the outcasts of society, he gave charity to the poor and brought tithes to his church to be used in ministering to the needy.

“I found God a long time ago,” Hyatt said.

“Then your heart is not empty. And you have opened it to love all people.”

“Well, I . . . I do my best.”

“And you have found the love of a godly woman to be your wife?”

“No, I can’t say as I have. To tell you the truth, I don’t particularly want to get married—”

“Empty.” The old man laid his hand on Hyatt’s chest. “Our love of God is shown through our love for all people. And a wife? ‘Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.’”

“Preaching again, Longbones?” Filly bent over and softly kissed the Indian’s leathery cheek. “You’ll have to forgive him, Mr. Hyatt. I’m afraid my friend can’t hold in the joy of his salvation the way most of us do.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Hyatt said. In fact, the Indian’s words made more sense than anything he’d heard in a long time. If a man loved God—really loved Him—maybe that man ought to reach out beyond what was comfortable.

Hyatt surveyed his Spartan surroundings. He had been brought up in the lap of luxury. His father’s gold fortunes had built brick mansions and bought gilt-framed mirrors, goose-down bedding, and fireplace mantels that soared to fifteen-foot ceilings. Did that wealth make Hyatt any greater in God’s eyes than the old Indian and the young woman who lived in this humble cabin?

“Come on, Old Longbones,” Filly was saying. “You’ve tormented this poor tumbleweed enough. Let’s go get ourselves some breakfast before we keel over.”

“Wait—,” Hyatt called out. “You two don’t live here?”

“There’s another house,” the Indian said. “Up the trail.”

As they started again for the door, Hyatt felt a pang in his gut. The angel would leave. He’d be alone. Then his arm would heal, and he would go away. For good.

“Miss Filly,” he said. “You forgot to wash my face.”

She crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. “There’s hot water on the stool, Mr. Hyatt. You’ll manage.”

Hyatt swallowed, thinking hard. He wasn’t ready to let her go. Not just yet. He glanced at the Indian. The old man lifted a hand, touched his chin, and winked.

Hyatt smiled. “But, Miss Filly,” he said, “I’m in terrible need of a shave.”