Since Wyatt gave her no choice, she kept the cloth in place.

Slowly his grip relaxed. The willow bark tea mixed with yarrow was bringing the fever down. Before this most recent feverish stretch, she’d gotten a fair drink of water down him and some broth with bits of bread soaking in it. It combined to give him the strength to . . . sleep.

And he was one of the strongest men she knew, so that was a sad commentary on his condition.

He sank down into real sleep. She stayed with him, hoping the cool cloths fought his fever. Finally, she was satisfied the fever was coming down again.

This time she promised God no whining. No self-pity. Before her mind could start churning again, being awake for twenty-eight straight hours caught up with her.

Two

Wyatt woke up to a woman in his bed.

Very few things in his life had ever been stranger.

She had her hand resting flat on his chest, right over his heart. Her head lay on his uninjured shoulder. His arm was around her.

She was on top of the covers, and he was under, but it was still the strangest and most wonderful thing that’d ever happened to him.

And he’d once watched a cow sniff a little cloud that rolled into a mountain valley, leading a horde of clouds that settled into fog.

That fog rolling in like little balls of fluff and that sniffing cow had been the strangest and most wonderful thing . . . up until now.

Molly. And boy, oh boy, this was now number one. The sniffing cow wasn’t even a close second.

Molly what? What was her last name? He’d hardly ever talked to her. Well, a few times. And she’d served him delicious food. She was a way better cook than Cheyenne and a fair sight better than Win. She’d patched some of his clothes, washed them, hung them on the line. He’d seen her doing it. She’d cleaned up after all of them. She’d kept this house running through a time of madness.

And now she was sleeping in his bed, in his arms, and it felt . . . right.

Most everyone around here was named Hunt. His mind rabbited around to Win marrying Kevin, and then like a jolt of lightning, he remembered Cheyenne marrying Falcon. He leapt out of bed . . . except he didn’t.

He tried. Realized he was all but tied up. Remembered why—his broken bone—and figured he was too late to stop the wedding anyway.

So he just stayed where he was and watched Molly sleep. He’d done some wiggling when he’d tried to sit up, and she’d slept through it, so she must be exhausted. Poor thing.

He realized that her name could be Hunt, too, if he married up with her. And shouldn’t a man marry a woman he shared a bed with?