Duncan was holding an enamel mug of coffee between his hands. He lifted it to his mouth and took a steadying draught before answering. “I’m sure you’d agree that passion can do very strange things to a man.”

“What would you have done—if my brother hadn’t interfered?”

Duncan set the mug down with a thump. “That sheepherder was your brother?”

Reeve nodded. “I asked you a question.”

His face twisted with a memory of pain suffered, Duncan unconsciously rubbed the place in his shoulder where he’d been stabbed. “The truth is, I intended to raise welts on her bare backside. I hadn’t thought much beyond that, frankly.”

“Maggie thought you meant to rape her.” Duncan sighed. “Maybe it did appear that way from her viewpoint. She made me so crazy—”

“That,” Reeve said, “I can understand. But if you ever force yourself on her, Duncan, I’ll kill you.”

Duncan indulged in a speculative, thoughtful silence for a few moments, then asked, “Suppose I can woo her? Suppose she gives herself to me, Reeve?”

“Then I wouldn’t want her,” Reeve replied, and with that he shoved his half-finished stew away and went back upstairs.

It was the middle of the night when the missionary doctor arrived. He was surprisingly young, with an earnest face and a small, agile build. Briskly, he examined Maggie and then tucked the covers in around her again.

“Pneumonia?” Reeve hardly dared to ask.

The doctor shook his head. “No, mate. Just exhaustion, I’d say, and a very bad cold. Has she been under a great deal of strain or tension in recent days?”

Reeve considered all that Maggie had been through and nodded.

“There you have it, then. Your wife needs a good long rest and lots of sunshine.” The physician made a wry face at the intruding clamor of the rain on the roof. “That is, if the sun ever chooses to come out again.”

Reeve was weak with relief. He paid the doctor a generous fee and, when he was gone, stripped off the clothes he’d put on earlier and crawled into bed beside Maggie. The space was scant, considering the width of that cot and his own size, but Reeve didn’t care. Though she was hot as a cheap pistol, he held her close and fell asleep.

The next day the sun was out with a vengeance, drying up the muddy lakes that filled the roads and turning the mud to cracked dirt. Maggie was awake, though not nearly well enough to travel.

She made a face at the bowl of broth Reeve held out to her. “Tastes like dishwater,” she said.

Reeve chuckled, too glad of her recovery to be annoyed at her sullen mood. “The doctor said you need to eat. Are you going to take this yourself, Yank, or do I have to pour it down your throat?”