They covered the small distance with the slowest and most cautious of steps, Evangeline bearing much of Scully’s weight. Between her own efforts and Scully’s, though, they came at last to the cot. He sank onto the thin mattress gratefully, and she checked his bandages—he’d stopped bleeding for the time being, at least—then covered him with one of the quilts she’d put out in the fresh air and sunshine that morning. Perched on the edge of the cot, she plumped his plain ticking pillow as best she could, and stroked the side of his face with a light pass of one hand. He closed his fingers around hers, held on tight.

“Thank you,” he said, gruff-voiced.

She wanted nothing so much as to kiss his fore-head—God help her, even his mouth—and if Abigail hadn’t been looking on, for all her pretended disinterest, she probably would have succumbed to temptation.

“Good night, Scully,” she said quietly.

He nodded, exhausted by his ordeal, and closed his eyes, but it was a while before Evangeline rose and went to remove the bloody linen from the bed. There were no more sheets, this being a frontier house, but she improvised, using quilts and blankets in their place. After getting Abigail ready for sleep—washing, teeth-brushing, and the saying of prayers—Evangeline added wood to both the fireplace and the cookstove.

The supplies of firewood were dwindling, and she would have to go to the spring for water in the morning, even before doing the chores that normally fell to Scully. She didn’t mind any of that—asked, in fact, only one thing of all fate and creation: that he would wake up tomorrow morning.

Abigail settled immediately into a deep sleep, and Evangeline tried to follow suit, but she couldn’t stop picturing that arrow protruding from Scully’s shoulder, seeing and smelling the blood. God in heaven, he’d lost so much blood. It was probably a miracle that he’d gotten back to the ranch house at all, instead of dying alone somewhere in the timber.

From the direction of the knoll where the fruit trees grew came the sorrowing cry of a wolf, perhaps the ferocious one with the ebony coat, sleek and fast and always, it seemed, somewhere nearby. Without awakening, Abigail snuggled closer, clasping one sleeve of Evangeline’s nightgown in a little fist.

Evangeline spoke soothingly to the child, in murmurs, hoping the frightening images of Scully’s injuries would not follow Abigail into her dreams. They were certainly waiting beyond the first thin veils of her own.

When it was time to feed the fires again, Evangeline was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling. She got up, crept across the cold floor, and leaned down to check on Scully. He was breathing evenly, and when she touched his forehead, there was no fever.

She said a silent prayer of gratitude and went to the stove, making as little noise as possible, stirring the embers with a poker and then shoving in several sticks of the precious seasoned wood.