They’d been rescued, she and Abigail, but it hadn’t been Scully who’d saved them. Not unless he’d taken to carrying a bow and arrow. Protruding from the animal’s matted hide was a long, narrow rod of smooth wood, capped with grimy feathers.

Gathering Abigail into her arms in a desperate embrace, Evangeline dropped to her knees in the snow, still almost mindless with fear. Abigail wriggled against her.

“Look, Mama,” she said, pointing toward the timber. “It’s that Indian.”

“I-Indian?” Evangeline echoed stupidly, still staring at the fallen wolf, the arrow, the rivulets of crimson spilling over lusterless black fur. Images of fallen soldiers in blood-soaked uniforms flashed through her mind, mingled with visions of Scully, bleeding all over his horse, but then she felt the snow wetting through to her knees; the chill revived her a little, drove some of the fog of terror from her brain. “Indian?”

Abigail was still pointing. Evangeline followed the line of her daughter’s vision and saw the lone brave, no doubt a warrior, on the hill to their left, partially hidden by trees. He was riding a spotted pony now, but he’d been on foot the last time she’d seen him, begging for food. He was the same man who had so frightened her, looming up in the doorway of the barn while she was milking Bessie, when she’d first arrived on the ranch.

Seeing that Evangeline was looking at him, he raised his bow in one hand, in some sort of silent salute, and then turned his pony and rode away, into the depths of the woods.

“Jupiter and Zeus!” Abigail cried, delighted. “He was splendid!”

Evangeline climbed awkwardly to her feet, her gaze on the dead wolf, now that their chivalrous Indian had ridden away. “Come on,” she said, tugging at her daughter’s hand. “We’re going home.”

“What about the buckets, Mama? What about the water?”

There were times when Abigail’s implacable practicality did not seem to be her best trait. Nonetheless, she was right. They couldn’t leave the buckets—they had no others, besides the metal one that was used for milking. And the reservoir in the stove was nearly empty, as was the small keg that held drinking water.

Knees trembling, feeling sick to her stomach, Evangeline turned and tramped back to collect the buckets and fill them. When that was done, she and Abigail set their faces for the warmth and relative safety of the house, giving the wolfs carcass a wide berth as they passed it.

CHAPTER

10

HE KNEW SOMETHING had happened when he saw her marching slowly toward the cabin, pails of water in either hand, Abigail trotting along at her side. Maybe it was the way she held her head, or her shoulders, like she was fragile, even broken inside, and still doing her damnedest to hold up. The front of her skirt was wet through, though that might not mean anything at all. It was easy enough for a person to lose their balance when crouching down next to the spring to dip in a bucket.