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The Apache set the skillet away from the fire and picked up his leather coat. “I am surprised a wanted desperado would tell you his true name.”
    “He didn’t, but—”
    “Then how can you be sure? Come on, Filly. We will examine this wounded man of yours.”
    Before Fara could press her argument further, Old Longbones had placed a pot of hot oatmeal into her arms. He shrugged on his coat, grabbed the steaming skillet of eggs and venison, and headed out the door. “Maybe some warm food in his stomach will revive our desperado,” he called over his shoulder.
    Hugging the oatmeal, Fara stumbled behind Old Longbones through the foot-deep snow. Almost blinded by swirling flakes, she could barely make out the Apache, who was scuttling along as spryly as any teenager. It did her heart good to see her friend so animated. From the time Fara and her father had moved down to Silver City, Old Longbones seemed to wither before their eyes. When Jacob Canaday died, the Indian’s mourning had been as intense as Fara’s.
    “Where are the horses the desperado rustled?” Old Longbones asked as he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin and stomped the snow off his moccasins. “Did he bring them into the mountains? Do they have shelter?”
    “He was on foot. He told me his horse had snapped a leg.”
    “That is bad.” Old Longbones winced as he pushed open the door and called out, “Are you still alive, desperado?”
    Fara swallowed before stepping inside. Memories of the stranger’s blue eyes had disturbed her all night. In spite of his ramblings, she had sensed his strength—a strength that fascinated her. Few of the men who courted her spent their time out of doors. They loved ledgers and lists and money—Fara’s money. But Hyatt seemed different. Intriguingly different.
    Telling herself not to be silly, she slipped into the small room. The man lay on the floor, unmoving. At the sight of his still form, her heart constricted in fear. She set down the oatmeal and fell to her knees.
    “Sir? Are you all right?”
    She laid a hand on his hot forehead, and his blue eyes slid open. “Angel,” he said. “You came back.”
    She glanced at Old Longbones. “He’s delirious.”
    “Maybe . . . maybe not.” The Indian frowned and crouched beside her. “You are still with us, White Eyes, but maybe not for long. Do you feel pain?”
    “My arm,” the man grunted.
    “Will you let me look at it?”
    Hyatt nodded, and Old Longbones directed Fara to stoke the fire in the stove. Thankful to escape, she hurried across the room. Why did the sight of the stranger’s bright eyes double the tempo of her pulse? Why had the thought of his death suddenly terrified her? He was a gunslinger—the worst sort of human being. One whiff of her gold and silver fortunes would elicit his most despicable traits. Greed. Selfishness. Ruthlessness. Treachery.
    “Filly,” Old Longbones called, “I will need your help now.”
    She shut her eyes. So much for lying around the ranch house reading books and relaxing by the fire. She was going to have to participate. She was going to have to reach beyond herself and touch this man’s life. Letting out a deep breath, she lifted up a prayer. Father God, I confess I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be around this disturbing man. Give me strength.
    “We need to move our friend onto the bed,” the Apache said as Fara approached. “Then we will have to work some strong medicine. What is your name, White Eyes? Where are you from?”
    Fara stiffened. Don’t let him be the Phoenix gunslinger, Lord. If he’s anybody else, I can do this. But don’t let him be Hyatt.
    “My name’s Hyatt.”
    Old Longbones glanced at Fara. She shook her head. “Let me take him down to Pinos Altos,” she whispered. “The sheriff can handle him.”
    “No, Filly. God has given this man to us.” He placed a gnarled hand on the man’s brow. “Mr. Hyatt, we are going to take care of you. Me and this . . . this