Read A Victorian Christmas for Free Online Page B

angel.”
    Fara rolled her eyes as Old Longbones bent over Hyatt. She had never been angelic in her life—and she wasn’t about to start now. There was nothing for it but to slip her arm around those big shoulders and begin to heave. Hyatt did his best to help, coming to his knees and staggering to his feet.
    Leaning heavily against Fara, he lurched toward the narrow bed beside the stove. As she grunted under his weight, she wondered how long it had been since she’d allowed any human to come this close. Even though the man smelled of his illness and his many days’ travel, he was warm and solid. His big hand tightened on her shoulder.
    “Angel,” he murmured.
    “My name is—” She stopped herself, realizing the penalty for revealing her true identity to such a man. “I’m Filly.”
    He looked into her eyes as she lowered him onto the bed. “Filly. That’s like . . . like a horse.”
    “Papa gave me the name. He said I was too feisty and high-spirited for my own good.” She drew the blankets up to his chest. “He thought about calling me Mule.”
    Hyatt’s face broke into a grin. “Stubborn, are you?”
    “Just don’t push me, Mr. Hyatt.”
    “Ready, Filly?” Old Longbones asked. With a pair of tongs, he carried a glowing ember from the stove. “You help me hold him still.”
    “Whoa there,” Hyatt said, elbowing up. “What are you planning to do with that coal?”
    “You have a gunshot wound in your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” Longbones explained. “The bullet went through, but the powder burned your skin, and the wound has become infected. I think some of the flesh may even be dead. You know the meaning of dead flesh? Gangrene. If you want to live, we must burn away the sickness in your arm. Then God will begin to heal it.”
    Hyatt clenched his jaw and nodded. “All right. Do your work.”
    Fara could hardly believe a low-down horse thief would submit so willingly to the ministrations of an Indian. But Hyatt drew his injured arm from under the covers and laid it across his chest. Not wanting to witness the terrible burning, Fara looked up into the desperado’s eyes. Help me, angel, they seemed to plead. She hesitated for a moment; then she took both his hands in hers.
    “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, Mr. Hyatt,” she said softly. “But you need distracting.” She kept her focus on his and began to sing:
    “When peace like a river attendeth my way;
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say—”
    “It is well,” Hyatt ground out as the red-hot ember seared his festering wound. “It is well with my soul.”
    Surprised the gunslinger knew the words, Fara continued to sing. “It is well.”
    “With my soul,” he forced the words.
    “It is well . . . with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.”
    The cabin filled with the stench of charred hair and scorched skin, but Hyatt barely winced. Instead, he gripped Fara’s hands with a force that stopped her blood and made her fingertips throb. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and thick neck. The blue in his eyes grew brighter and hotter as he stared at her.
    “Angel,” he said in a choked voice.
    “I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m with you.”
    When she thought the burning could not go on any longer, Old Longbones rose. “Enough,” he said. “There will be a scar, Mr. Hyatt. Perhaps your hand will move stiffly in the years to come. But if God wills it, you will live. Now I will go and search for nopal.”
    “Let me go,” Fara said. “You shouldn’t be out in the blizzard.”
    The Apache dismissed her with a wave of his brown hand. “I know where the nopal grows, Filly. I can find it even under the snow. You stay here and feed this man some breakfast.”
    “But, Longbones—”
    “And wash him, too. He stinks.”
    The Apache shut the door behind him, and Fara could hear him moving across the porch. Glancing at Hyatt, she saw he had finally shut his eyes and was