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to his cheek in a gesture of sympathy. “I’m no doctor. Oh, I can set broken bones and sew up cuts, and I have a few herbs for croup and the like. But you need a sawbones. Without one, without a hospital where they can tend you proper, well . . .” She bit her lip. “I can’t offer any guarantees.”
    “I wasn’t expecting any.” Fargo softened his tone. “Look, we hardly know each other. But something tells me you’ll do the best you can. I’m in as good a pair of hands as any.”
    She looked at him strangely, then gazed off into the trees, her face in profile as lovely as any he ever beheld. “It’s not far. Once I dress the bites and get some soup into you and we put you to bed, the rest will be in God’s hands.” She patted his shoulder. “If I were you, I’d do a lot of praying.”
    “I’m not much for bending my knees,” Fargo confessed.
    “Then we’ll pray for you. Never underestimate the power of the Almighty, Mr. Fargo. The Good Lord has kept my children and me alive.”
    “But not your husband.”
    Mary glanced sharply down. “No, not my Frank. And if I live to be hundred, I’ll never understand why God saw fit to take him. The kindest, most decent man I ever knew. Why, Mr. Fargo? Why do bad things happen to good people?”
    “Hell. You’re asking the wrong man. Find yourself a parson. I gave up looking for answers long ago.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Fargo. A person needs to have faith in this life. Without it, what else is there?”
    Fargo figured she really didn’t expect an answer. He wearily closed his eyes and immediately dozed off. A jolt brought him back to the world of the living. That, and a loud thump.
    “At last!”
    “Nelly, you heat up water. Jayce, bring in extra firewood.”
    Fingers pried at Fargo’s buckskins. The dry blood had caked them to his skin and they wouldn’t come off. There was a tug, and then fingernails peeled at his shirt.
    “I’m afraid I’ll need to cut these off.”
    More reason for Fargo to miss the Ovaro. He had a spare shirt in his saddlebags. “Do what you have to.”
    As she worked, he faded in and out of consciousness. The warm cloth she used to wash the blood off felt wonderful. She used a needle and thread to stitch the bites and claw marks, and that didn’t feel wonderful at all. Each time the tip of the needle pierced his skin, he gritted his teeth.
    “Sorry if I’m hurting you,” Mary said.
    Fargo passed out again. When next he looked around, he was in a bed with blankets pulled to his chin. He did not need to pull them down to know he was naked. He brought an arm out from under and laid it on top.
    The bed and a dresser were the only furniture. A single candle on the dresser cast flickering light.
    A door opened, and in came Mary, carrying a wooden tray. On it were a steaming bowl of soup, a spoon, and a thick slice of buttered bread. She set the tray on the edge of the bed and sat next to him.
    “Oh. You’re awake. Good. It saves me having to wake you to get some food into you.”
    Fargo’s mouth watered. His stomach growled louder than the wolves had. “That sure smells good.”
    Once again Mary Harper felt his forehead. “You’re burning up. I don’t have a thermometer, but I’d guess your temperature to be at least one hundred and three.”
    “I’m more interested in that soup.” Fargo attempted to sit up, but once more his body betrayed him.
    “Let me.” Mary dipped the spoon and brought it to his lips and carefully let the broth trickle into his mouth.
    Fargo had never tasted anything so delicious. He yearned to grab the bowl and down the soup in great gulps, but fortunately he was too weak. And it might make him sick.
    Mary took her time. Whenever any got on his chin, she wiped it with a cloth.
    Warmth spread from Fargo’s belly. It made him drowsy, and the last thing he wanted was to pass out again. To try to stay awake he remarked, “You make the best chicken soup ever.”
    “Thank the chicken.