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with those honest eyes while Bodine held him in his arms that one last heartbreaking time. “Care for them, Bo. Make my family, yours.”
    Bodine promised. And because of that promise he couldn’t succumb to the pain that ripped his shoulder to shreds. Or the burning cuts that flamed raw on his arms. He needed vengeance. He needed to uphold the vow he’d made.
    Bodine fought the pain, struggled to recover. He couldn’t give in. He thrashed on the bed, tossing his head back and forth as raging fever seized him. “No, no. Josh. Not Josh,” he called out wildly.
    And then an angel’s voice thrummed gently in his ears, the melodious song flowing soft as a peaceful river.
    Bodine calmed. The sound lifted him, drawing the ache from his shoulder, erasing the nightmares from his soul and lulling him like a baby being rocked in a cradle.
    Someone touched him. He felt the steady coolness of her hands on his forehead. Bodine heard her tranquil voice, the song of an angel, the sound too beautiful to be anything but from somewhere higher up, a power that could heal and soothe.
    Bodine surrendered his nightmares.
    He slept.
     
    Emma lay awake nights tending to Bodine’s bouts of fever, succumbing to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. She slept at peace only when Bodine was at peace, and when he woke, burning up, his skin raging with heat, she cooled him with barrel water and sang to him, the same nighttime lullabies her mama Elena had crooned to her as a child.
    The first night she tried sleeping in the slant-back chair in the room, but it proved too uncomfortable, so the following night she took up the outermost part of the bed, covering herself with the woolen blanket from Bodine’s bedroll. With him going in and out of consciousness, Emma didn’t dare sleep in the main room, where a big fur-lined chair sat nestled in the opposite corner from the cooking area. Fearful that she’d lose him during the night, she kept up her vigil by his bedside, watching him sleep, under the buffalo robe unless his fever raged.
    When that happened, she’d dump nearly a full bucket of water on him, washing him down methodically, learning his body, the cords of muscle, the sinew and tight pull of skin. His color came back gradually. His nightmares waned.
    And by the third day, Emma had exhausted herself.
    “Wake up, Bodine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “We’re almost out of food.”
    Emma had rationed the pitiful fare left by Mr. Big Ed Minton. Of course, he had no way of knowing he’d be entertaining two houseguests, one who hadn’t eaten a thing, and the other who’d eaten only enough to sustain her. The jerky was all but gone. The smidgen of stale bread and preserves were gone, too. She had water by the barrelful and a fire that warmed the inside of the cabin quite adequately, but she worried that soon she’d fall beside Bodine from fatigue and famine.
    After a short nap, Emma rose, feeling refreshed except for the grumble in her stomach. She patted the area as if notifying her insides she recognized the problem. Only Lola had enough to sustain her, the grain and straw enough to last through the winter.
    At least, that was one worry off her shoulders. Lola wouldn’t starve. As she gave her situation some thought, she realized that the town of Oakhurst, with the meager general store, wasn’t overly far from here. If she could manage her way there and back while Bodine slept, she could purchase the supplies she needed.
    With that in mind, Emma set out to boil water for a quick bath. She’d been wearing one of the clean shirts she’d found in Bodine’s saddlebag. She’d tied it at the waist by a measure of rope. Her dress had seen better days, soiled and stained with blood and ripped in many places. She’d washed it out every day hoping for improvement. She’d given little care to her appearance, but even under these dire circumstances, she’d not venture into town looking much like a nearly drowned critter.
    Big Ed