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she threw herself upon him when he sat in a chair, there was no telling what she might do to a man in bed. And he was too sick and weak to even attempt to fight her off. Fight her off? Mentally he reprimanded himself. He had been as much to blame for their moment of indiscretion as she. More so, since he was a learned gentleman with some experience and she was… she was… well, he wasn't sure quite what she was.
    He settled more snugly into the soft clover ticking that covered the rope-sprung bed. The cabin was one big room of hand-hewn logs with a big river rock fireplace on the south wall. It was a primitive cabin, but there was a softness to it, too. The softness no doubt stemmed, at least in part, from the multitude of homespun throws, covers, and curtains that appeared to be draped and tucked into every conceivable location.
    The upper loft made the ceiling low in the half of the room where the bed was built into the corner. The half near the fireplace was open to the rafters, from which hung skeins of onions and peppers, bunches of drying herbs and  long strips of jerked venison. Near the fireplace an old dried sycamore trunk was set up on legs as a meat block. In the center, near the hearth, was the small square table covered with a carefully pressed homespun tablecloth. It was the place where he'd sampled Miss Meggie's special near-deadly piccalilli.
    Just the thought made Roe groan. It must have been audible because the young woman glanced in his direction. He tensed.
    "Jesse," she called out through the door. "He's waking up." Without another glance in his direction, she untied her faded apron, hung it on a nail by the doorway, and hurried outside.
    A moment later a familiar blond head peeped into the open door. With concern in his bright blue eyes the simple young man made his way to Roe's bedside. "You better, frien'?"
    Roe smiled bravely. "Hello, Jesse," he said. "Yes, I believe I'm much improved over earlier in the afternoon."
    Jesse nodded solemnly. "Pa said you'd probably wake up hungry." He gestured to a pot left warming over the fire. "Got some bear broth to make you strong again. It should gentle your belly some."
    Roe looked toward the kettle warily.
    "Don't worry," Jesse assured him. "Meggie ain't laid a hand on this soup. Pa and I put this up ourselves last winter. I shot the bear myself."
    Roe swung his feet to the side of the bed and waited for the room to stop spinning. He was famished, he couldn't deny that, but he wasn't very interested in trying any more unusual Ozark food. Still, he supposed if the two big, brawny Best men could tolerate the stuff, he'd probably live to tell about this meal.
    "If you'll hand me my shirt," he said to the anxious young man at his bedside, "I'd be pleased to take some soup at your table."
    A few minutes later, and still somewhat weak, Roe was assisted into the cane-bottom chair.
    Meggie and her father came inside and she immediately began stoking up the fire in the grate. Pinching biscuits into the bake oven that she set in the hot ashes at the edge of the fire, she did not even glance at him.
    "Good to see you up and around," Best told him, slapping Roe smartly on the shoulder. "You eat up good, that bear broth is better than mustard plaster for what's ailing you, boy."
    Roe smiled amiably. The carved wood spoon,
her
spoon, lay beside Roe's plate. He hesitated momentarily before touching it and then mentally scoffed at his own foolishness. It was simply a spoon and would work as well as any other. He dipped out a bit of food and tasted it. The strongly flavored broth almost burned his tongue.
    Roe's glance settled on the young woman who had fed him the nauseating piccalilli. Though her form partially obscured the hearth, he could see the fire which seemed stoked a bit hotter than necessary. One of the pans hanging on the crane was smoking ominously. The young lady, herself, was cleaned up and better dressed than earlier in the day. Her dove gray dress was neat,