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in the dining room in an hour.”
    â€œThank you, Senora Manchez.”
    After stabling his horse, Heath made his way to the shed behind the hotel. Will Eagle was an Indian of about sixty winters. His long braided hair was the color of newly fallen snow. He was dressed in faded jeans that bagged at the seat and a well-worn buckskin shirt that hung from his gaunt frame. Despite his shabby clothing, he had an exalted bearing.
    Perched smartly atop his head was a black top hat. It looked as if it had been squashed repeatedly over the years. Now it stood only half as tall as it originally did.
    To the casual observer, the headgear appeared ready for the garbage heap. But to Will Eagle it was more precious than a bank vault filled with gold. It had been presented to him by the white captive, Cynthia Ann Parker, and her Comanche husband, Wanderer. He wore it with all the defiance of the renegade bands of Comanche, who rejected the forced removal of the People to government reservations.
    Heath introduced himself to the stoic old man, extending his hand. For a long, tense moment, he met Will’s eye respectfully, something most white men neglected to do.
    Will was pleased. He shook Heath’s hand, pointed him toward the tub, and, without uttering a word, left him to his bath.
    Feeling that he had passed muster, Heath shed his dusty clothes and, sinking into the tub, gave an audible sigh of appreciation. He soaked until his sun-bronzed skin began to wrinkle like a prune.
    Still, he was reluctant to rise. The tepid water and frothy suds made his sore, aching body feel as if it had died and gone to heaven. On the trail he was afforded few opportunities to pamper himself. And even though he could rough it with the toughest hombre, his blue-blooded ancestry reared its head from time to time. This was such a time.
    Finally, the water turned cold. Leaving the tub, he dressed quickly and headed back to the house, eager for Pilar’s home cooking. The kitchen exuded the tempting scents of beefsteak, potatoes, and peas, freshly baked bread, and boiling coffee, drawing him like a siren’s song.
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    While Heath made his way to Pilar’s table, Stevie kept vigil at her father’s bedside.
    Dr. Ian Sullivan fought diligently to save his friend’s life. “The shot to the head just stunned him, I’m thinking, Stevie darlin’,” Sully said in his lilting Irish brogue as he worked. “It’s the hole in his chest that could send your da to his reward. As much as it hurts to hear it, lass, you have to be prepared for the worst.” He ignored her quick intake of breath and continued. “Saints preserve us, but I’ve seen wounds like this kill younger, healthier men.”
    Stevie jerked her chin, looking stubborn as Jenny, her pa’s most obstinate mule. Blinking rapidly, she refused to cry at Sully’s dire warning. She had to be strong for Winter, the frightened child cradled in her embrace.
    She caressed the locket nestled between her breasts as if it were a talisman. The shell pink cameo held a lock of her mother’s blue-black hair. And it was Stevie’s most prized possession. It had always brought her luck before. Today would be no different. Her father would live. She told the doctor as much in a tone that brooked no disagreement.
    â€œI pray God you’re right, Stevie darlin’. I truly do.” Sullivan straightened beside the bed, washed his hands in the sanguine water, dried them on a scrap of muslin, then unrolled and buttoned his shirtsleeves. “I’ve patched him up the best I can. He’s in God’s hands now.”
    â€œPa will get well,” she vowed again. “And I will get even.”
    Her face hardened with such hatred that Sully crossed himself. “Here now,” he sputtered: “What are you about?” He blinked like an owl, then narrowed his blue-gray eyes in patent disapproval. “Explain yourself.”
    But