Finally, a quiet moment.

I had some unexpected visitors yesterday.

They were waiting at the house when I got back, one man slumped in the saddle, the other banging his fist against the door. I watched them from the little bluff that protects the house from the north winds and shucked my Winchester from its boot on my saddle.

I looped the reins around the saddle horn and tucked the rifle carefully into my shoulder before I nudged my heels into my horse's sides. The red paint had his ears pricked, as unsure of these newcomers as I was, but he picked his way gingerly down the slope, his ears flicking back and forth.

The one banging on the door whirled around when he heard my horse's hooves crunch in the dry dirt of the yard. His hand shot to the revolver tied down on his leg when he noticed the sunset glinting off a rifle barrel. He opened his mouth, likely to demand something, then stopped short when he realized I'm a woman.

He cast a shocked look at the shape of my leg shown so clearly by the pants, then shook his head and took a few steps toward me.

"Howdy, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat back to squint up at me. His skin was tanned by sun and wind, his eyes like black holes in his head. He was scruffy and unwashed with a few weeks' worth of beard on his jaw.

"Good evening," I said cautiously, prepared if his hand made another move toward that gun on his hip. "Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

Finally, he took his hat off. "Ma'am, my name's Clay Taggart. This here's Dan Blaine." He looked over his shoulder at the man still slumped in the saddle, then looked back up at me. "He's been hurt mighty bad."

I relaxed, lowering the rifle, letting my eyes flicker over to Mister Blaine. "What happened?"

Mister Taggart hesitated just long enough that I knew the next thing out of his mouth was a lie. "We ran across some Arapahoe. We got away, but Dan was shot. You're the first white person we've seen since."

Immediately my eyes darted to the other man and, sure enough, on a closer study, I found a dark stain at the top of his trousers. The maroon shirt he was wearing did a lot to hide the extent of his bleeding, but he looked seconds away from keeling out of the saddle.

Keeping the Winchester in one hand, I dismounted, leading Paint to the hitching post. Over my shoulder, I called, "You'd best bring him inside."

Once inside, I put down the rifle and snatched up an oil lamp from the table in the kitchen. I took it into the smaller bedroom then darted back into the kitchen, picking up a box of matches. Taggart had gotten Blaine down from his horse and they stumbled into the house. I could now see that Mister Blaine's face was deathly pale—nearly grey—and beads of sweat cut tracks through the trail dust on his cheeks.

"Put him there," I ordered, gesturing to the bed before I lifted the chimney on the first lamp and lit the wick, then lit the other lamp already in the room. When Blaine had been settled as comfortably as he could be, I handed Taggart the first lamp. "Is the bullet still in him?" I asked, pitching my voice low.

Taggart shook his head. "It went clean through. We ain't had time to clean it up is all."

This only made me wonder what it was they were running from.

I nodded in relief, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. "Take that lamp closer to the bed. I need to wash my hands first." 

Not waiting for a reply, I went into my own bedroom and took up the pitcher waiting on the vanity. I splashed some water into the waiting bowl and scrubbed at my dirty hands and splashed my face. I dried off as I strode back through the house.

Mister Blaine had laid his head back against the wall, his eyes closed and breathing ragged.

"Mister Taggart, if you go into the parlor, there is a bottle of whiskey in the drawer of the china cabinet." I began to carefully unbutton Blaine's shirt, revealing a fine, strong chest and quite a lot of blood.

Taggart disappeared to fetch the whiskey and I bent over Blaine, searching for the wound. It was easily found—a ragged gash in his side, just above his hipbone. The bullet had torn him open rather than going straight through him.

Inhaling deeply through my nose to steel myself, I probed gently at the edges of the wound. Blaine jumped and gasped, his eyes flying open, but he didn't say anything or try to interfere as I began cleaning the blood away.

Most of it was a dried, sticky mess. Getting him off the horse had set it to bleeding again.

Taggart came stumping back in, the run-down heels of his boots loud on the wood floors. He pulled the cork from the bottle with a resounding pop, took a slug, then handed it to Blaine, who immediately tipped the bottle to his mouth.

After two big gulps, he grimaced and handed the bottle to me. I took it, took a small sip, then looked up at Mister Taggart. "Bring the light closer."

Taggart sidled around to the other side of the bed, holding the lamp close so I could see what I was doing. I risked a single glance up at Blaine and found him staring hard at me, his mouth a tight line, his green eyes shadowed.

I didn't bother to warn him when I splashed some of the whiskey into his wound. It wouldn't make it hurt any less. 

His body seized up and he swore, blood and whiskey spilling from the wound. I used the whiskey to clean the dried, dead blood away, then quickly pressed a fresh towel to the gash. When Blaine's breathing had calmed somewhat, I gestured Taggart over. He set the lamp down and stood beside me, watching Blaine impassively.

"Hold steady pressure," I instructed. When he had taken over, I went toward the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled a sheet from it. Using the knife on my belt, I tore strips from the cloth and said, "Get him to sit up as much as you can."

"Ain't you gonna stitch it first?" Taggart asked, slipping an arm around Blaine's shoulders to help prop him up.

I shook my head. "Doesn't need it," I said as I reached around Blaine's middle. He smelled of blood, sweat and horse. He stiffened as my arms brushed his sides, but otherwise didn't move until I had secured the pad. Taggart had stepped back, so it was left to me to help lower him down slowly onto the bed.

"Thank you," he rasped, panting as he lay back against the pillow, his face sallow.

Cautiously, I pressed my hand to his forehead, but I'd seen no sign of blood poisoning around the wound. Only time would tell if he'd live, but the thin, dry air of Colorado was good for healing.

He watched me through half-lidded eyes. Something about him was familiar enough to make me feel comfortable. "You'll need to stay abed for a few days," I said, straightening up. "Rest is what you need more than anything."

His features tightened, but all he said was, "Could I trouble you for some water?"

I blinked in surprise. "Of course!"

Leaving both men in the bedroom, I bustled out to the kitchen and the bucket of fresh water waiting near the sink. I picked up the ladle and poured some into a nearby tin cup, filling it nearly to the brim. I knew how thirsty blood-loss could make a man.

Keeping my steps slow and measured so I didn't spill anything, I moved back toward the door, pausing when I heard Taggart snap, "We need to keep movin', Dan. We don't got time for you to lounge around here. You can ride like that."

There was a small silence. Then: "I ain't the one started that fight, Clay."

Someone—Taggart—sucked in an angry breath and I decided that was the moment to step in. I nudged the door open with my foot and stepped in just in time to watch Taggart's mouth snap shut.

Gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed, I helped Blaine drink, not speaking until he had finished the cup. Then I said, "I'll have supper on the table here shortly if you're hungry." I looked up. "I'm afraid I don't have any more beds, Mister Taggart, but you're welcome to bed down in the hayloft."

The man threw Blaine a sour look, but mumbled his thanks. Slapping his dark brown hat against his thigh, he muttered, "I'll see to the horses," and beat a hasty retreat from the room.

By the time I got supper cooked, Blaine had fallen into a deep sleep. Mister Taggart and I ate in silence before he disappeared out to the barn, still looking angry. 

I get a bad feeling about that man.

I'm sitting with Mister Blaine as I write this. Now that I can look at him without fear of him looking back, I realize why he seemed so familiar. It's because he is familiar.

He's the spitting image of Daniel, aside from a neat, thick mustache that somehow suits the shape of his face.

I have no idea if that means anything. I'm too tired to be very bothered by it.

I've never worked so hard in my life and the part of me that's Abby is exhausted, making my eyelids droop as I sit here in the dim candlelight. Abigail is used to it. She could probably sit here all night to make sure Blaine has no trouble during the night.