PART THREE:

Something black was sticking up out of the snow. Awkwardly, her arms full of branches, she managed to stoop enough to pick it up between two fingers. A hat? She looked quickly around the small canyon bottom. Had the wind blown it down in there somehow? Five feet further on was something else, also black. She poked at it with the toe of her boot. It was a saddlebag.

There was no way the wind could have blown that in. Her lips parted. Someone had
been there.

A low thudding sound got her attention. The door was partially unlatched, opening and closing several inches, over and over in the wind. She moved close to the wall, laying her burden down, staring at the almost rhythmical motion of the door, her eyes wide. There was no horse. A saddlebag but no horse. If someone had come while she was gone, why would he have left his things out in the snow like this? Leaning her forehead against the rough wall, she closed her

lids a moment, breathed "Protect me, Holy Mother," and made the sign of the cross. One slow step at a time she moved toward the door, her long grey wool skirts dragging through the snow.

With a trembling hand, she stopped the door on its inward swing, leaning just enough to peer around it. The space inside was very small. No one was seated at her little table, no one standing near the fire. Perhaps whoever it was had come and gone? Then her eyes dropped to her pallet on the floor and her breath hissed in between her teeth. Someone was there! A sudden strong gust tore the wine-colored shawl loose from her head, letting her long brunette hair whip across her face. Heedless of that, her hand had flown to her mouth and she stood stock still, staring at the form on her bed. He appeared to be asleep. But why was he there? What could he possibly want?

She had no gloves and, her fingers freezing, she stepped breathlessly inside, closing the door behind her, leaning her back against it, her eyes never leaving the sleeping man. It took her nearly a full minute to exhale. Then she realized absently that she still clutched his hat in one hand and set it on a wooden chair just to the side of the door. What should she do? She had

no idea. None. She just stood there, leaning on the door a long while then, finally, picked up

his hat, sat in the chair herself, placing the hat on her lap, her hands quietly folded on its brim.

Ben muttered something in his sleep. For the last couple of days he'd been stuck in his sleep in that moment when he realized Charlie had let off his first shot at Dan. He'd lost count of how many men he'd seen die, how many of them he'd killed himself. Numbers didn't matter. The dying mattered even less. But that one shot still ran its course down his nerve endings. He'd

been smiling, smiling despite the monumentally dumb thing he found himself in the midst of doing. "NO!" he hollered aloud, jerking awake, sitting fast, too fast for his ankle. He gave a small cry of pain, clutching at his leg, filling the little room with a string of curses.

When the pain subsided, he lay back, a forearm thrown across his eyes, breathing heavily through his mouth. He lay like that a long time, then some instinct began to penetrate his thoughts and he felt like he wasn't alone. His gun. His gun was tucked inside his saddlebag.

He had no idea where he'd lost his grip on that. No bullets anyway. His lips pressed together

as his left hand moved to his belt where he'd tucked the knife. Quietly, inch by inch, he freed

it from its sheath. He slid it up his palm, its blade tucked behind his fingers, and slowly turned his head toward the door, every muscle coiled.

A small gasp of pure surprise escaped him. A woman! A woman was sitting near the door, her dark eyes wide, fixed on him. His brow creased in puzzlement as his gaze moved over her. She had his hat in her lap and the only movement she was making was a single fingertip that ran back and forth nervously along a portion of the brim edge. Paining as his ankle was, his green eyes followed the motion of her finger, finding it strangely impelling. Her long hair had obviously been blown loose and hung in rather tangled tendrils down over the front of her shoulders. She had to be somewhere in her late 20's he figured, beginning to study her tightly-controlled face. Damn good-looking woman at that. Despite the dark hair and eyes, her skin
was very fair, a few small freckles spattering across her well-shaped nose. Definitely not Mexican. What in hell was she doing out here so damn far from anyplace else?

Several minutes passed as they each studied the other. Unnoticed, he slipped his knife back

into its sheath. The smallest of smiles quirked one corner of his lips as he wondered how long

she could just sit there silently, watching the stranger in her bed. He let his mind play briefly with the thought of patting the blanket beside him, that she would get up and, still not speaking, simply come to him, lie beside him, warming his flesh with hers. Reluctantly, he let it go...for now. Something in her eyes, well, he let it go for now.

Finally he lifted himself up a bit on his right elbow, tipping his head at her. "My hat?"  He

said it in a deep, whiskey voice, laden with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Abruptly, the motion of her fingertip stopped. He was sorry about that. Her gaze dropped from his face down to his hat, then back again, and he was aware she was struggling to find some reply. He wondered what it might be.

"Yes," she said, "yes, I suppose it would be."

"It would," he nodded, letting his smile widen somewhat. "It seems I...misplaced...it on my way here."

She'd never seen quite that intense a look in a man's eyes. She swallowed hard, trying not to let it unnerve her. "It...it was in the snow. Outside. In the snow."

"Mighty obligin' of you to bring it inside, Ma'am." He paused. "Miss?"

She let that last query pass. "Your saddlebag was out there, too."  She glanced at the door.

"Still is." She looked back at him, the intensity of his gaze nearly a tactile thing, as though somehow his hands were on her from across the room. Rising quickly to her feet, she opened

the door. "I'll get it."

As she stood in the open doorway, the wind snapped her skirts, revealing a nice curve of calf, clad, though, in grey wool stockings. He smiled after her as the door closed behind her. A woman like that needed a blue satin garter. He lay back again, shaking his head over her presence in this place. She was gone less than two minutes, returning with his saddlebag still coated in snow. Taking five steps toward the fire, she bent, setting it on the floor, then moved back, standing just in front of her chair, now occupied again by his hat.

Watching her movements, he was reminded of someone placing a bit of meat as close to a wild animal as they dared venture. He found it amusing, amusing and rather appealing. He decided to sit, an activity that sent pain racing up his leg. He tried not to let it show on his face, but she saw it in his eyes, their bright amusement suddenly gone all darkly inward.

"You're hurt?"

"Just a little."

"Have you been shot?"

"Now why would you go'n think that?"

How could she say that, to her, he just looked like someone who lived in danger of being shot? She pressed her lips together, not answering.

"I fear I have an uncooperative ankle at the moment, but I'm most definitely not shot."

"How did you get here?"

"Not easy. Not easy at all."

"But...where...?"

"Up north." He shrugged. "Horse took a fall. Left me like a pirate without his peg leg."  He forced a disarming smile to his lips. He didn't really feel like smiling at the moment. Damn

ankle was throbbing to beat the band.

She'd had some experience with nursing and her every instinct was to help. She just didn't

know how close she could get to those eyes of his. She was still wearing a thick wool jacket, a man's jacket at that. How could his eyes make her feel as though he knew the shape of her breasts?

At last he lowered his eyes and she gulped in a lungful of air. He had thrown back the blankets and was looking at his right foot. "Suppose you could help me get this boot off?"

Well, it was obvious the man wasn't going anywhere, probably couldn't go anywhere. She

might as well deal with it. With the blankets off, she saw he wasn't wearing a gun belt. He was

all in black, every bit of him. His clothing was rather scraped, quite dirty, in fact, still wet in places, but finely-made. He wasn't some drover, some farm hand. "Are you a gambler?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

His eyes met hers again. "I've been known to engage in a bit of bettin' from time to time.

Right now I'm gamblin' that you'll be able to get this boot off for me."  His tone was soft,

almost enticing, as he tried to get her to do what he needed. He lowered his eyes again, aware now that that seemed to make her feel more comfortable.

She turned away for a moment and he saw her shoulders rise and fall with a deep intake of her breath. What he didn't see was that she crossed herself quickly before turning back. "I will

try," she whispered. Kneeling at the foot of the pallet, she lay both hands on his boot. "Do...

do you think it's broken?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Guess we'll be findin' out."

She gave a strong tug and his head jerked back, mouth opening widely, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I'm hurting you," she gasped.

"Damn, yes!" he moaned. "Just get it off. Get the damned thing...OFF!"

She braced herself, her feet against the small framing posts at the end of the bed, clenched her teeth, and pulled on the boot with all her might. Agonizingly slowly it came off and she fell the small drop back with it in her lap, a small crow of triumph on her lips. "I got...," she began,

but stopped when she saw that his head had fallen back on the flat little pillow. Dropping the boot, she moved to the side of the bed. "Mister?" He was out cold.

She felt suddenly free in a way she hadn't since he'd first looked at her. His face, completely relaxed, seemed younger to her. She guessed he was, though, at least ten years older than she was. "Who are you?" she murmured. "Why are you here?"

Going back to the end of the pallet, she removed his sock and slid his pants leg up somewhat. His whole ankle and the top of his foot was deep purple, quite swollen. Glancing up at his face

to make sure he was still not awake, she probed at it carefully, thoroughly, with her fingers.

No, she didn't think it was actually broken, just terribly sprained. Opening the door just

enough to scoop some snow into a thick bit of cloth, she packed it around his ankle. "Probably too late for that," she sighed. Then she heated a small basin of water and, kneeling near his

right shoulder, began to wipe his face. He had a bad scrape from his cheekbone down into the top of his beard. She blotted the dirt off that and was stroking the rag gently through the grime on his forehead when his eyes opened. She was leaning over him, her face not far above his as

she concentrated on what she was doing. Then the green eyes were there, framed in startling lashes, and she pulled her hand back.

He let his lids close. "Don't stop," he whispered. "Please."

She didn't move so he said it again, barely audibly. "Please."

Hesitantly at first, she brought the rag back to his face, moving it along one of his straight brows. "Mmmmm," he murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

As she wiped his other brow, she asked softly, "Who are you?"

"Benjamin," he replied, though he had no idea why he used the whole name.

"Benjamin," she repeated, oddly pleased. "Born on the road to Bethlehem."

The slightest snort came from his lips. "Never got there."

"Did you want to?"

His eyes slowly opened and he looked up at her. The woman had asked a very unusual question. He saw an open sincerity in her eyes and he closed his in response, shutting it out. "No," he whispered, "I stopped that kinda wantin' a long time ago."

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