PART FOUR:

He lay quietly after that as she returned to bathing his face. She had said nothing in reply,

was only gently wiping the dirt, rinsing the cloth, wiping again. Somehow, knowing his name,

the fact that he was keeping his eyes closed, made her feel more comfortable. Besides, with

that ankle of his, she could always outrun him if need be. After a few moments, she leaned further over him to wipe the left side of his face which was closer to the wall. It was then she noticed for the first time the tear in his coat sleeve, the blood around it.

"You ARE shot!" she exclaimed.

He opened his eyes. "Forgot about that."

"How could you forget about being shot?"

"Was busy thinkin' about other things, I guess." The pain in his ankle had completely overshadowed it,  genuinely letting it slide from his attention.

"Let me see," she ordered.

"Ain't that a bit bossy?"

"Let me see," she repeated.

He sat up and she helped him shrug out of his jacket and vest. Under them he was wearing a silver-grey shirt. It was ripped and bloodied, too, and through the tear in it she could see

similar results in his white longjohns. She pursed her lips. "Well, you've gone and ruined three layers all at the same time."

"No help for it," he half-grinned. "Had to get myself in a door and there was a bullet waitin'

to greet me."

"Anywhere else?"

"Else...what?"

"You shot anywhere else?"

"Not so's I recall."  His grin widened.

"With your memory, you could be gut-shot and not recall."

"You'd probably have already discovered that. Belly blood bein' more noticeable 'n all."

"Shirt off."

He narrowed his eyes at her, muttering something about "damn bossy woman", but his grin belied his words.

Now he sat there with his black suspenders over the top of his white longjohns. "I need the

arm bare," she said.

"Ain't no way to get these longjohns off without takin' my pants down." He looked at her, his lips kind of puckered, his cheeks puffed out into near dimples. "You'd like as not have to help

me with that."

She sat back on her heels sighing. "Just unbutton it, Mr. ...Benjamin...and slip your left arm out."  He hadn't given her his last name and the use of his first seemed somewhat strange, but still she said it.

His lips twitched a bit at its sound on her lips. "You can call me Ben."

"Thank you, Benjamin, now if you'll kindly unbutton."

He still had his black gloves on, so took them off, then moved his fingers to the top button. "Could you hum somethin' maybe? I unbutton a damn sight better to music."

She turned her head to stare at the fire. "Just do it, please."

His gaze followed her, studying the flowing patterns and shadows of the low flames on her face. His fingers hadn't moved from the top button yet. "Fire's dyin' low," he said softly, though he was thinking hard about what he'd like to do in response to her 'just do it.'

She blinked. He was right. She hadn't been tending it at all. Scrambling to her feet, she headed for the door. "I'll get more wood. You just get that wound unburied while I'm gone." A whoosh of cold air came in, then the door closed behind her.

He slipped the left suspender off his shoulder and unbuttoned the top to his waist, just getting

his arm free when she came in again, a small load of branches in her arms.

"Kinda spindly," he remarked.

"Me?"

"The wood. Not very big."

"Not much of it around here," she replied, "and I've been using up what there is."

"Why...?" he began, but she had set the pile on the floor and was adding wood, bits at a time

to the fire. He was distracted from his question by the drape of skirt over her rump. Slender,

yes, but with a fine roundness still. Damn ugly skirt, though. Mentally he dressed her in

emerald green satin. A frown creased his brow. No, that wasn't right somehow.

She turned, catching his frown. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothin'. Just thinkin'."

She got a fresh basin of warmed water, a clean cloth, and knelt beside the palette. "Can you

turn a...." She closed her lips. He had a narrow red abrasion completely around his left wrist.

His eyes followed the path of her gaze and he realized what she was looking at. He raised his

arm a bit, turning his hand back and forth a few of times. A couple of days being yanked

around in manacles would do that.  When Ranger had come up beside the prison car on the

3:10, he'd picked up his jacket, knocked the guard off his feet, taking his keys. He'd just picked

up his gun belt when the fallen guard grabbed his leg, sending his gun skittering across the

floor. He managed to get ahold of the gun, but had to leave the gun belt behind. The gun belt

had all his bullets. But, damn, at least he had the keys and could get out of the blasted cuffs.

"Had a small difference of opinion. Seems some fellows wanted me to go where I didn't particularly feel inclined."

Her glance moved up to the center of his chest. "And those?" She indicated with a nod several reddened areas with small blackened splotches in their centers.

"Got myself strung up," he shrugged slightly. "Folks who didn't much like me was havin' themselves a bit of fun."

"Torture? You were...tortured?"

"Might call it that." He touched one spot gingerly with a fingertip. "Ain't been thinkin' about them, either, I guess."

"And you're sure you're not gut-shot?"

"You wanna see?" he grinned.

"I'll take your word for it," she sighed, just sitting there on the ground, staring at him, trying

to figure him out. "Benjamin," she finally said, "you appear a bit...worn...to me."

He'd been peering down at his chest, but half-lifted his eyes, looking at her through his lashes. "Worn?"  She kept surprising him with what she said.

"Yes, worn. Like you've gone a lot of places, done a lot of things."

He lowered his eyes again. "I have," he whispered, "done a lot of things."

"Elizabeth."

His head jerked back up. "What?"

"Me. Elizabeth. I've done a lot of things, too." She looked at the fire.

Somehow he doubted there was any real basis for comparison. "It's all right, Bess, I don't mind."

"Elizabeth," she repeated. "Not Bess. Now would you please turn more so I can reach your arm?"

"All right, LizzieBess," he murmured.

The bullet had torn through the outer muscle of his arm then continued on its way. She cleaned it and wrapped a strip of cloth around his arm several times. As she finished tying a small knot,

she lifted her eyes. His head was turned toward hers, tipped down, mere inches away.

"Why're you here, LizzieBess? Why're you out here all alone? Your man leave you?"

She averted her face, closing her eyes, biting her lip. "No," she whispered. "My man didn't leave. It was me. I was the one who left."

"But why here? This place ain't right for someone like you."

Her chin trembled but she opened her eyes, a tear sparkling on a lash tip, and met his probing gaze. "You have no idea what I'm like, Benjamin, and I assure you this place is perfect for me."

"Don't seem right." He shook his head slowly. "Don't seem right at all."

She gathered the soiled cloths into the basin. "Doesn't matter what it seems like. It just...is."

"You hidin' from somethin', LizzieBess?"

She stood, turning away from him. "I'm trying to find something." Crossing the small room,

she set the basin on the wooden table, then pulled a tattered plaid box off a low shelf. His eyes followed her every movement.

Returning to him, she knelt with the box in her hands. "Let me sew that sleeve before you put

it back on."  Fishing in the box, she found a spool of faded white thread. "Needs washing," she commented as her needle plied its way through bloody fabric, "but then you'd have to take the whole thing off."

"Maybe later," he said softly, studying the curve of her cheek as she bent her head close to his.

Finishing, she sat back, picking up his black jacket, examining the tear in that. She switched

to a thick black thread and worked a careful darning stitch to close the jagged rip. "Won't be

as good as new," she said, "but at least it'll be a sight better and keep the breeze out." Then

she picked up his shirt. "I don't have thread to match this. You prefer white or black?"

"Black," he answered. "Black will do just fine, LizzieBess."

"You seem to like black, Benjamin."

"Matches my heart," he replied, intently running his fingertips over the darning in his jacket.

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