rode hell-for-leather through the valley, knowing every second counted. She prayed for all she was worth that the wounded man with hypnotic silver-blue eyes would still be alive and breathing when she returned.
John lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see that lovely face, surrounded by a mass of curly, reddish blond-hair, hovering over him a second time. Now, as before, the light shimmered around her golden head like a glorious halo. When she shifted, the angle of light intensified the color of her hair. It seemed as if the curlicue strands caught fire and burned with amber flames.
Long ago, in a nearly forgotten lifetime, John remembered his white mother telling him that angels were the essence of all that was pure and sweet in heaven. Who would’ve thought heaven was where he’d end up when he had so much blood on his hands and a trainload of guilt weighing down his conscience? With his white man’s soul and his Apache heart, he’d sort of figured he’d be trapped in some eternal way station—or delivered straight to hell because he’d turned out to be a traitor to both civilizations.
While John was contemplating the hereafter, five more heads appeared above him. He studied the three male and two female faces—varying in age, but all younger than his angel of mercy.
“He’s awake.” This from the smallest female cherub with dark, hollow eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair.
“Reckon we must’ve saved him, after all.”
John shifted his attention to the adolescent male face to his right, then frowned dubiously when he realized what the kid had said. He was alive? He thought about that for a moment, then decided the aches and pains that were becoming more intense with each passing moment probably indicated that he did indeed live and breathe—but just barely.
His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. His leg throbbed like hell. Breathing was definitely an effort because pain was shooting through his ribs like an assault of poison darts.
“Medicine pouch,” he wheezed, amazed that it took so much effort to speak.
A befuddled frown settled on his angel of mercy’s enchanting features. “Medicine pouch?” she repeated in such a soft, wispy voice that John sighed at the soothing sound.
“On my belt,” he managed to croak, in a voice that reminded him of a bullfrog.
The six faces hovering over him disappeared momentarily. Murmurs and whispers came from the right and left of him, but John couldn’t muster enough energy to turn his head. He stared at the wooden rafters above him and waited.
“Is this what you’re talking about, mister?”
The angel’s face came into view again. She held the beaded leather pouch in one dainty hand.
“Buttons,” he whispered. Gawd, the pain seemed to be spreading rapidly. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt—and badly.
“Buttons?” she parroted. “In here?”
“Yeah. Three of them.” He hissed in pain when he tried to reach for the pouch. His left arm was killing him.
This woman with cedar green eyes, pert nose and creamy complexion, who had apparently saved his wretched life, rummaged through his pouch, then held the button-shaped objects in front of his eyes. “Do you mean these?”
“Put them in my mouth,” he requested.
She complied. He chewed, swallowed, then choked. “W-ater.”
Scrabbling noises indicated someone had scurried off to fetch a cup of water. Moments later, John felt the tin cup pressed against his lips, and he sipped eagerly. His strength abandoned him abruptly and the pain returned in full force, leaving a barrage of cold chills in its wake. He swore the drink of water was freezing like ice in his bloodless veins.
He waited impatiently for the peyote buttons that the Apache used to override pain to take effect. John definitely needed something to ease the indescribable ache spreading throughout his body.
He wondered where this brood of children who hovered around him had come from, wondered where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was alive—whether that was a blessing or not. It didn’t feel like much of one. Considering the pain and misery he was enduring he figured dying would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier.
When the peyote took welcomed effect, John sank back into the darkness that had become his ever-present companion.
Hours later—days maybe, he wasn’t sure—he heard that quiet, soothing voice calling to him from a long winding tunnel. He felt warm liquid sliding down his throat. He was vaguely aware of gentle hands moving lightly over his chest and thigh, soothing him, consoling him.
It’d been years since he remembered feeling a compassionate touch gliding over his flesh. He was instinctively drawn to the comforting presence. He wanted to open his eyes to see if that angelic face surrounded by red-gold hair was lingering above him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw from that well of beauty, purity and sweetness that seemed so foreign, yet so compelling. But he simply couldn’t find the strength to move. He felt as if lead weights were strapped to each arm and leg, holding him in place. And so he just lay there, helpless and exhausted, wondering if he’d ever find the energy to lever himself into an upright position again.
“Do you think he’ll ever wake up for more than a few minutes, huh?”
Tara Flannigan glanced down into Flora’s small, delicate face. Because Flora was so frail and thin, her eyes looked enormous in contrast to her milky white features. The five-year-old appeared malnourished, though Tara took great pains in preparing meals to put meat on the child’s bones and give her that healthy glow the other children had achieved these past two years.
“Tara?” Flora prompted when Tara lingered too long in thought.
“I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon,” she said as she applied fresh bandages to his mending wounds.
“But it’s been four days,” Flora pointed out.
“I know, sweetheart, but he suffered very serious injuries and it takes time to mend.”
Despite the Good Samaritan tendencies that had compelled her to rescue this man from death’s doorstep, Tara was hounded by mixed feelings. When she searched his pockets, hoping to learn his identity, she’d discovered this man called John Wolfe was a territorial marshal. She’d found several bench warrants stashed in his saddlebag on the piebald stallion that he’d apparently left tethered near the canyon rim before his confrontation with the Apache.
This man was the long arm of the law in Arizona Territory. Although Tara wasn’t sure how long the arm of justice stretched—and she hoped it wasn’t all the way to Texas!—there was a possibility that John Wolfe could make trouble for her and the children when he recovered.
Tara had made too many personal sacrifices, taken several daring risks to reunite the children and to locate this spectacular valley that was as close to paradise as she could get. With a bit of Irish luck and a great deal of willful determination, she had made a home in this secluded canyon. The day she and the children had ridden into the valley to set up housekeeping she swore it would take an act of God to make her move away. For her and the children, this valley was their long-awaited promised land.
Their exodus cross-country hadn’t been an easy one. Tara inwardly winced, remembering the
