The cabin door opened.
Her father limped onto the porch.
“What happened?”
“Get the chair moved.”
He saw the blood.
“Who is he?”
“I haven’t had time to interview him.”
The stranger somehow remained standing long enough for Clara to get his arm across her shoulders.
“Can you walk?”
“Usually.”
“Today?”
“Debatable.”
“Wonderful.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Almost a smile.
They crossed the yard.
Every step left a dark drip on the dust.
Inside, Clara lowered him onto the bed nearest the fireplace.
He leaned back against the mattress and closed his eyes.
Her father remained near the table.
“Gunshot?”
The stranger opened one eye.
“Grazed.”
“That answer means yes.”
“Usually.”
Clara cut the shirt away from the shoulder before either man could argue.
The wound looked frightening but not catastrophic.
A bullet had passed along the outside of the upper shoulder, tearing flesh without entering deeply.
Clara had treated worse injuries on livestock.
Human skin made the task feel different.
The stranger watched her face.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“My father once put an axe into his own foot.”
Her father objected.
“I did not put it there intentionally.”
Clara continued cleaning the wound.
“And a horse kicked our neighbor through a fence.”
The stranger flinched as alcohol touched raw skin.
“That makes me feel much better.”
“It shouldn’t.”
He gave a tired laugh.
Clara wrapped the shoulder.
Her fingers moved carefully around the muscular upper arm.
The stranger’s skin was hot.
Too hot.
Fever might follow.
She tightened the final cloth.
“There.”
He looked at the bandage.
“Good work.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Nearest one?”
“Two days if roads stay clear.”
“Then I don’t need a doctor.”
“You were bleeding through a saddle.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Clara looked directly at him.
“That sentence doesn’t make this better.”
Her father coughed to hide amusement.
The stranger studied her.
Then said:
“Samuel Carter.”
“Clara Whitmore.”
Her father lifted one hand.
“Abraham Whitmore.”
Samuel nodded.
“Thank you.”
Clara stood.
“You can thank us by not dying on the blanket.”
“That seems reasonable.”
She brought stew.
Samuel ate slowly.
He tried using his injured arm.
Clara slapped his hand away from the spoon.
He stared.
She moved the bowl closer to his other side.
“Use the good arm.”
Samuel looked at her father.
“Does she order everyone around?”
Abraham answered:
“Mostly me.”
Clara pointed toward Samuel.
“Eat.”
Samuel obeyed.
By evening his exhaustion became impossible to hide.
Clara spread another blanket over him.
“Sleep.”
“I should leave at first light.”
“We’ll discuss that after you can sit upright without turning white.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Samuel looked at her.
For a second something passed between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Recognition perhaps.
Two stubborn people discovering an opponent.
He closed his eyes.
Within minutes his breathing slowed.
Clara checked his wound once more.
Then helped her father into the adjoining room.
His joints had stiffened.
He lowered himself onto the bed with a groan.