to sit again. "I'm a bad man. An evil man. And if you don't get away from me, you're going to regret it."
"Papa says there's no such thing as evil men. Just frightened ones."
Michael narrowed his eyes at this addlepated logic. "Where is your father?"
"Back at the wagon by now. Probably."
"Probably?"
She nodded, and something dusky dimmed her gaze. "The hotel wouldn't let Talking Raven have a room."
Michael ran a hand through his hair, found a tender spot, and winced. His head hurt. Every blasted inch of his body hurt. And her insistence that ravens talked wasn't making the least bit of sense—but maybe his rising fever was to blame.
She sat back on her heels, coming to some decision. "Wait here."
Suspiciously, he watched her rise and turn. Russet ringlets cascaded down her sleek little spine; hair ribbons bounced against her shoulders. She had enough patches on her skirt to quilt a blanket; still, she didn't have the manner of a cracker. And her accent wasn't southern white trash, either. He wondered fleetingly where she came from. Not this Tennessee border town, that was certain.
"I'm back."
He started. Had he dozed? She was standing above him again, streams of golden light radiating from her hair and shoulders. He blinked at this angelic vision, and she smiled, looking sweeter, purer, and wiser than she had before. The clatter of a bucket at his side shattered the illusion. He heard a snap; something woolly and musty fluttered over his head. The next thing he knew, she was kneeling, tucking a horse blanket around him.
"You don't want to catch your death of cold," she explained.
He might have laughed if he weren't so certain the pain wouldn't be worth the attempt. He didn't give a damn about his own health. Living didn't have much appeal to a man who was a failure.
To the best of his ability, he screwed his features into a frightening expression. "I told you to go away."
"You didn't mean it." She dipped the hem of her apron in the bucket of water.
"The hell I didn't."
"Talking Raven told me sick people always say things they don't mean."
"Ow!" He jerked away as she dabbed at the gash above his eyebrow.
"It wouldn't hurt," she retorted matter-of-factly, "if you'd stop fussing."
"God almighty. When was the last time you had a spanking?"
A dimple creased her cheek. "You won't hurt me. What's your name, mister?"
"None of your damned business. This isn't a church social. Do you have any idea what your father's going to do when he finds out you've been holed up in a stable with a man? A bad man?"
Her hands hesitated in midwring. He thought he'd finally put the fear of God in her until she shrugged, twisting the apron free of sullied water.
"You're not so bad." She darted him a sideways glance. "Aside from your manners."
Michael groaned, dropping his head back against the stall's wall. Just what he needed: a smart-aleck nursemaid too naive to know her peril.
Still, he mused in growing resignation, to sit in fresh straw and suffer the ministrations of a pretty little red-haired maid wasn't the worst torment he'd ever endured. She was neat, in spite of her poverty, and she smelled clean, which was more than he could say about the whore whose fingernails had gouged his back the night before.
Cynicism carved his lips into a half-smile. Brawling, whoring, drinking, lying—in only twenty-four months, he'd made up for twenty-three years of misplaced faith. Now he knew why his father's "flock" repeatedly broke God's Commandments. Sinning was a hell of a lot more fun than squirming on a hard pew.
Oblivious to his corrupt nature, his Good Samaritan rocked back on her heels and frowned at her handiwork. "Your face is all swollen."
He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. Her face was beautiful. Endearing in its worry. Transcendent in its compassion. Too bad she was such an innocent angel of mercy, even though she appeared about seventeen.
"Who did this to you?"
Her question reminded him forcefully of the
"Papa says there's no such thing as evil men. Just frightened ones."
Michael narrowed his eyes at this addlepated logic. "Where is your father?"
"Back at the wagon by now. Probably."
"Probably?"
She nodded, and something dusky dimmed her gaze. "The hotel wouldn't let Talking Raven have a room."
Michael ran a hand through his hair, found a tender spot, and winced. His head hurt. Every blasted inch of his body hurt. And her insistence that ravens talked wasn't making the least bit of sense—but maybe his rising fever was to blame.
She sat back on her heels, coming to some decision. "Wait here."
Suspiciously, he watched her rise and turn. Russet ringlets cascaded down her sleek little spine; hair ribbons bounced against her shoulders. She had enough patches on her skirt to quilt a blanket; still, she didn't have the manner of a cracker. And her accent wasn't southern white trash, either. He wondered fleetingly where she came from. Not this Tennessee border town, that was certain.
"I'm back."
He started. Had he dozed? She was standing above him again, streams of golden light radiating from her hair and shoulders. He blinked at this angelic vision, and she smiled, looking sweeter, purer, and wiser than she had before. The clatter of a bucket at his side shattered the illusion. He heard a snap; something woolly and musty fluttered over his head. The next thing he knew, she was kneeling, tucking a horse blanket around him.
"You don't want to catch your death of cold," she explained.
He might have laughed if he weren't so certain the pain wouldn't be worth the attempt. He didn't give a damn about his own health. Living didn't have much appeal to a man who was a failure.
To the best of his ability, he screwed his features into a frightening expression. "I told you to go away."
"You didn't mean it." She dipped the hem of her apron in the bucket of water.
"The hell I didn't."
"Talking Raven told me sick people always say things they don't mean."
"Ow!" He jerked away as she dabbed at the gash above his eyebrow.
"It wouldn't hurt," she retorted matter-of-factly, "if you'd stop fussing."
"God almighty. When was the last time you had a spanking?"
A dimple creased her cheek. "You won't hurt me. What's your name, mister?"
"None of your damned business. This isn't a church social. Do you have any idea what your father's going to do when he finds out you've been holed up in a stable with a man? A bad man?"
Her hands hesitated in midwring. He thought he'd finally put the fear of God in her until she shrugged, twisting the apron free of sullied water.
"You're not so bad." She darted him a sideways glance. "Aside from your manners."
Michael groaned, dropping his head back against the stall's wall. Just what he needed: a smart-aleck nursemaid too naive to know her peril.
Still, he mused in growing resignation, to sit in fresh straw and suffer the ministrations of a pretty little red-haired maid wasn't the worst torment he'd ever endured. She was neat, in spite of her poverty, and she smelled clean, which was more than he could say about the whore whose fingernails had gouged his back the night before.
Cynicism carved his lips into a half-smile. Brawling, whoring, drinking, lying—in only twenty-four months, he'd made up for twenty-three years of misplaced faith. Now he knew why his father's "flock" repeatedly broke God's Commandments. Sinning was a hell of a lot more fun than squirming on a hard pew.
Oblivious to his corrupt nature, his Good Samaritan rocked back on her heels and frowned at her handiwork. "Your face is all swollen."
He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. Her face was beautiful. Endearing in its worry. Transcendent in its compassion. Too bad she was such an innocent angel of mercy, even though she appeared about seventeen.
"Who did this to you?"
Her question reminded him forcefully of the
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