The Heart of a Stranger Read Free Page B

she noticed.
    Was he still feverish?
    She decided not to jam a thermometer under his tongue. Instead she pressed a hand to his forehead.
    â€œYou’re a little cooler, but still warm.” She reached for the pitcher on the nightstand and filled his glass, which already contained a straw. “Do you want some water?”
    He shook his head. “Who are you?”
    â€œLourdes.”
    â€œLike the place in France?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you a dream?”
    â€œNo. I’m real.”
    She picked up the water he’d refused, encouraging him to drink. He sipped from the straw and winced. Not from the taste, she suspected, but from the nasty cut on his lip.
    â€œWill you lie down with me?”
    Her heart jumped, pounding triple time. “I can’t. I have my own room.”
    â€œWill you kiss me?”
    Heaven help her. “Your lip is split.” Had he already forgotten the pain?
    He made a face. “This is a crummy dream.”
    She set his water down, realizing the glass was sweating in her hand.
    â€œI have a headache,” he said suddenly. Tilting his head, he measured her with swollen, glassy eyes. “Sorry. That should have been your line.”
    Lourdes nearly laughed. In spite of his concussion, he had a sense of humor.
    â€œYou should go back to sleep,” she told him.
    â€œI’m already asleep. Can’t dream when you’re awake.”
    Oh, but you could, she thought.
    Of course, she never did. She was too busy to daydream, to create fantasies in her mind. Her life consisted of hard, strong doses of reality.
    A horse farm she could barely keep afloat.
    â€œGood night,” she said, rising to shut off the light.
    â€œLourdes?”
    She turned, surprised to hear her name in his rough timbre. “Yes?”
    â€œAre you sure you can’t lie down with me?”
    She smiled. She shouldn’t have, but she did. He was quite the charmer.
    â€œYes, I’m sure,” she said, wondering how much of this he would remember in the morning. “I’ll bring you breakfast.” She glanced at the clock. “When it’s light out.”
    Just to see if he recalled that the lady named Lourdes wasn’t a dream.
    Â 
    The aroma of fresh-perked coffee, frying eggs and bacon sizzling and snapping on the grill wafted through the air.
    Lourdes followed the glorious scent and found Cáco in the kitchen, where she bustled around the stove in an oversize dress and a tidy bun.
    â€œGood morning.” Cáco stopped bustling long enough to pour a cup of coffee and hand it to Lourdes.
    â€œâ€™Morning. Thank you.” Lourdes added a nondairy powdered creamer. She never used milk. She liked her coffee piping hot, and diluting it with another liquid defeated the purpose.
    She’d dressed for a long day on the farm, donning jeans and boots and clipping her dark blond hair back with a huge barrette. Already she’d called a friend who’d offered to loan her a ranch hand until she could find someone permanent.
    Lourdes was picky about who worked for her. With only women and children in her household, she wasn’t willing to take chances.
    Yet she’d allowed an injured stranger into one of her beds.
    Find the logic in that, she told herself, recalling every detail from last night, including her offer to bring him breakfast.
    The logic? Hadn’t Cáco already convinced her they were meant to help him?
    â€œIs your patient ready for solid food?” Lourdes asked.
    The old woman lifted the lid on a small pot. “Oatmeal.”
    Hot cereal made sense, she supposed. Easier on the stomach than bacon and fried eggs, but heavy enough to stick to his ribs.
    â€œI dressed his wounds this morning,” Cáco said. “Argued with him to take his medicine, too.”
    â€œArgued?”
    â€œHe doesn’t like the taste. Stubborn man.”
    â€œYes.” Lourdes’s entire body went warm.
    Stubborn