Trey spent most of his time catching up on lost sleep, giving his body a chance to heal. The wound in his back wasn’t serious, but it was sore as a boil. He wasn’t usually one to laze around in bed, but he needed the rest, and he had to admit he enjoyed having the woman look after him. Now it was morning again. Dark gray clouds hovered low in the sky. A fierce wind blew across the face of the land. Trey stood at the window, looking out. He had always loved desert storms, the violence, the beauty, the unbridled strength. His Apache grandfather had told him there was power in the wind and the rain and had admonished him to call upon that power in times of trouble. Trey grunted softly. He was sure as hell in trouble now. And where the devil was his gun? He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. The woman stood there, a plate in one hand, a cup in the other, a newspaper tucked under her arm. He was struck again by her quiet beauty. “I thought you might like something to eat,”
