She, wary under almost every circumstance, and shy around strangers, felt drawn to him, found she tended him in his illness like kin. He was very ill and despite her brave words, she was not at all sure he would survive. Johnny’s skin burned beneath her touch, hot and dry in a way that worried Sabetha. Such fevers, in her experience, sapped strength with rapid force, and road weary as well as sick, the stranger in her bed had little left to lose. When she pulled his worn moccasins from his feet, Sabetha eyed the toughened skin, the many old calluses with sympathy. He’d walked far to find her valley, hard miles judging by his appearance. He had few possessions besides the moccasins and buckskins; a knife with a handle carved from a deer antler, a possibles bag with a little salt, less sugar, a flint and steel, and a string of beads. Between the beadwork and his black hair, his dark eyes made her think he might be Indian but if he was, he had mixed blood for he spoke Gaelic as well as she did.
