He had come to know that stretch of canvas very well, even when it was dark. He knew every crease, every spot, every loose thread. He had been staring up at it for a week now. But even as he monotonously traced the familiar folds, he was grateful, at least, that he could lie on his back to look up at it. He still had not remembered anything of those first four days after Chantel and Jacob had saved him, lying on his stomach, his back in shreds, his head banging as if a strongman were hammering on it. The only thing he had known in that dark time had been Chantel’s lovely face, her quiet voice, her soft hands. Idly he wondered how she kept her hands so soft. She worked like a man every day. Earlier she had had to saddle Lightning for him. He had been determined to try riding, though Chantel and Jacob had warned him that he was still weak. Stubbornly he had led Lightning out to the wagon, hauled his saddle out of it—and promptly dropped it. Without a single word, but with a dire I-told-you-so look, Chantel had picked it up and saddled Lightning.
