A Victorian Christmas by Catherine Palmer Read Free Book Online

resting again. But when she tried to detach her hands, he tightened his grip.
    “Don’t go, angel.”
    “I told you I’m no angel. I’m a headstrong, stubborn—”
    “You’re an angel.” His lids slid open, and his eyes found hers. “You ran off the wolves. You hauled me out of the snow. You took me into your cabin. You brought the old Indian to heal me. I owe you my life.”
    For half a second, she was drawn into the music of his words. All her adult life, she had longed to hear a man speak to her with such sincerity, tenderness, warmth. And then she remembered Hyatt was a con man. A desperado. A gunslinger.
    “You sure are a smooth talker,” she said, pulling away. “But I ought to warn you that a silver tongue won’t get you far with me. I respect a man who speaks straight and tells the truth.”
    “I am telling the truth,” he said. “I’m grateful to you. You saved my life.”
    “And you twisted mine up in knots. It’s almost Christmas, and I’ve been looking forward to a few days of rest. Now you’re here, and Old Longbones is ordering me to give you breakfast.”
    “And a bath.”
    “Not a chance.” Flushing, she walked over to the stove. The very idea of touching him again flustered her. Maybe the Apache would take it upon himself to tend the wounded man. He needed something to do, and this would fill the bill nicely. But could she trust the gunslinger not to harm the old man?
    Fara filled a plate with eggs and venison. Then she ladled a large dollop of oatmeal into a bowl. She was as hungry as an empty post hole, but she didn’t like the idea of eating with Hyatt. It smacked of acceptance. She wanted him to understand that— as a good Christian—she would see to his welfare. But she would never consider him an equal. She would tolerate him, but she would never like him.
    “Here you go,” she said, holding out the plate.
    He eyed the steaming eggs. “They smell good.”
    “Better than you.”
    He smiled. “I think I can manage the eggs, but I won’t be able to cut the steak.”
    “All right, I’ll do it.” Fara sat on a rickety stool near the bed. “But just this once.”
    She sliced off a chunk of steak, speared it with the fork, and placed it in his mouth. He let out a deep breath and began to chew. “You know how long it’s been since I ate a hot meal?”
    “Since Phoenix, I reckon.”
    His brow narrowed. “How did you know I’d been in Phoenix?”
    Fara’s blood chilled. She mustn’t let Hyatt know she was aware of his crimes. It would put her—and Old Longbones—in grave danger. All the same, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. He was a criminal, and he had committed a heinous crime. Never let it be said that Fara Canaday would let a villain get away easy.
    “You kept muttering about Phoenix,” she said. “Last night.”
    “What did I say?” He had stopped chewing. “Did I talk about the shooting?”
    “Nope.” She popped another bite of steak into his mouth. “So, who pegged you?”
    He shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t remember his name.”
    Sure, Fara thought. You’d only been tracking that poor Mr. Copperton for years. “Seems strange that a man you didn’t know would take it upon himself to shoot you.”
    Hyatt leaned back on his pillow, eyes shut and brow furrowed. “It happened so fast,” he said. “I turned on the staircase landing, and there he was. He . . . he was aiming to kill.”
    “Lucky for you he missed. Did you shoot back?” She waited, wondering if he would tell the truth.
    “I shot at him,” Hyatt said. “He hollered out he was hit. But his men came after me.”
    “So you ran?”
    The blue eyes snapped open. “Wouldn’t you?”
    “Depends. I’m not walking in your shoes. Maybe you had some kind of a history with the fellow. Maybe you held something against him that needed settling. In a case like that, only a yellowbelly would run.”
    “A yellowbelly?” Hyatt’s eyes crackled with blue flame, and his good