A Victorian Christmas by Catherine Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. “I’m no coward. I never saw that man in my life. I was ambushed.”
    She leaned close and jabbed a forefinger into his chest. “You swapped lead with him, buckaroo. Then you took off like a scorpion had crawled down your neck. Doesn’t sound to me like you’ve got enough guts to hang on a fence. And you’re a sinner besides.”
    “Now listen here, lady.” He elbowed up until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ll have you know I’m a Christian man—”
    “Trying to get yourself out of trouble by taffying up the Lord?”
    “I’m as straight as a—”
    “You’re so crooked—”
    “I got the nopal.” Old Longbones stepped into the cabin carrying an armful of the flat, fleshy stems of the prickly pear cactus. At the sight of the man and woman, he stopped, his brown eyes darting back and forth. “Filly?”
    She straightened, clutching the plate of now-cold eggs. “You found the nopal.”
    “Yes. But I see you have already brought color to our patient’s cheeks. And a sparkle to his eyes.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Hyatt knew the woman didn’t trust him. He studied her busily heating water and fussing with the Indian. She wasn’t an angel, she informed the old man, and she didn’t take kindly to a stranger pinning such labels on her. Especially a stranger who had showed up in the middle of the night with a gunshot wound. The Indian didn’t pay her much heed, just went about his work on the prickly pear stems.
    Hyatt felt as though the devil himself had been gnawing on his arm. His wound burned with a pain so intense he could hardly concentrate. Yet for some reason, the woman’s distrust of him was a greater torment. He could understand her doubts about the character of a man with a bullet hole through his arm. But to call him —Aaron Hyatt, owner of one of the most profitable gold mines in California, builder of two mercantiles, a hotel, a grocery, and a church, and a good bronc buster to boot—a coward . . . and crooked?
    He might not have minded the insults if she’d been a creature of little brain and less beauty. But this woman—this Filly—was intriguing. On the one hand, she clearly was poor. She lived in a run-down cabin, and she dressed like the prospector’s daughter she probably was. That flannel skirt obviously had been on horseback more than once, and Hyatt had glimpsed the buckskin leggings at her ankles. The only friend she seemed to have was the Indian. Not that the old man was bad company, but he certainly wasn’t the high society type who consorted with Hyatt’s usual female acquaintances.
    On the other hand, Filly was a dazzler. Her thick gold hair gleamed in the early morning light, and those brown eyes of hers put Hyatt in mind of sweet blackstrap molasses. More than her fine figure and slender waist, her spunky spirit beckoned him. Had a woman ever stood up to him the way this Filly had, poking him in the chest, calling him names, putting him in his place? Not a one. This golden angel had him downright mesmerized.
    He came to a decision. While he was here in her cabin, he would do more than tend his arm and get back on his feet. He would convince this woman of his kind, generous, intelligent— and equally stubborn—nature. Maybe he’d even win a kiss for his trouble.
    “I won’t wash him!” Filly announced, setting her hands on her hips. “It’s not proper.”
    “Just wash his face and that arm, Filly,” the Indian said. “He can take care of the rest himself. You start with the arm, and then I can put on the nopal.”
    Jaw clenched, she turned those big brown eyes on Hyatt.“I don’t suppose you’re well enough to wash your own arm, are you?”
    He held back a smile. “I’m feeling a mite poorly, Miss Filly,” he said. “I’d be much obliged if you could do it.”
    Pursing her lips, she heaved the bowl of steaming water over to the stool and knelt beside it. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” she said, dipping a clean rag