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

into the water. “I doubt this will hurt any more than what Old Longbones did to you a few minutes ago.”
    As she pushed up his sleeve and began trickling warm water over his splotchy skin, Hyatt took a closer look at her face. Long dark lashes framed her eyes. A pair of perfect eyebrows arched beneath the fringe of soft golden bangs she wore. When she cradled his arm to dab the wound with clean water, a look of concern flashed across her brow.
    “Don’t cry out or jump now,” she said.
    “I reckon I’ve broken more bones than you ever knew a man had. You won’t hurt me, Miss Filly.”
    She looked at him, her brown eyes serious. “How’d you break those bones? Jumping off trains?”
    Hyatt scowled. Trains? What on earth made her think he’d want to jump off a train?
    “Horses,” he said.
    She nodded. “I guess keeping a remuda just ahead of the law could be dangerous work.”
    “What? Why, I never stole a horse in my life,” he exclaimed, propping himself up on his good elbow. “I may have pulled a few wild tricks in my younger days—and I came out the worse for my foolishness. But I’m a breeder now. And I enjoy breaking a high-strung stallion . . . or a filly.”
    Ignoring the bait, she dropped the rag into the pot of water. “A breeder, are you? Then why don’t you tell me what a bitting rig does?”
    “It teaches a horse to flex at the poll . . . that’s the top of his head just back of his ears.”
    “I know where the poll is.” She leaned closer. “What’s a hackamore?”
    “A bitless bridle.”
    “Mecate?”
    “A hackamore lead rope. You aren’t going to trip me up, Miss Filly. I’ve been breaking horses since I was a colt myself.” He studied her face, the elegant tilt to her nose, the fine paleness of her skin. “How do you know so much about horses?”
    She shrugged. “Old Longbones, I’ve washed him,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s all yours.”
    “You fed him, too?”
    “She’s been talking too much to feed me,” Hyatt said. “Chatty little creature you’ve got on your hands, sir. Would you be the one who taught her about horses?”
    “No.” The Indian took Filly’s place on the stool. Hyatt tried to hide his grin as she strode toward the door to dump the wash water. For some reason, he was enjoying their give-and-take immensely.
    “Filly’s father taught her to ride,” the Indian said. “He was a good man.”
    “Was?”
    “He has been dead almost a year. Filly covers her sorrow with much talk and busyness. But her pain is great. Her father was the joy of her life.”
    Hyatt let his focus follow the young woman as she returned to the stove to pour more hot water into the bowl. Though Filly was clearly his opposite in education and social standing, he felt her sadness as though it were his own. His father’s death had been a hard blow, and one he would not easily set aside. He had loved, admired, and learned so much from the man. Respect for his father had driven Hyatt from California on this ill-fated journey. He knew the elegant Fara Canaday awaited him in Silver City, and having come this far, he would complete his dreaded mission. But he already regretted the moment he would leave the presence of the fiery Miss Filly.
    “The nopal will bring you healing,” Old Longbones said as he laid the fleshy disk of split cactus stem on Hyatt’s wound. “We Apaches have used the prickly pear for many years. It is good medicine.”
    “And you’re a good man to take such care of a stranger.”
    “Filly’s father once cared for me when I lay near death. His love brought more than healing to my body. It was healing to my empty heart. Perhaps here you will find such healing.”
    “I thank you, sir, but I don’t believe my heart is empty.”
    The old man grunted. “Something drove you into the mountains with a bullet hole through your arm. Were you not following your heart?”
    Hyatt pondered the Indian’s question. “Not long ago, my father died,” he