Hummingbird by Lavyrle Spencer

that sound just like a sonnet. You have such an eloquent way of speaking." Then he cleared his throat and added, in a more formal manner, "I'd like to read through the sonnets again today, if you don't mind."
    "Not at all. Perhaps you'd enjoy some others I have also."
    "Yes… yes, I'm sure I would."
    As she rose from her chair and ran her hands down her sleeves to free them of any nonexistent wrinkles, he thought of how delicate the high collar and long sleeves made her look and of how she smelled like roses and of what a perfect little lady she was.
    She fed the robber warm broth through the cattail again. Now, nearing him, her pulse did strange, forbidden things, and as if to get even with him, she scolded the unconscious man, "When will you make up your mind to awaken and tell me your name and take some decent nourishment? You're being an awful lot of trouble, you know, lying there like a great hibernating grizzly! You've put me to the task of feeding you as I did yesterday. I know it seems a vicious method, but it's the only way I can think of…
    and believe me, sir, it's no more palatable to me than it is to you, especially with that moustache."
    The feeding finished, she brought out the shaving gear and intrepidly set out to clean him up, not at all sure how well she'd do. She lay thick towels beneath his jaw, lathered him up, and set to work with the blade, all the while puzzling over that moustache.
    Should she or shouldn't she?
    It truly was a dirty, ominous-looking feature. And maybe if David Melcher hadn't pointed out how typical the moustache was of outlaws, and maybe if it hadn't been so alarmingly soft, and maybe if her heart hadn't betrayed her when she touched it, she wouldn't have shaved it off.
    But in the end she did.
    When it was half gone she had a pang of guilt. But it was too late now. After she had finished, she stood back to evaluate the face without the moustache and found, to her chagrin, that she'd spoiled it completely! The moustache belonged on him just as surely as did his thick black eyebrows and his swarthy coloring. Suppose when he awoke he thought the same thing? The thought did little to calm her misgivings, and the next task did even less. It was time to give him a bath.
    She set about doing so, a section at a time, first lightly soaping an arm, then rinsing it and wiping it dry.
    His armpit was a bed of straight, thick black hair—unnerving. So she concentrated on his shoulder and tried not to look at it. The far arm presented a problem, for the bed was pushed up into a corner of the room. She tried pulling the bed out to get at him from that side, but he was too heavy and it wouldn't budge. She ended up climbing once again onto the bed with him to facilitate matters.
    His upper half was done…
    She gulped, then remembered he was, after all, unconscious.
    Slipping the oilcloth beneath his right leg, she washed it carefully, avoiding the damaged thigh. His foot was long, and it evoked a queer exhilaration as she washed the sole, then between the toes, which were shaded with hair between the knuckles. She admitted now that what Doctor Dougherty said was true: it was infinitely more disconcerting tending the intimate needs of a stranger than those of a father. The sheet still shrouded his private parts. She managed to keep them covered while doing his other leg. That part of him she did not wash.
    But she had seen it once, and couldn't get the picture from her mind.
    As the day progressed, his eyes moved more often, though they remained closed. Now and then she saw muscles flex, and he tossed repeatedly, so she kept him safely tied to the bedrails.

    While Miss Abigail freshened up David's room that morning, she learned he was a shoe salesman out of Philadelphia. Then he surprised her by announcing, "When I get back, I'll be sure to send you a pair of our best."
    She placed one small hand on the high collar of her blouse, fingers spreading delicately over her neck as if to hide a