Winter Fire by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

sunshine,” he said thickly. “I kissed you.”
    â€œYes,” she whispered. “You kissed me.”
    â€œDumbest thing…I ever did.”
    â€œWhat?”
    There was no answer. Case was unconscious.

4
    S arah sat cross-legged next to the pallet where Case slept restlessly, gripped by pain and fever. Except to care for the wounded hawk, she had barely moved from Case’s side for the past three days.
    â€œEm…” he said hoarsely. “ Emily .”
    The agony in his voice made Sarah’s throat ache with tears she had forgotten how to shed.
    She didn’t know who Emily was. She knew only that Case loved her. He called out other names, too—Ted and Belinda, Hunter and Morgan—but it was Emily’s name that was torn from him in naked anguish.
    â€œCase,” she said, using the voice she reserved for frightened animals. “You’re safe, Case. Here, drink this. It will help the fever and pain.”
    As she spoke soothingly, she propped up his head and held a cup to his lips.
    He swallowed without a fight. He knew with a gut-deep certainty that the murmurous voice and cool hands would help rather than hurt him.
    â€œRoses,” he said hoarsely, sighing.
    Sarah’s smile was as sad as the mist-gray eyes that watched his flushed face. She had taken care of many hurt creatures in her life, but never had she shared their pain in quite this way.
    â€œSleep,” she murmured. “Sleep. And don’t dream, Case. Your dreams…hurt too much.”
    After a few more minutes he sighed and slid back into the twilight world that was neither sleeping nor waking. But he was calmer now.
    She barely dared to breathe deeply for fear of disturbing him. His fever was less than yesterday or the day before, and the infection in his wounds was subsiding, but he was far from well.
    Moving slowly, noiselessly, she trimmed the wick of the lantern, lit it, and checked the hawk’s wing. The bird protested at being touched, but like Case, the hawk no longer fought her when she rubbed in salve. Her gentle hands and voice had calmed the wild bird to the point that she no longer had to hood it to keep it from panicking.
    â€œHealing nicely,” she murmured. “You’ll be soaring winter skies again, my fierce friend. Soon.”
    She set the lantern near the pallet where Case lay. Settling close by, she picked up a small bundle of wool and began twisting it onto a wooden spindle. Her fingers flew, spinning a shapeless mass of goat hair into soft yarn. As though by magic, yarn grew fat around the spindle as the pile of wool shrank.
    The cabin door opened and shut quickly. Without looking up, Sarah could tell from the footsteps that it was her brother.
    â€œHow’s he doing?” Conner asked.
    â€œBetter. Less fever.”
    â€œTold you he’d make it.”
    She smiled wanly.
    â€œYou look tired,” he said. “Why don’t you sleep? I’ll watch him.”
    She shook her head.
    Her brother started to argue, then shrugged and held his tongue. Lola was right—no one had Sarah’s touch. Somehow she could reassure everything from hawks to mustangs that they were safe in her hands.
    â€œAnything happening up on the rim?” she asked.
    â€œNo sign of Culpeppers, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œUte must have done a better job of wiping out Case’s trail than he thought.”
    â€œMaybe. And maybe they’re just waiting.”
    â€œFor what?” she asked.
    â€œHow should I know? I’m not a Culpepper. Any beans left?”
    â€œYou just ate.”
    â€œThat was hours ago,” he said.
    â€œOne hour.”
    â€œI’m hungry.”
    â€œFinish the beans, wash the pot, and put more—”
    â€œâ€”beans in to soak,” he interrupted, reciting the familiar instructions. “Shoot, you’d think I was still in diapers or something. I know how to make