Free A Cowboy at Heart by Virginia Smith, Lori Copeland Page A

in the vicinity of his feet. Pain still pounded brutally inside his skull, and his back felt as though he’d been kicked by a steer. He took an experimental breath, and at the resulting pain vowed not to try that again for quite a while. His throat was as dry as a Texas plain in August, but this time he was able to open his eyes, and though sharp knives stabbed at his head, he brought them to focus enough to take in his surroundings.
    Fading sunlight from a window to his left cast an orange tint on the whitewashed room. His gaze fell on a simple shelf hanging on the opposite wall. Dangling from one of the pegs beneath it was his belt and holster, and resting on top was his Stetson.
    Thank the Lord. I paid good money for that hat .
    He was propped up on a narrow bed, the tick beneath him stuffed with something soft and moldable to his body. Behind his back was a mound of even more cushiony material, like feather ticking covered with soft cloths. He still felt as if he’d been trampled by a stampede, but at least he was conscious.
    A movement near his feet drew his attention. Maummi Switzer stood in the doorway, her arms folded in front of her apron and an equally starchy glare on her face.
    “Yet again have you nearly died from fighting and needed my care. Will you Englisch never learn to practice peace?”
    If it hadn’t hurt so badly, he would have attempted a feeble laugh. As it was, he settled for a grimace. “Neither time was my fault, you know. First time was a run-in with cattle rustlers, and this time…”
    His voice trailed off as the details of his encounter with Woodard and Sawyer swam into focus in his mind’s eye. The simpleton, Sawyer, had shot him in the back, and then he and Woodard had left him for dead.
    “I guess I owe you another one,” he told the scowling elderly woman. “This is twice you’ve saved my sorry hide.”
    She shook her head, the straps of her cap thingy waving beneath her chin. “You owe me thanks for changing your soiled clothing. The saving of your hide is thanks to the Englisch doctor and Katie Miller.”
    Two reactions rose in him simultaneously. First was embarrassment. Maummi Switzer changed his drawers? He slipped a hand beneath the blanket and felt a thin pair of woolen skivvies that were not his own. A fire erupted in his face. When she’d mended his busted leg several years before, she’d only cut off his britches above the thigh.
    Then a second realization stirred a memory from the long, pain-saturated sleep from which he’d just awoken. The soft voice and cool hand had belonged to Katie Miller, Emma’s pretty Amish friend who had been at the Switzers’ when he arrived yesterday.
    Yesterday? Thoughts swirled in his mind. Somehow he felt it had been longer.
    He decided to ignore the embarrassing question and ask the easy one. “How long have I been out?”
    Before answering she stepped into the room and crossed to hisbedside. A gnarled hand, not nearly as gentle or as soft as Katie’s, pressed firmly against his forehead. As if satisfied with what she felt, she gave a nod.
    “Four days and more.”
    “Four days ?” He tried to jerk upright, and immediately regretted the movement. An agonizing blaze began in his head, and his back felt as though it had been ripped open. His breath caught in his throat and he coughed, which sent tortuous flames licking throughout his chest.
    “Quiet,” Maummi Switzer commanded, “lest you undo all the good your rest has done.”
    He would have argued that unconsciousness couldn’t be labeled rest , but just then he was occupied with trying to breathe without setting off another agonizing coughing spell.
    She stood watching his face, her expression unreadable, until he had regained an even, shallow breathing. Then she picked up a mug from the bedside table and held it to his lips.
    “Drink,” she commanded.
    He drank. The sweet liquid refreshed the starved tissues in his mouth and slid down his throat. The faint taste of