Instinct told her to leave him. A white man bringing trouble to her door was the last thing she needed. If he died, she could bury him and take the horse. But as she stood over him, the man groaned, his hand twitching in the dirt.
Nayeli cursed softly in her native tongue. She lowered the rifle. She was a widow and a survivor, but she was not a murderer.
It took immense effort to drag him into the shade of her porch. She tied his horse near the spring, letting it drink its fill, before turning her attention to the unconscious stranger.
She stripped away his gun belt—a heavy Colt revolver, which she immediately emptied of its cartridges and hid inside the house. She brought a basin of cool water and a clean rag, kneeling beside him. As she tore away his ruined shirt to clean the wound, she noted the scars that mapped his chest and shoulders. This was a man who had lived a hard life, not unlike her own.
The fever set in that night. He thrashed and muttered in delirium, calling out names she didn't recognize, fighting invisible demons in the dark. Nayeli stayed awake, placing cool, damp cloths on his forehead, forcing willow-bark tea between his cracked lips to bring down the fever.
For three days, the cowboy hovered between life and death. For three days, Nayeli tended to him with a detached, clinical efficiency. She did not speak to him, even when he momentarily opened his fever-glazed eyes. She merely ensured he did not die under her roof.
On the fourth morning, the fever broke.
Nayeli was outside, feeding her small flock of chickens, when she heard the creak of the porch floorboards. She turned, her hand instinctively dropping to the hunting knife at her belt.
The cowboy was standing, leaning heavily against the wooden post of the porch. He was pale, shaking slightly, but his eyes—a striking, clear gray—were lucid. He looked at her, then down at the clean bandages wrapped securely around his ribs.
"I reckon I owe you my life, ma'am," he said, his voice raspy like dry leaves scraping across stone.
"You owe me nothing," Nayeli replied, her English sharp and unaccented. "You will rest today. Tomorrow, your horse is rested enough to carry you away."
The cowboy offered a weak, lopsided smile. "Elias. Elias Vance. That’s my name."
"I did not ask for your name," she said, turning her back to him to gather the eggs. "I only ask that you leave before your trouble follows you here."
Elias didn't push. He nodded slowly, sliding down the post to sit on the porch step. "Fair enough."
Despite her decree, Elias was not strong enough to leave the next day. When he tried to saddle his horse, the stitches in his side tore, and he collapsed in a fit of coughing. Nayeli, watching with a mixture of annoyance and pity, marched over, took the saddle from his trembling hands, and pointed back to the porch.