The sun was sinking behind the red cliffs of the Arizona Territory when Daniel Mercer found the woman lying beside the dry riverbed.
At first, he thought she was dead.
She lay half buried beneath a drift of sand, one arm stretched toward the narrow ribbon of water that had long ago disappeared from the arroyo. Her dark hair was tangled with dust and blood, and her buckskin dress had been torn across the shoulder. A leather pouch rested against her chest, clutched so tightly in her fingers that even in unconsciousness she seemed unwilling to surrender it.
Daniel reined in his horse.
For three years, he had lived alone on a small ranch near the foothills of the Chiricahua Mountains, far from the towns where men drank too much, argued over land, and occasionally shot one another over matters they could no longer remember. He had learned to distrust strangers, especially those who appeared without warning in a country where every encounter could become a fight.
But he had also learned something else.
A person could be many things in this world—a liar, a thief, a killer, a fool—and still deserve a chance to live.
He dismounted.
“Ma’am?”
There was no answer.
Daniel knelt beside her and brushed the sand from her face. She was young, perhaps twenty-five, though exhaustion and pain made her appear older. Her lips were cracked, her skin burning beneath his fingertips. A dark stain spread across her side, and when he carefully turned her enough to examine the wound, he saw a bullet hole beneath her ribs.
He swore softly.
The wound was ugly. The bullet had entered from behind and torn through flesh near her waist. Blood had dried along her dress, but fresh blood still seeped from the opening.
She had been running.
And whoever had shot her might not be far behind.
Daniel glanced toward the distant ridges. Nothing moved among the rocks except the shadows of evening.
He could leave her there.
That was the sensible thing to do. He knew the dangers of becoming involved in another man's trouble, and he knew even better the dangers of becoming involved in a conflict between white settlers and the Apache people. A man could lose his cattle, his home, and his life without ever understanding how the trouble had begun.
Yet when he looked down again, he saw the faintest movement in her hand.
Her fingers tightened around the leather pouch.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I'm not going to take it.”
Her eyes opened.
They were dark, sharp, and astonishingly clear despite the fever. She tried to reach for a knife at her belt, but her hand barely moved.
“Stay away.”
Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Daniel raised both hands.
“All right. I won't come any closer.”
She stared at him, searching his face for something she expected to find. Hatred, perhaps. Fear. The familiar expression of a man who had already decided what she was worth.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To keep you from dying in the dirt.”
“I don't need your help.”
“Then you're doing a poor job of showing it.”
For one brief moment, something almost like amusement flickered across her face. Then the expression vanished, and her eyes rolled back.
Daniel caught her before her head struck the ground.
He carried her to his horse.
The journey home took nearly an hour. He rode slowly, keeping one arm around her to prevent her from falling, while the last light disappeared behind the mountains. Twice, she stirred and muttered words in Apache. Once, she seized his shirt and whispered a name he did not understand.
At the ranch, Daniel laid her on the bed in the small room beside the kitchen. He lit two lamps, boiled water, and dragged his medical supplies from a wooden chest beneath the table.
He had learned enough about wounds during the war to know what he was doing, though he had never pretended to be a doctor.
The bullet had passed through without remaining inside her body. That was fortunate. The bleeding was considerable, but the wound did not appear to have struck the heart or lungs. If fever did not take her, she might survive.
He cut away the bloodstained cloth, cleaned the wound, and worked until his hands were covered in red.
She woke when he tightened the bandage.
Her hand flew toward his throat.
Daniel caught her wrist.
“Don't.”
She struggled with surprising strength.
“Let me go!”
“I'm trying to stop you from bleeding to death!”
For several seconds, they fought in silence. Then her strength disappeared, and she sagged against the pillow.
She looked at the bandage, then at his face.
“You should have left me.”
“Probably.”
“Why didn't you?”
Daniel considered the question.
Outside, the wind swept across the empty pasture, rattling the loose boards of the stable. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.
“Because I was there,” he answered.
She watched him for a long time.
Then she closed her eyes.
And Daniel Mercer, who had spent three years believing that his life would never again become complicated, went back to the kitchen and began boiling more water.
He had no idea that by sunrise, three hundred Apache warriors would surround his ranch.
And he had no idea that the wounded woman sleeping in his bed carried a secret powerful enough to turn the entire Arizona Territory against him.
The first sign of trouble came shortly after midnight.
Daniel had just finished washing the blood from his hands when he heard a horse moving outside the house.
He froze.
The sound came again, followed by the scrape of a boot against the porch.
Someone was standing at his door.
Daniel reached for the revolver hanging above the fireplace. He moved quietly across the room, keeping his eyes on the narrow gap beneath the door.
A shadow crossed the floorboards.
Then came three knocks.
Not the careless pounding of a drunk traveler. These were measured, deliberate, and evenly spaced.
Daniel opened the door with his revolver held low.
A man stood on the porch.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a gray coat that had once belonged to a Union cavalry officer. His hat was expensive, his boots polished, and his mustache carefully trimmed. A silver badge gleamed on his vest.
Behind him stood two armed men.
“Evening,” the stranger said.
Daniel did not lower his weapon.
“Depends who's asking.”
“Deputy Marshal Thomas Bell. I have reason to believe an Apache woman came through this area.”
Daniel studied the badge.
“Plenty of Apache people live in these mountains.”
“This one is wanted.”
“For what?”
Bell's expression hardened.
“That's not your concern.”
“It becomes my concern when a deputy marshal comes to my house after midnight.”
The man smiled without warmth.
“Fair enough. The woman is a dangerous fugitive. She attacked a government courier and stole property belonging to the United States Army. She may be wounded. If you have seen her, you are required by law to turn her over.”
Daniel thought of the woman in the bedroom.
He also thought of the blood on her clothes and the way she had looked at him when she woke.
“Never seen her.”
Bell's eyes moved past Daniel's shoulder.
The door was open only a few inches, but the deputy marshal seemed to be measuring the room behind him.
“You live alone?”
“Most days.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight I have a headache.”
One of the men behind Bell shifted his rifle.
Bell's smile disappeared.
“Listen carefully, Mercer. This woman is connected to a serious crime. You don't want to be caught protecting her.”
Daniel's hand tightened around the revolver.
“I don't protect criminals. I protect my home.”