The giant woman paused, the iron blade held motionless six inches above Brant's throat. She turned her head slowly, looking over her broad shoulder at Corvin with those deep, liquid black eyes.

Corvin looked at Silo Brant, shivering in absolute terror beneath her foot, and then looked at the woman. He saw the deep bullet wound in her side, the blood soaking her dress, and the unyielding, ancient strength that held her upright.

Corvin stepped closer, his voice soft and steady in the sudden silence of the valley.

"He's done," Corvin said quietly, pointing to the scattered bodies of Brant's mercenaries fleeing down the southern road. "The fight is over."

The giant woman stared at Corvin for five long seconds. She looked from his gray eyes down to the heavy iron blade in her hand, measuring the moment, measuring the man who had given her water three days ago without asking for anything in return.

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the knife.

She pulled her foot off Brant's chest, turning her back on the whimpering land speculator as if he were nothing more than a dead lizard in the dirt.

She walked two steps toward Corvin, her massive frame shuddering slightly as the adrenaline of the battle began to fade from her blood. Then, her knees buckled, and she collapsed heavily into the cool, red clay beside the mouth of the stone well.

Corvin did not waste time with Silo Brant.

He dragged the broken, sobbing land speculator to the perimeter wall, tied his hands securely behind his back with hemp rope, and threw him into the back of a supply wagon. When the territorial deputy and the county sheriff finally arrived at Cold Springs three hours later—lured by the sound of heavy gunfire—they found seven dead mercenaries, five wounded outlaws tied to fence posts, and Silo Brant ready to face trial for murder and land fraud.

The sheriff looked around the bloody yard, at the bullet-pocked cabin wall, and at Corvin, who stood quietly by the well with a blood-soaked rag in his hand.

"My God, Corvin," the sheriff whispered, taking off his hat. "What happened here?"

"A land dispute," Corvin said flatly, his face unreadable. "Take them away, Sheriff. I have work to do."

For four days and four nights, Corvin tended to the giant Apache woman inside his stone cabin.

Her wounds were severe. A heavy lead bullet was buried deep in her left side, two inches below her ribs, and she had lost a dangerous amount of blood during the battle. Fever burned through her massive body like wildfire, making her toss and turn against the cotton sheets of Corvin's bed, her deep, guttural muttering filling the small room in her native language.

Corvin worked with quiet, tireless devotion. He used his cavalry surgical kit to carefully remove the lead bullet from her side, cleaned the wound with high-proof whiskey, and applied poultices made from crushed yucca root and clean mountain spring water. He sat by her bedside through the long, freezing desert nights, wiping her hot forehead with cool, wet rags, and forcing small spoons of broth and fresh well water between her gray, cracked lips.

On the fifth morning, the fever finally broke.

The cool breeze of late August blew through the open timber window of the cabin, bringing the scent of sweet rain from the distant Dragoon Mountains.

The giant woman opened her eyes.

The feverish red haze was gone from her pupils. Her eyes were deep, clear, and intensely sharp once again. She lay still on the bed, looking around the small, clean room—at the stone fireplace, the neat stacks of cedar wood, and finally at Corvin, who was sitting in a wooden chair nearby, skinning a jackrabbit with his bowie knife.

Corvin laid the knife down on the table and stood up slowly. He walked to the bedside, holding a tin cup of fresh, cold well water.

"Drink," Corvin said softly, offering the cup to her.

The woman raised herself slowly onto her elbows. Her massive shoulders were wrapped in clean linen bandages, but her movement was fluid and strong once more. She took the cup from his hands, her broad fingers brushing against his calloused skin.

She took three slow, controlled swallows, finishing the water with the same quiet discipline she had shown on the first day at the fence rail.

When she placed the empty cup on the wooden nightstand, she reached up to her neck with her broad hand.

She unclasped the ancient, silver-concho belt from her waist, along with the heavy necklace of polished, sky-blue turquoise beads that hung across her collarbone. She held them out to Corvin in her broad palm.

Corvin looked at the turquoise stones, gleaming bright and clear in the morning sunlight, and shook his head gently.