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telltale red streaks, but finding only cool skin over firm muscle. Surprisingly firm, considering his stupor. The man’s bicep must be as big around as her thigh. Her lower thigh anyway.
    Realizing she was still stroking his arm, she jerked her hand away and moved to the other side of the bed. “I was told Texas was hot, but I’ve never been so cold. Are you warm enough? Would you like another blanket?”
    He didn’t respond.
    “How about a cup of warm cider? Broth?” Absently, she lifted his right hand and pressed her palm to his, measuring the long length of his fingers against her own. Despite their size and the numerous scars and calluses, his hands were surprisingly elegant with broad palms, long blunt-tipped fingers, and mostly clean, square-cut nails. Strong, hardworking hands. She liked that in a man. In a woman too.
    Lowering his arm back to his side, she studied his bruised face, trying to read the man behind the distorted features. “Are you a good man, husband? Am I your one and only wife, or do you have another waiting for you somewhere?”
    A disturbing thought.
    Where was he going? Where had he been? Whom had he left behind? He was a puzzle with too many missing pieces, yet one she felt driven to solve. “Who are you, Henry Wilkins?” she murmured, studying his battered face.
    The high, broad forehead indicated intelligence. The strong limbs bore proof of years of strenuous physical activity. His abundant white teeth spoke of a lifetime of good nutrition, a lack of serious illness, and an avoidance of tobacco.
    A clean-living man. And fit. Very fit.
    When she had helped the doctor change Henry from his soiled clothing into that ridiculously small nightshirt that had comprised his wedding garb, she had noticed how powerfully constructed her husband was—at least on his upper torso. Murray had insisted she exit the room when he removed Henry’s trousers, which was absurd since she was far too experienced to be flustered by such things.
    Absently running her fingertips over the knobby knuckles of his right hand, Molly lapsed into fanciful thoughts as she often did to sweeten the endless and often distressing chores of the sickroom. “Are you a cooper, Mr. Wilkins? A blacksmith? Is that scar on your wrist from a hot branding iron?” The sun-darkened skin of his arms and face told her he spent a great deal of time outdoors; the paler skin of his forehead indicated he wore a hat when he did. “Maybe you’re a miner. Maybe you’ve discovered gold, and the machinery you were loading was for your mine.”
    She brushed back a lock of hair she’d cleaned of blood, noting the soft sable brown was several shades darker than her own. “Do you have children, husband? Are they waiting for you to come home?”
    Another disturbing thought.
    Battling a feeling of confinement, she wandered idly about the room, finally coming to a stop at the window. The workers were gone, the breaks in the tracks repaired, and the passengers on their way again. Even the wind had pitched in, sweeping the sky clean of smoke from the smoldering floorboards of the abandoned passenger car, and leaving behind icy dewdrops on bare limbs and cactus spines to sparkle like diamonds in the morning sun. Except for tumbleweeds bouncing down the rutted road, the streets were quiet.
    All nice and tidy and back to normal. Except for two new graves on the hill north of town and the dying man in the infirmary.
    She pressed her hand against the windowpane. It felt cold against her palm.
    Don’t die.
    The thought came out of nowhere—unambiguous and irrevocable. Confusing. Even though the railroad settlement would send her and the children well beyond Fletcher’s reach, she realized she didn’t want it if it meant Henry Wilkins had to die.
    “Oh, Molly,” she murmured, her breath fogging the windowpane.
    “Don’t let emotion rule you. Remember Andersonville.”
    “Fifty-six. Eighty-three.”
    Startled, she turned, wondering who spoke. Only