The Heart of a Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeather

the glass was sweating in her hand.

      “I have a headache,” he said suddenly. Tilting his head, he measured her with swollen, glassy eyes. “Sorry. That should have been your line.”

      Lourdes nearly laughed. In spite of his concussion, he had a sense of humor.

      “You should go back to sleep,” she told him.

      “I’m already asleep. Can’t dream when you’re awake.”

      Oh, but you could, she thought.

      Of course, she never did. She was too busy to daydream, to create fantasies in her mind. Her life consisted of hard, strong doses of reality.

      A horse farm she could barely keep afloat.

      “Good night,” she said, rising to shut off the light.

      “Lourdes?”

      She turned, surprised to hear her name in his rough timbre. “Yes?”

      “Are you sure you can’t lie down with me?”

      She smiled. She shouldn’t have, but she did. He was quite the charmer.

      “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, wondering how much of this he would remember in the morning. “I’ll bring you breakfast.” She glanced at the clock. “When it’s light out.”

      Just to see if he recalled that the lady named Lourdes wasn’t a dream.

      The aroma of fresh-perked coffee, frying eggs and bacon sizzling and snapping on the grill wafted through the air.

      Lourdes followed the glorious scent and found Cáco in the kitchen, where she bustled around the stove in an oversize dress and a tidy bun.

      “Good morning.” Cáco stopped bustling long enough to pour a cup of coffee and hand it to Lourdes.

      “’Morning. Thank you.” Lourdes added a nondairy powdered creamer. She never used milk. She liked her coffee piping hot, and diluting it with another liquid defeated the purpose.

      She’d dressed for a long day on the farm, donning jeans and boots and clipping her dark blond hair back with a huge barrette. Already she’d called a friend who’d offered to loan her a ranch hand until she could find someone permanent.

      Lourdes was picky about who worked for her. With only women and children in her household, she wasn’t willing to take chances.

      Yet she’d allowed an injured stranger into one of her beds.

      Find the logic in that, she told herself, recalling every detail from last night, including her offer to bring him breakfast.

      The logic? Hadn’t Cáco already convinced her they were meant to help him?

      “Is your patient ready for solid food?” Lourdes asked.

      The old woman lifted the lid on a small pot. “Oatmeal.”

      Hot cereal made sense, she supposed. Easier on the stomach than bacon and fried eggs, but heavy enough to stick to his ribs.

      “I dressed his wounds this morning,” Cáco said. “Argued with him to take his medicine, too.”

      “Argued?”

      “He doesn’t like the taste. Stubborn man.”

      “Yes.” Lourdes’s entire body went warm.

      Stubborn man. Stubborn woman. Will you lie down with me? Will you kiss me?

      She finished her coffee and spooned oatmeal into a bowl. “Is it all right to bring him some juice?”

      Cáco looked up. “You’re feeding him?”

      Not literally, she hoped. “You’re busy. I don’t mind helping out.”

      “Give him fruit instead.”

      “Canned peaches?” Her daughters liked them in the morning. Maybe he would, too.

      “That’s fine. Don’t dawdle. Your own breakfast is almost ready.”

      With an indignant sniff, Lourdes prepared his tray. “I never dawdle.”

      Cáco sniffed, too. “You haven’t been in the company of a handsome man in a long time.”

      She wouldn’t let the old woman rile her. Not now. Not while her heart had picked up speed at the prospect of seeing him. “He’s handsome? I hadn’t noticed. It’s a little hard to tell through all those bruises.”

      “You’re a bad liar.” Her surrogate grandmother almost smiled, then added a napkin to the tray. “And I suppose your breakfast will keep.”

      Okay, so she’d been found out. But hey, she had the right to look, didn’t she?

      Yes, but not too closely, she decided as she ventured down the hall with his breakfast. He could be married. Not all married men wore wedding bands. She’d do well to remember that. To keep reminding herself that she knew absolutely nothing about him.

      Lourdes found him sitting up in bed, staring into space.

      “Hi.” She moved closer. “I brought you some food.”

      He shifted his gaze, looked at her. “Where am I?”

      “You’re in Texas, on the outskirts of Mission Creek.” Not knowing what else to do, she placed the tray in front of him and sat on the edge of his bed. “At a horse farm. We’re taking care of you until you feel better.”

      “I’m not a horse.”

      She almost smiled. “No, of course not.” Adjusting the tray, she centered it over his lap. She wanted to comfort him. To ease his confusion. “Do you remember me? My name is Lourdes.”

      He measured her, the way he’d done last night. “The girl from France. From my dream.”

      “It wasn’t a dream, and I’m not from France. But my father was.” She caught sight of the silver cross. Her father’s necklace, the one he’d given her mother a month before he’d died. “Do you like oatmeal? Cáco added milk and sugar to it.”

      “Cáco?”

      “My surrogate grandmother. She helped raise me.” When Lourdes was a child, Cáco had been hired as a cook and housekeeper, but somewhere along the way, she’d become family.

      “The gray-haired lady?”

      “Yes. It’s okay to think of her as an old woman. She’s Comanche, and they recognize five age groups.” Or at least Cáco did. “Old men and women are one of the age groups.”

      “She made me drink that awful tea. I don’t like tea.”

      Now Lourdes did smile. “Coral root is a plant that grows around the roots of trees in dry, wooded areas. It’s rather scarce. Some people call it fever root because it’s an effective fever remedy.”

      He reached for his spoon and tasted the oatmeal. Then alternated to the peaches and back again. She poured him a glass of fresh water. He put his cut-and-swollen mouth around the straw and sipped.

      Will you kiss me?

      Your lip is split.

      “Cáco is helping me raise my daughters,” she said, filling the awkward silence.

      “You have children?”

      “Yes. Twins. They’re four. Very smart and very pretty.”

      “You’re pretty,” he told her. “I don’t think I’ve ever dreamed about a girl from France before.”

      “I’m not from France,” she reminded him again, flattered that he thought she was pretty and uncomfortable that he still considered her a dream.

      It seemed romantic somehow. Like a transposed fairy tale, where the princess awakens the handsome stranger with a warm, sensual kiss.