"I'm fine," she said, twisting to escape his hand. But he caught her chin between thumb and forefinger.

"And I'm the Queen of England. Your fever's back." Again that touch to her forehead. "You're burning up." He flipped her gown up above her knees, ignoring her gasp of outrage. "I hope to God...." His fingers probed lightly along the splints.

Hattie hissed between clenched teeth when he came too close to the open wound.

To distract herself, she raised onto her elbows and looked too, wanting to see again the source of the still-nagging pain. After gazing a long time at the ugly scar, still red and puckered, extending from just below her knee to her anklebone, she shuddered. "I've never had anything hurt that much," she said.

"It's all I could feel, all I could think about."

"You had us scared," he said. "Silas was afraid you were going to die."

"And you were determined I wouldn't." She stopped, remembering a voice in the dark commanding her to hold on, to fight. To live. "You took care of me," she said, wonderingly. "You saved my life."

"I did what I had to do," he told her, his voice tight and hard. "I'm just glad it worked." Standing, he turned away. "Now, can we eat? My belt buckle's rubbin'

my backbone raw."

He gathered up bowls and spoons. With an economy of movement she couldn't help but admire, he dished up the stew.

"There's biscuits," she told him, "in the Dutch oven."

He nodded. Within a few minutes she had a bowl of stew and a buttered biscuit sitting on a bark slab on her lap.

She wanted to talk to him about what he'd done for her, but this was not the time. His tone, his movements, his forbidding frown told her to eat, not talk.

Just as well. If she were to start talking now, she might tell him of the terror she felt whenever she considered her fragile hold on him. What if he tired of nursing her before Silas returned? Would he simply walk away from her, leaving her alone and abandoned once more?

Emmet had done his best to avoid talking about how he'd done for her while he'd fought for her life. He felt a certain embarrassment at the way he'd handled her body. Although most of the time he hadn't cared whether she was naked or wearing cloth of gold, his body had always been aware of hers. And that was a source of shame to him.

It was one thing to lust after a woman in the best of health, another thing entirely to want one who was helpless and dependent.

The only good thing about his animal lust was that he'd split enough wood to last them the winter through.

"How much did you save?"

She hadn't spoken to him much as he was in and out during the afternoon. Now he wished she'd stayed silent, for he dreaded the moment when he'd have to tell her of her losses. This moment.

"Let's get you into bed first." When he went to help her undress, she stopped him.

"I can do it," she said, her hand holding his away from the buttons at her throat. "If you'll just hand me my gown and step outside?"

With great relief, he did so. Staring up at the moon, he noticed it was surrounded by a ring. It would get cold tonight.

Winter was coming.

She called him and he went back inside. Avoiding the sight of her.

It was almost dark, the early dark of October. Soon the days would be too short to do anything but the necessary tasks to stay alive. Hunt. Fish. Mind the livestock.

Damn the livestock! He wasn't a farmer! He paced, three steps from the sand wall to the door, four steps from the fireplace to the bunks.

"What did you save?" Her quiet voice came out of the darkness of the lower bunk.

He could see nothing of her save her pale face. "You said the wagon rolled.

Did... could they save it?"

"We saved two wheels--sold 'em to that bas... to Coonrad. And the canvas. It wasn't torn too badly. A couple of staves, some hardware, and the harness. I traded all but the canvas for food."

"None of the cargo?" Her words were tremulous. And resigned.

"A few chests and boxes. What floated free. A lot of the stuff sank."

She said nothing for long moments. Finally, "What was in them? The chests and boxes, I mean?"

"All your bedding, and one chest of clothes--your...Mr. Rommel's, I think. Most of the food--the kegs were attached to the sides of the wagon. But we lost some flour and sugar anyhow, because it got wet."

This time there was no doubting the hopelessness in her voice. "That's all?"

He listed the rest of what they'd salvaged, mostly furniture, nothing that might be called her treasures. "I'm sorry I couldn't find a Bible, or letters, or any of that sort of family keepsake."

He waited. At last she said, "What about the other wagon? Did we lose anything there?"

"It came across slick as a whistle. So Silas and I went through everything and picked and chose what to bring. We had to have space for you, and wanted to bring what you'd need most, in the Willamette Valley." He was aware that her hand, which he'd somehow taken hold of, had tightened on his. "We got rid of a lot of your hus... of Mr. Rommel's tools. Left 'em hid under a pile of sagebrush and rock, up a side canyon about a mile from the river. Didn't figure you'd have much use for them, if you're plannin' on farming."

"That's all right, although they were probably worth a fair amount. As long as you found Karl's gold, that's all that matters."

"Gold?" Emmet said, an empty sensation growing in his belly. "What gold?"

Chapter Five.

Hattie stared at him. She felt his hand clasping hers, warm and hard. She heard the soft crackle of the fire, saw its lights flickering on the rough log walls of the cabin. And she was aware of the lingering ache in her leg, so shewas awake.

Licking her lips, she said, "Karl's gold. A whole bag full. In the black walnut chest with his best tools."

When Emmet said nothing, she tried again. "You couldn't have missed it. He packed it so carefully. I remember, he said nobody would pay mind to the weight of the chest, because his chisels and files were so heavy. And he showed it to me--almost two hundred coins, old coins his pa had brought from Germany. His pa was a rich man, you know. A goldsmith who made fine jewelry for dukes and kings.

But he made enemies, too, so he had to escape to America. And he sickened on the ship, coming over, so he never had a chance to teach Karl the craft, but that was all right, because Karl's uncle knew wood and he...." She shivered, "Oh, please, Mr. Lachlan, tell me you found the gold. Please!"

"Hattie, I...." He shook his head.

"You didn't," she whispered. "Oh dear God, what are we to do?" To still her shaking hands, she clasped them against her lips. This was worse than ever before. Karl was dead, she was crippled, and the money was gone. And there was no Uncle James and Aunt Nettie to take her in, this time. Even Silas was gone, God only knew where, maybe dead along the road like so many others she'd known.

She was alone again. All alone.

She felt him gather her into his embrace, but it didn't matter. All she could think of was that she had no one, no place. Nothing.

Emmet glowered at the sky, smelling snow. Where the hell was Silas? If the boy didn't get here soon, he'd not arrive 'til spring. They didn't need Flower now, not with Hattie better each day. Although he imagined she'd be happier with another woman for company. But he wished Silas had returned for another reason.

He needed to get to Fort Boise to pick up supplies, a journey he judged too difficult for Hattie yet. And as soon as he could, he was heading back to the crossing. Emmet didn't want Hattie fretting over her gold all winter. She'd not mentioned it in the three days since learning of its loss, but he knew it was eating at her.

As he picked up the bucket of milk, Hattie hobbled up the path, graceful even with the crutch beneath her arm. She wore an old coat of Rommel's, shapeless but warm. Her breath was a cloud in the cold air. "That coyote's been after the chickens again. He almost got the door open this time."

Early on Emmet had woven willow branches together into a cage for her three hens and one rooster. That was after the fourth hen had disappeared, leaving nothing behind but some bloodied feathers and scuffle marks in the sand. They'd seen coyote tracks since then, mostly around the cage. "I still think we should eat 'em before he does," he said, holding the door open for her. As she went by, he smelled lilac and his gut tightened. He ought to steal that damned soap for his own peace of mind.

He'd held to his word, sleeping alone, for almost three months. Each night he found it more difficult to stay in his bunk, just inches above her. He wanted her with an ache that threatened to consume him.

She leaned against the table as she slipped out of the coat. "I think it's colder than yesterday, don't you?"

"It's going to snow," he said. "Tonight."

Her hands went to her mouth. "But Silas isn't back yet."

"Do you think that'll stop the snow?" His voice was harsher than he'd intended.

The very thought of spending the winter alone with her was almost more than he could face. To take his mind off what his body couldn't forget, he said, "Can you shoot?"

She looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "Of course I can."

"How well?"

"Well enough to serve squirrel whenever I had a mind to," she said, pride in her voice. "My grandpa taught me."

"We'll see. Tomorrow."

Her mouth tightened and she turned away from him. In a few minutes she had his supper on the table and had retreated to her bunk, where she sat with her leg stretched out and the bark slab she used as a tray on her lap. Emmet ate, hating himself for the way she brought out the worst in him.

It seemed like the closer she came to good health, the meaner he got. And he knew it was because he was afraid of what he'd do to her if he stopped being mean.

"I'm goin' for a walk," he said, as soon as he'd shoveled the last bite of cornbread into his mouth. Since she'd insisted on taking over the cooking and household chores, he'd spent his evenings with the livestock, or walking the gullies and hillsides behind the cabin. Anything to avoid being alone with her in the quiet of the firelit cabin, when all there was to do was listen to the rustle of her clothing. Or worse yet, listen to the murmur of her sweet voice.

"Wait!"

He turned back, his hand on the latch.

"We need to talk, Mr. Lachlan. Please don't go out tonight."

"Emmet," he snarled at her. "My name's Emmet, damn you. I'm your husband, not some goddam shopkeeper!" Even as he spoke the word, he felt sudden relief that he was husband to her only in name. His responsibility was to get her to the Willamette, nothing more.

"It doesn't feel right, somehow, to be so familiar," she said, "but I'll try."

Her quick smile was so fleeting he almost missed it. "Will you stay in, please?"

He spun the chair on one leg and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

"You want to talk," he said, wishing he wasn't so easily lured by her voice. "So talk."

"I somehow can't remember.... well, I really don't think we... I mean, before I was hurt, did we...?"

Her hands were twisting together and even in the fire's flickering light, he could see how she blushed. He remembered how she had blushed all over, when he'd helped her into the bathtub. Briefly he regretted those days, before she insisted she was capable of getting in without his help. He'd never been so close to hell in his life, nor had he come so near to touching heaven. There'd never been a woman in his life who tempted him as this one did. "What the hell are you trying to ask me?"

"Don't swear," she said, primly. "It's not gentlemanly."

"Talk!"

"Yes, well, what I wanted to ask you was if, well, are you absolutely certain we've never... I mean, I'm not really your wife, am I?" Her last words were barely above a whisper.

"You're asking me if I had you?" Great God above, this woman was going to send him into gibbering madness.

He swung the chair aside and took the two steps to the side of her bunk.

Dropping to one knee, he reached for her, grabbing her shoulders before she could scuttle back into the corner. He pulled her close, so close he could have counted the pale freckles across her slim nose. If he hadn't already known there were thirteen.

"Woman, if I'd had you, don't you think you'd know it?"

She nodded, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Well, I haven't, but don't push me. I'm on a pretty short fuse." He released her, hating the way she could make him mad quicker than anybody. "Or are you askin'?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I'm not asking."

Still angry, he went back and picked up the chair. Resuming his previous position, he waited. She'd wanted to talk, which meant she must have something to say. So far she hadn't said a hell of a lot.

He heard, more than he saw, her take a deep breath. "Then I must be farther along than I thought. Since before Karl...."

He didn't need a translation. There was no doubt what she meant, and it was the very situation he'd thanked his lucky stars he'd avoided. Unconcerned with offending her, he cursed long and fluently. Finally he wound down. "How long have you known?"

"I just realized, today. I was washing my... I was washing uh, garments, and realized I hadn't washed any...." She cleared her throat. "I just realized today."

"So how much time do we have?" He couldn't remember anything about his mother's pregnancies, except the misery they'd caused her and that most of them ended in heartbreak. He wasn't even sure how long the whole process took.

"Have for what?" She laid her hands protectively on her belly. "Until the birth?

I don't know."

"Until you get sick. Until you take to your bed. Hell, until you lose the brat.

I don't know."