Lilli Stone

13

Once inside I heated some water in a pot and put on some fresh coffee to boil. While we waited I washed out and cleansed the wound as best I could. It was a deep gash, going clear to the bone and I suggested stitches.

"Won't I be a sight," he commented sourly.

"It will heal better that way and reduce the risk of infection."

"Got any whiskey around here, ma'am, take the edge off?"

"No, I don't abide by it in my home," I answered firmly. "I find it turns even respectable men into complete scoundrels and troublemakers."

He sat still while I got my sewing kit, pulling out my smallest needle. Getting some fishing line I threaded the needle and put thirteen stitches in his face. Though he shifted a little and ground his jaw tightly, he said nothing. As soon as I was finished I poured him a cup of coffee and set about making a simple meal, for I knew he'd probably be hungry. Aside from that, the sooner he ate the sooner he would leave. I did not care for the look of him.

"Name's Mead ma'am, Burton Mead," he spoke while my back was turned.

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Mead," I half turned. "I'm-"

"Miss Lorelei Stone," he interrupted.

You could have knocked me down with a feather, though I suppose he could very well have heard of me from some of my other guests. Turning deliberately to face him, I was careful to move slowly. I did not like the way he kept looking at me.

"You have an advantage on me, Mister Mead."

"That I do, missy," he grinned, pulling out the makings for a smoke. "I ran into a fella down Socorro way who said he'd been a couple days in a hidden valley with a red headed woman. Said she was mighty easy on the eyes and put together a fine spread. Heading this way already, I had to see for myself. Sure nice not to be disappointed."

"I see," and I did, clearly.

Whatever else he may have been up to, Burton Mead wanted to know the lay of the land here, and what sort of claims were on it, and me. Resentment rose to the surface.

"Plenty of people come and go through here, Mister Mead, and all have the decency not to trespass upon my kindness," I said. "I feel that is best, as I am a respectable woman and I would not want a slighted reputation," I added quickly, before he could respond.

Letting him mull over my words, I put a plate of food at the table for him. While he ate, I went to the door and stood within easy reach of the rifle, looking out at the rim. Would the Indians come back? I had an idea they would, and I wondered how that would turn out. I could very easily have signed my own death warrant over a scoundrel.

Burton Mead stayed, and each day was a trial. It was like walking on eggshells, keeping a sharp eye on him. I could hardly slept for fear he would attempt something in the night, though I knew it was rare for a western man to molest a good woman. Still, I took to bracing a chair against my door at night. By the end of a week I'd tolerated about all I could.

Outside, brushing out Grace, I was trying to figure a way to force Mead to leave when the mare lifted her head, ears perked. Those large purple eyes were toward the trail. Looking, I saw a rider dropping into the valley, two pack horses behind him. A shot of hope went through me, but a good dose of caution too.

Rifle in hand, I walked out across the valley floor to meet him, wary but already planning how to ask for help. If he was a good man, he'd keep Mead in check and hopefully persuade him to leave. The rider eventually reached the bottom of the trail and made his way toward me, riding slow. Then he seemed to catch sight of me and his pace picked up.