The Heart of a Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      “Can’t find the bathroom.”

      She started at the sound of his voice. “You’re awake?”

      “Gotta pee.”

      Oh, my. “Okay. But you’re going the wrong way.” Still holding his arm, she turned him around. He didn’t seem particularly steady on his feet, and she was too concerned to let go.

      “It’s here. This door.” She put his hand on the wood, guiding him as if he were blind. Could he do this by himself? Lord, she hoped so. “Are you going to be all right?”

      “Know how to use the bathroom,” he muttered. “Not a kid.”

      No, he was a grown man, struggling to find the doorknob. “Maybe a bedpan would be better for now.” Not that they had one lying around, waiting for this opportunity to present itself. “Or a bucket,” she added, deciding Cáco had probably placed a basin of some sort near his bed. The older woman wouldn’t have left something like that to chance.

      “No bedpan. No bucket.” He pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch.

      She turned it on for him, blasting them with a hundred-watt bulb.

      He squinted, and she noticed the glazed look in his eyes. He had no idea where he was or who he was talking to. All he knew, apparently, was that his bladder was full.

      He zigzagged into the bathroom, then closed the door with a resounding click.

      Lourdes stood by nervously, not wanting to listen, but knowing she had to. In case he tripped and stumbled. Bashed his head against the sink.

      She heard the telltale sound and breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it wasn’t a very consistent sound, making her wonder if his aim was off. After a long pause, the toilet flushed. Then running water. Even in his confused state, he’d managed to wash his hands. Habit, she supposed.

      He opened the door and stared at her.

      She reached for his arm. “I’ll take you back to your room. But next time, I think you should use a bedpan.” Or one of those plastic bottles designed for his gender, she thought. The pharmacy probably stocked them.

      “No bedpan,” he told her.

      “Stubborn man,” she said.

      “Stubborn woman,” he parroted.

      Lourdes couldn’t help but smile. Never in a million years could she have imagined engaging in a conversation like this one, with a stranger no less.

      His room was dark, so she turned on a night-light. He made a beeline for his bed, climbed in and pulled the sheet to his waist. He’d kicked away the rest of the covers, she noticed.

      Was he still feverish?

      She decided not to jam a thermometer under his tongue. Instead she pressed a hand to his forehead.

      “You’re a little cooler, but still warm.” She reached for the pitcher on the nightstand and filled his glass, which already contained a straw. “Do you want some water?”

      He shook his head. “Who are you?”

      “Lourdes.”

      “Like the place in France?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you a dream?”

      “No. I’m real.”

      She picked up the water he’d refused, encouraging him to drink. He sipped from the straw and winced. Not from the taste, she suspected, but from the nasty cut on his lip.

      “Will you lie down with me?”

      Her heart jumped, pounding triple time. “I can’t. I have my own room.”

      “Will you kiss me?”

      Heaven help her. “Your lip is split.” Had he already forgotten the pain?

      He made a face. “This is a crummy dream.”

      She set his water down, realizing 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.

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