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"My mind her image still retains,
Whether asleep or waking,
I hope to see my dear again,
For her my heart is breaking."

—The Girl I Left Behind Me, Traditional Irish Song

It was cold in Glorieta Pass, even in midmorning.  Laura pulled her cloak closer against the chill, and Captain O'Brien took his attention from the horses to glance at her.  She smiled to reassure him, and he looked back at the road.  He'd been quiet this morning, even more so than usual.

"I did not know you could drive," she said, trying to start a conversation.

"I was a teamster in New York."

He did not elaborate, and Laura kept silent while he negotiated the wagon around a narrow turn under the rising cliffs.  She remembered the first glimpse she'd had of these rocks from the stagecoach upon her arrival in New Mexico—scarcely a year past—and more recently, the first time Captain O'Brien had escorted her to Pigeon's Ranch.  That had been but four days ago.  Four days and two battles, and considerable upheaval of life and of mind.

She counted further back, to the day she had met Captain O'Brien and Lieutenant Franklin in Las Vegas, all of a week since.  It seemed an impossibly short span of time in which to have made such friends, and lost one, and now to be parting from another.

Laura stifled a sigh and straightened on the hard seat of the wagon.  Captain O'Brien was moody this morning, and she felt vaguely disappointed.  She had thought—hoped?—he would express a desire to see her again, but he had said nothing.  Perhaps he did not admire her so much as she'd believed.  It would not be the first time, she thought, remembering with a small gasp of laughter the way she had flung herself—quite cold-bloodedly—at poor Lieutenant Franklin.

She felt a blush rising to her cheeks.  She had not known at the time that the lieutenant was a woman.  Indeed, she had just broken up a fight between Franklin and the captain.  The recollection sent a chill down her spine.  The risks Franklin had taken!  How had she found the courage?  Laura suspected that had she herself not intervened, the captain would have half-murdered Franklin in the rage of his jealousy.

Where was that passion now?  She glanced at the captain's profile, chiseled from granite, seemingly, and just as cold.  Not a noble face, perhaps, but the eyes—set high between a strong brow and sharp cheekbones—were compelling.  One could never forget such eyes.

Careful, Laura.  Do not make a fool of yourself.

"It was clever of you to volunteer for this duty," she said as cheerfully as she could.  "Monsieur Vallé will be grateful to have the wounded Texans out of his house."

"It was the only way I could think of to get you safe to Santa Fé," said the captain.

Colonel Slough had approved the detail at the captain's suggestion.  While Lieutenant Denning marched the rest of I Company north with the command, Captain O'Brien and a dozen of his men now escorted two wagons—empty save for the one sick Rebel brought from Kozlowski's—to Pigeon's Ranch at La Glorieta Pass, where they would fill them with wounded Confederates to take into Santa Fé.  Laura's presence with the detail had not been commented upon.  She was sure Major Chivington was wishing her good riddance.

Behind them, driving the second wagon, Private Shaunessy began to sing.

     "I'm lonesome since I crossed the hills,
     And o'er the moor that's sedgy,
     With heavy thoughts my mind is filled,
     Since I parted with my Peggy."

"Shut it, Egan," the captain said, sounding annoyed.  Laura glanced back at Mr. Shaunessy, who looked more amused than chastened.  His eyes gleamed briefly at her from beneath the brim of his hat before he returned his attention to his mules.

A sound made Laura glance down at the sick man lying behind her.  Surprising that an officer was being released, but then he was rather small, and wracked with fever.  No doubt the surgeons didn't wish him to communicate his ailment to the Union wounded at Kozlowski's.

"Did you call?" she said to him.

No answer from the thin, strained face.  The brown hair clung damply to his forehead despite the cool morning.  He had thrown his blanket half off, and Laura reached back to pull it up again.  He could be no older than herself.

"Emmaline?" he whispered.

"No," she said, "my name is Laura."

Captain O'Brien shifted in the seat beside her.  She glanced up, but he was staring at the road.  They were close to Pigeon's Ranch now, she believed.

"I'm sorry, Emma," muttered the Confederate.  "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," said Laura gently.  She smoothed his hair back from his face, thinking of Lieutenant Franklin's slow, tormented death.  This man would live, she thought, unless the fever became very bad.  It did not look like the smallpox she had seen so much of in Las Vegas, when she had taken shelter with Padre Martinez and helped in the hospital.

The wagon rounded another cliff, and suddenly they were at Glorieta.  The snow had mostly gone, diminishing the evidence of the recent battle, apart from the fresh graves.  Laura could not help glancing toward the canyon wall and the tall pine beneath which Lieutenant Franklin's remains now lay.  A chill breeze stirred the naked fingers of a stand of young cottonwoods nearby, trailing a hint of wood smoke.

Laura turned her gaze to the road ahead and to Pigeon's ranch house, strangely quiet now that there were no armies in the pass.  Smoke was drifting from only one of the four chimneys.  Probably enough wood for only one fire; the two armies between them had devoured everything in sight.

Including, she suddenly remembered, the burro that Captain O'Brien had purchased for her to ride.  It had been in Monsieur Vallé's corral before the battle, but they had found no sign of it afterward.

"Your burro," she said, turning to the captain.  "Let me pay you for it."

"No."

"I know very well you spent your last dollar on that burro," said Laura, fishing among the few coins she had put in her cloak pocket.

"I'll not be taking your money," he said roughly.

"Then take some of Lieutenant Franklin's."

A scowl crossed his face, and he reined in the horses, rolling to a stop just short of the ranch house.  Laura saw the muscles in his jaw working.

"You know the lieutenant gave me all h—all his money," she said.  "Won't you allow me to share the gift?"  When he didn't reply, she added, "You will need money on the march.  Please, captain.  How much did the burro cost?"

He cast a furtive glance at her.  "Ten dollars," he said.

It was a lie.  A burro would have cost at least forty dollars in Santa Fé under normal conditions, and during a campaign of war—well, no matter.  She would not hurt his pride any further.  She counted ten dollars in silver and pressed them into the captain's hand.

"Thank you," she said.  "I will feel better knowing you have it."  She had not seen his eyes burn so sharply since the night before the first battle.  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

"¡Hola, señores!"

Laura looked up to see Monsieur Vallé coming out of the house.  She waved to him, and he hurried forward to help her out of the wagon.

"But what is this?" he said, raising his grey-flecked brows.  "Is the army going to Santa Fé?"

"No," said Laura, glancing toward the captain as she stepped to the ground, "but I am.  I've been banished."

Monsieur Vallé looked to Captain O'Brien, who merely said "We're here for the wounded."

The captain flicked the reins, moving the wagon up to the door.  Mr. Shaunessy brought up the second wagon, and the men began to dismount, leading their horses into the stone corral behind the ranch house.  Laura and Monsieur Vallé strolled toward the house.

"What does your brave captain want with the wounded Texans?"

"We're taking them to Santa Fé," said Laura.  "Mrs. Canby has offered to take them in, but she would have to make several trips in her carriage to fetch them all."

"She is a saint, Madame Canby."

"Yes.  I'm hoping she'll find a corner to spare for me."

Monsieur Vallé paused, looking down at her.  "Is all well with you, ma chére?" he said softly.

Laura put on a smile.  "Yes, thank you.  I am fortunate to have so many kind friends."

Her gaze strayed to Captain O'Brien, who was helping to carry out the wounded.  How like him, she thought.  He was not the sort to stand by and give orders, leaving the worst work to others.

"Come and say hello to Carmen," said Monsieur Vallé.  "She will not forgive me if I let you go away without visiting her."

Laura nodded, her eyes still on the captain as she followed Monsieur Vallé into the house.

You're the greatest fool in creation, Alastar O'Brien.  Granddad was right.

O'Brien cursed under his breath as he and Morris lifted another foul-smelling Texan into the wagon.  What had possessed him to volunteer for this drudgery?

No trouble to answer that.  It was all for the sake of his lady—Miss Laura—Miss Howland, he should say.  But to drive into an occupied town with two cartloads of stinking Rebels at their backs?  What a lovely romantic scene it would be.  Why, she'd be fainting into his arms.  From the stench if nothing else.

They went back into the house, and he glanced about, but she was nowhere in sight.  That old Frenchman, Pigeon, had taken her off somewhere.  Damn and blast.

If he, Alastar O'Brien, son of a career private in His Majesty's army and a farrier's daughter, were going to be such a fool as to speak to Miss Howland who surely had dozens of grand relations, he should have done so before they arrived here.  Now there would be no more chance for privacy.  Why had he not spoken before?  Two days since, in this very valley, she had seemed to like him, and his heart had near sprouted wings.  But she'd told him—warned him—that she expected his patience, and he'd thought there'd be plenty of time.  And how should he speak to her, even if heaven should give him a chance?  Sure, a fine provider he'd seem, with her own money—Franklin's damned money—jingling in his pocket.

Truth was, she deserved to be courted like the fine lady she was, and he hadn't the first idea how to set about it.  He could almost wish Franklin alive.  He was desperate enough to have asked the lad for advice.

Except that she had loved Franklin.  He was sure of it.  She never spoke of him but with tenderness, and if he'd lived, he'd have wed her himself.  The thought was a knife in O'Brien's heart, and he sucked in a long, hard breath.

Best let her go, as he'd decided in the campfire's gloaming.  He could do it, he thought, though it was harder than any of the battle work he'd lately been in.

"Daydreaming, Alastar?" Morris said softly.

O'Brien looked at the bearded ruffian lying at his feet, and at Sergeant Morris, squatting by the man's boots, waiting to lift him.

"That's Captain, to you," he said, taking hold of the fellow's shoulders.  Did they not have any water in Texas, that they should be so unused to bathing?

"Aye, Captain," said Morris, grunting as they lifted the Rebel and hauled him out to the wagons.  They were fast filling up.  The wounded who could move themselves were climbing into Shaunessy's wagon, some painfully, all silently.

"How many more to be carried?" O'Brien asked Morris.

"Three, I think."

O'Brien swore as they lifted the Texan into his wagon, then climbed in and started moving the wounded men closer together to make room.  The one lad they'd brought from Kozlowski's was taking more space than he ought.  O'Brien shoved him ungently against the box.  Miss Howland had seen fit to gift this stranger, this enemy, with her Christian name.  If he hadn't looked half-dead already, O'Brien would have been tempted to murder him.

He frowned down at the fellow.  Had he seen him before?  In the canyon, or at the Rebel train?  That was it.  It was the lad who'd tried to defend the train.  O'Brien had taken him prisoner, saving him from a bullet that some fool out of Wyncoop's company'd wanted to put in him.  Looked like the reaper might take him after all.

O'Brien jumped down from the wagon.  There she was, standing with Pigeon's wife over by Franklin's grave.  As he watched she leaned forward and scattered a handful of pale flowers on the turned earth.

O'Brien looked away and busied himself with the last of the wounded, and with getting his men back in the saddle.  By the time Miss Howland had said her goodbyes and rejoined him on the box, he had his feelings firmly in hand.  He kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts to himself as they drove over the pass, down through the canyon where Franklin had fallen in the first fight, and past the creek bed where O'Brien and his men had burned the Rebel train.  The charred remnants had been scattered by the Texans on their way into Santa Fé, searching for food or anything left that might be of use, no doubt.

Miss Howland made a small sound beside him, and he glanced her way.  She looked stricken, and he had to crush an impulse to gather her in his arms.  She was staring at the scorched earth, the broken crates, the bits of blackened wood and metal that were all that was left of the wagons.

"It must have been dreadful," she whispered.

O'Brien didn't trust himself to answer.  The worst horror was up the box canyon that had been the Rebels' corral.  He urged the horses to a trot, the sooner to bring her away from this place of death.  She didn't belong in a war, much as he hated to agree with Major Chivington.  He was glad, truly, to be taking her out of danger.

Though it felt like riding into danger's mouth, just now.  O'Brien was sharply aware of the Rebels at his back, and heartily glad they were wounded and weaponless.

"Kimmick, put out your flag," he called to one of his men, who undid a stick bundled in white cloth from his saddle and shook out the banner, propping it on his saddle-bow.

"It's still fifteen miles to Santa Fé," Miss Howland said in a small voice.

"They'll have pickets," O'Brien answered, glancing round.  They were leaving the narrow entrance to the pass behind them, and beginning to drive between rolling hills spotted with scrubby evergreens.  Sure to be a picket somewhere near.

As they drove west a band of blue mountains rose on the far side of the broken plain.  The trail wound through hills better grown with scrub than those east of the mountains, but still it was an empty, lonely land.  The rutted tracks curved gently northward, and glimpses of houses were now to be seen from the hilltops, and a thin trace of smoke from someone's fire.  Before long they were rolling between small farm plots, and houses, and then into the town.

The houses were all of mud, like the other Mexican towns he'd seen, but there were no Mexicans in sight.  Tired, hungry-looking white men lay in the shadows of buildings and walls.  Eyes looked out darkly from deep windows.  O'Brien's skin began to crawl as if he was entering a room filled with vermin.  He and his men were the only fellows in blue this side of the mountains, and he felt terribly exposed.

They splashed through a small stream, up a hill and into the town square.  Here, at last, they encountered a picket of sorts; eight or ten fellows standing guard about the front of a long, low house on the far side of the square.

"It's across the plaza, and to the right," said Miss Howland.

O'Brien moved the wagon forward at a walk, keeping behind Kimmick's white flag.  His escort kept close to the wagons, the lads looking as nervous as he felt.  Two Rebels came forward to meet them, and he halted the mules.

"What's your business?" one said.

"Brought your wounded from Pigeon's," O'Brien told him.

The guard looked in the wagon, then consulted with his companion.  "Can't leave 'em here," he said.

Miss Howland leaned forward.  "Mrs. Canby is taking them in."

O'Brien drew a short breath.  He hadn't thought it wise to mention the wife of the Union commander, but the name had a surprising effect on the Texans.  The guard's face softened.

"Go on, then," he said, jerking his head toward the street that ran away east of the long house.

O'Brien twitched the reins and drove 'round the corner, and in another moment Miss Howland was pointing at a wooden gate set into one of the endless mud walls whose few windows looked out on a big Spanish church across the way.  O'Brien pulled up at the gate.  Miss Howland made as if to get down, and he had to force himself to move and assist her, when what he really wanted was to catch her up and never let go.

He must leave her here, in the middle of this ant's nest of Rebels.  He might never see her again.  Numb, he stood by while she knocked at the gate.  A voice from the other side said something in Spanish.

"It's me, Miss Howland," she said.  "I've come with the wounded men from Glorieta."

A small door opened in the gate, and a Mexican peered out, then exclaimed, and smiled welcome at Miss Howland.  They exchanged a few words, and he shut the door again, only to open the whole gate a moment later.  It swung inward, revealing a short, dark passage big enough to admit a wagon, and a sunny garden beyond.

Miss Howland turned to O'Brien.  "Juan Carlos has gone to fetch Mrs. Canby."

O'Brien nodded.  He should bring the wagon in, now.  Instead he stared down at Miss Howland.  "Do you have any sort of weapon?"

She looked surprised, then smiled slightly, and pulled back her cloak to reveal a pistol strapped at her waist.  "Another gift from Lieutenant Franklin," she said.

He had never seen a woman wearing a gun before, even the wilder women in Denver City.  Somehow it didn't look wrong on her, though he couldn't like the necessity of her having it.

"Can you use it?" he said.

She nodded.  "The lieutenant showed me how."

He searched her face, and she returned his gaze as calm as if she were at Sunday church and not in the middle of an occupied town.  "Be very careful," he said at last.

"Thank you, Captain.  I shall."

A noise from the house drew her attention away, and one of the leaders sidled, and everything came into motion again.  O'Brien led the mules into the passage, disappointed in himself.  With everything in his heart threatening to burst him open, all he could tell her was to be careful.  She must think him a great idiot.

Go to, Alastar.  Give it up, and be gone.

He turned to the wagons, seeking to bury himself in activity so as not to be thinking at all.

"Laura!  Oh, my dear, I am so glad you've come!"  Mrs. Canby hugged Laura without ceremony.

Laughing, Laura hugged her just as firmly, then stepped back and looked at Mrs. Canby's sad eyes, always so at odds with her smile.  "You look tired," she said.

"Well, we have been fairly busy.  How many men did you bring?"

"Seventeen, I believe.  All that were in Glorieta, and one from Kozlowski's."

"Gracious.  I shall have to put some of them in the parlor.  No, the dining room, I think.  It will be easier to move the furniture.  Juan, pide a María que llavara las otras sábanas, por favor."

Laura swallowed, for her next words were not easy.  "Do you think you could spare a corner somewhere for me?" she asked.  "I'm not above the parlor, myself," she added with a small laugh.

Mrs. Canby turned surprised eyes to her.  "I thought—"  She glanced beyond Laura to the wagon where Captain O'Brien was helping unload the wounded.

"Major Chivington has forbidden me to travel any longer with the army," said Laura.

"Oh."  A faint look of worry came into Mrs. Canby's face, then was banished by a kindly smile.  "Of course, my dear.  You know you are always welcome.  You may share my room."

"Oh, I wouldn't—"

"Don't be nice, Laura," said Mrs. Canby, laughing.  "It's the only place I have to put you.  We shall be walking over a carpet of men as it is."  She moved to the wagon in two quick steps.  The captain looked up from his work.  "Captain—O'Brien, is it not?  I am deeply grateful to you for your help.  Won't you come inside for a moment?"

He looked surprised, but gave a short nod.  "Thank you, ma'am," he said.  "Morris, you take over here."

Mrs. Canby gave instructions to Juan Carlos for the disposition of the wounded, then ushered Laura and the captain into her parlor.  "I hope you won't mind the disorder," she said, indicating a heap of cloth strips on the table, waiting to be rolled into bandages.  "We have been preparing for you, as you see."

Carpet.  A sofa.  A fire spreading warmth from the grate.  They seemed unimaginable luxuries.  Laura gazed around the room that had become so familiar to her in the past year, feeling as if she'd come home.

"Won't you sit down?" said Mrs. Canby, sinking gracefully into her chair.  Laura sat on the sofa.  Captain O'Brien, after a moment's hesitation, pulled his hat off and perched on the far end.

"It was so very kind of you to bring the wounded in, Captain.  I was in a worry how to get them here."

"Kind of you to take them, ma'am," said the captain.  "Caring for enemy wounded."

"Well, someone must care for them," she said gently, her sad smile curving her lips.  "Would you like something to eat?"

"No," said the captain, turning his hat in his hands.  "We can't stay long.  We ought to make Pigeon's by dark, and myself I'd rather get back to Kozlowski's.  Bad dreams come if you sleep on a battleground."  He cast a glance at Laura, then hastily looked at the floor.

"Let me get you something to take along, then," said Mrs. Canby.  "You must be tired of marching fare.  No, it won't take a minute.  I insist."  She glanced at Laura as she rose, still smiling.  "I'll be back shortly."

Dear, kind Mrs. Canby, thought Laura, giving them privacy in which to say goodbye.  She glanced expectantly at the captain, but he seemed to have discovered some interesting quality about his hat.  Well, she would make it easy for him, and perhaps he'd remember her kindly.  She turned to him and held out her hand.

"Thank you, Captain, for all your care of me."

He shook her hand, and kept hold of it longer than was strictly proper, staring at her with a bewildered expression.  Laura gently removed her hand from his grasp, smiling so he would not be hurt.

"Remember to practice your letters," she added, "for I shall quiz you when next we meet."

The captain's brows drew together.  Had she angered him?  Her heart gave a little flutter, a shadow of her alarm when they'd first met.  She had feared him in earnest then; now she only feared offending him.

"Is there something. . . ?" she faltered, for his eyes burned green fire.

"Marry me!" he said hoarsely.