Silas Scrimshaw rolled over onto his side and rattled out a long breath. “I"m not so sure I can do this for much longer.”
Next to him, Manuela propped herself up on her elbow and gave him a searching look. Twenty-two years of age, half-Mexican, her skin as brown as a nut, she pursed her lips and smiled. “Silas, you be the finest man I have ever known.”
Twisting his head to face her, he frowned. “Well, that"s nice of you to say, my lovely, but I know that ain"t so.”
“Of course, it is.” She reached out and brushed his cheek with the back of her forefinger. “You make me very happy.”
Grunting, Silas threw back the covers and got out of bed. Blazing through the open window, the early morning sun flooded the room and he went across and gazed out at the wide, open plain. Closing his eyes, he
