Read Online The Gila Wars by Larry D. Sweazy - Free Book Online

He was vulnerable. Naked. Under a thin blanket, in a house whose rules and comforts he did not know. All matters that made him miss his own home even more.
    Francesca dished out three more tamales and handed Josiah the plate. “I will leave you to yourself then.”
    â€œYou don’t have to go. I’m sorry if I was curt with you.”
    â€œNo, no señor, it is late. I have other chores to finish before I end the day.”
    â€œIt is only night then? Not morning?”
    â€œ
Sí
, Señor Elliot rode out at last light. Papa and I tried to convince him to wait until morning, but he would have nothing of it.”
    â€œThat would be Scrap.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œIt’s a nickname for Señor Elliot.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œPlease tell your father that I’m grateful for his hospitality.”
    â€œ
Sí
, I will.”
    Francesca turned then and walked away from the bed, the light following her gently, allowing Josiah to see the silhouette of her body through the thin linen material of her blouse and skirt.
    He turned away once she disappeared out the door, surprised at himself.
    He had mentioned Lily, told Francesca of his dead wife, but had not bothered to mention that he was courting a woman in Austin, who had all of the makings of a fine wife and mother for Lyle. It was an omission that made him as uncomfortable as the lumpy foreign mattress he’d woke up and found himself on.

CHAPTER 8

    Morning light filtered into the room, shimmering around the closed curtain at the window. The coolness of the night was evaporating, overtaken by the coming heat of the day. A slight breeze pushed under the door, searching for an escape route, finding it in a long crack in the wall adjacent to the window. The window was closed tight. Ugly brown water stains drained down the wall to the floor from the sill, giving a musty smell to the room that Josiah had not noticed before. For a brief moment, he thought he could smell his own sickness, the injury settling under his skin, out to do him harm in an unseen, and unavoidable, attack.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, half-awake, still not sure where he was or how he had gotten to the room.
    The night had been filled with fits of sleeplessness and of pain and worry. The side of his face felt like he had fallen into a thick patch of prickly pear, itching, stinging, festering inside his skin until it felt like it would explode. If not for the bandage and salve that Francesca had seen to place there, Josiah surely would have gone mad, or succumbed to the wound in total surrender. He was feverish one minute, sweating and wet all over, then dry the next minute, like there was nothing wrong with him at all.
    Mostly, though, the night had brought nightmares and dreams, visions of ghosts wafting in and out of his consciousness, untouchable and silent. His voice was vacant, stuck somewhere between the waking world and the sleeping one, not allowing him to speak with the specters. Other faces he did not know, or recognize, visited him as well, until Josiah finally relented and gave up trying to participate in the dream. He woke up then, grasping at the meaning of it all, trying to hang on to the sight of Lily, of friends lost in the war. He wanted nothing more than to hear their voices as he woke, but all he was left with was the whisper of the breeze pushing in under the door and the distant sounds of life stirring just outside it.
    A knock came at the door, startling Josiah, pulling him completely out of his dream state and fully into the waking world.
    â€œAre you decent, Señor Josiah?” It was Francesca’s voice, certain, sweet, and surprisingly welcome.
    â€œYes,” Josiah said, making sure the blanket was wrapped tightly at his waist. His feet rested on the cool, red tiled floor, and he sat up as straight as he could.
    Francesca had seen him bare-chested the night before, but he still felt a bit of real modesty,