Marta spied Dr. Helm in the distance long before he realized her presence. He was on his hands and knees, spade in hand hacking at something in the ground with its edge. Beside him, in the dirt, were his hat and a chip basket much like the one Marta herself was carrying. A horse grazed in the brush, its rein attached to a picket.

She approached him, boldly watching the man as he bent to his task, the muscles of his back rolling under his thin undershirt. A shirt splotched with grime and sweat. Though still morning, the sun was blistering and the air hot to breathe. This did not seem to stop the doctor from the job he had set for himself.

A root was wrested from the ground, the muscles of the doctor's back and arms worked, tightened, tensed as he pulled at the stubborn plant. Marta admired the sleek form as it strained with effort.

At last the root was free, the momentum of his pull sending the doctor sprawling backwards onto his bottom.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, rolling to his feet and slamming the offending plant into his basket. Beating the dust of his back side with a leather glove he'd pulled off, he pulled a bandana out of his back pocket to wipe the dripping brow and neck.

The fair-skinned blanco's neck was pinkening. "You will need to make a poultice from the root you have just pulled if you do not soon cover your pale skin," Marta observed, walking closer.

The doctor stiffened, his hand in mid-air. She had made no secret of her approach, so his concentration on his work must have been intense. A frown crossed her brow as she looked up at his stiff shoulders. Turning slowly, the doctor cast her a wary glance.

The frown deepened as she looked into his odd eyes. She was not sure where the green ended and the gold began. "I mean you no harm."

He, too, searched her eyes. "I was--" he paused and picked up his discarded shirt--"not expecting anyone."

Marta smiled as he worked the buttons. It was a shame to cover such a splendid figure, but he obviously had the manners of a gentleman. It was unseemly for a man to be in his underwear in front of a woman not his wife. "Apparently," she answered. "Are you gathering ingredients for your miraculous cures?"

His eyes narrowed on her, not sure if she was teasing. She smiled at him so baldly that eventually his face softened and his lips curled up. Dropping his gloves and spade into his basket, he turned from her to move to another patch of flora.

Marta followed. "Ah, Yerba Santo," she said, as they approached a flowering patch in the scrub. "Very good choice. Good for a heavy chest--" she paused for the right words. "Short wind?"

The doctor was already down on one knee, pulling his gloves on. "Asthma and bronchitis," he said as he applied his shears to the plant. "In the east, we call this mountain balm." She knelt beside Dr. Helm, their knees touching.

It did not surprise her when he moved away from the intimacy. He had been as unnerved as she when their hands had touched before. She knew he had not had the vision she had. The one of a soldier and slaughter. The scene had only lasted a moment, but the impression it left was deep. It did not miss her attention that he had been affected by the contact as deeply as she had been.

She flung errant strands of hair from her eyes, to study the now grim face more closely.

"You seem to have recovered from the fever," he said, never looking up from clipping the herb.

Marta faltered. "I am strong."

Helm nodded, separating dead growth from the actual balm. "Very strong. The señorita was very worried for your health."

Marta's smile broke again, "My Tessita is very protective of her own." She took the bundle from the doctor, noting that he was careful not to brush her hand with his own. She split the balm into two bouquets and placed one in each basket.

When she looked up from her task, he was looking at her with an intensity that made eye contact hard to maintain. But he said, "I'm glad that you have recovered."

His tone was sincere, but so formal. So stiff. Marta knew there was more he wished to say, but he did not pursue the matter. Instead, his jaw hardened and his lips thinned. A man wrestling with speculation and what he knew to be true. Like Montoya, this man was not stupid. But unlike Montoya, his morals were high. He would champion causes that were just.

He could be the Queen of Swords' ally, or her gravest enemy. Tessita would have to be careful. Just because this man espoused peace did not mean he would not be formidable if crossed.

The doctor pulled off his gloves once again and reached for his canteen. Wiping the mouth with his bandana, he offered the first drink to Marta. She accepted the offering, her chin coming up under his scrutiny. She pretended she had nothing to hide.

Of course, she had something to hide, yet she could be as bold as Tessa. They would do nothing but battle with words. And there would be no winner, only equals in such a battle.

The cards, though. They were Marta's advantage and she would use them to guide her and her charge on the road of the righteous.

Marta drank deeply of the doctor's water, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as the strange, beautiful eyes watched her every move. Raising the water to his own mouth, he drank deeply as well. Marta watched the Adam's apple bob with each swallow. She blinked to regain her composure.

"There is a plant native to these parts that is helpful in relieving the pain of rheumatism," Marta said when the doctor finished his drink. "Perhaps that would be of interest to you." With her basket on her arm and her rebozo pulled over her head to protect her from the noon day sun, she moved toward the foothills.

A sharp brow was raised before she turned fully away from him. "It definitely would be of interest." She heard him pick up his own basket and tools. "What is it called?"

She stopped, waiting for him to catch up to her, her mouth quirked to one side. "Stinging Nettle."