The nuns had gone scurrying away shortly after the siesta. He was brutal in his dispatch of them. No, he did not need their help. No, he would take care of it himself.

Finally he simply stared them down, his face filled with the silence he had perfected through years of command--in the military and as a doctor. Odds were, in any given situation, he could muster enough disdain, anger or command to have virtually any order followed. The good sisters left him to the solitude of the church in the heat of the late afternoon. He admired their stoicism in the face of his irritability. He had no doubt many novenas would be offered for his benefit in the very near future.

The faithful came and went throughout the day. The sound of a coin dropped in the box, the hiss of a candle wick finding a flame. Once in a while he heard the faint tinkle of beads and a whispered prayer.

A rustle of skirts that stopped at a spot on the floor near his hands finally brought his head up. Looking up into the drawn brows of Señorita Alvarado, his frown deepened. "Do you want something?"

"Just to know what you're doing, Doctor."

Robert Helm rocked back on his heels to narrow his eyes at the señorita, giving her a cold, hard look. Yes, she was beautiful, but sometimes her guilelessness grated on him. Could she really be this ingenuous? "I have a scrub brush. There is a bucket of water and borax. I think you can make the deduction for yourself."

Her eyes narrowed in kind, but she said pleasantly enough. "I can see that, Doctor. I was just wondering why you weren't letting someone else do the job. You are the doctor, after all."

"Ah," he said, "but it is my mess to clean up." He resumed his task, turning his back on the señorita and her servant. Continuing to scrub, he did not realize that he was not alone until he heard Marta, the servant, say, "Penance is best served on one's knees."

His head came up, but he did not turn to the voice. His eyes closed, so did his throat. What did this woman know about his need for absolution? He scrubbed viciously at the dried brown blood still staining the rough boards of the church, trying to obliterate all the reminders of his culpability in the death of Don Aguilera.

He didn't open his eyes until he heard her footsteps move away and the door finally close. Once again sitting back on his heels, he rubbed his palms on his thighs. Looking up at the crucifix of the Papists, he swallowed a great knot of pain.

In coming to California, he was to put his bloody past behind him. He had taken his oath to devote his life to saving others, not taking others' lives. God, he'd been over this every waking hour since he realized that the arrow that struck the don had been meant for him instead. The senseless death was his fault as surely as if the arrow had sprung from his own bow.

He'd suffered many waking hours since that fiesta day. Bending again to his task, he scrubbed at his soul as he scrubbed at the grainy boards. His fingers were sore from gripping the wooden spine of the brush. Red and raw hands burned with every dip of the brush in the alkali mixture. His knees throbbed; this position was not a natural one for the body. Not at all.

Some time, at dusk perhaps, candles were lit for him. He would leave a coin in the box to compensate them for the light. The door behind him opened, the coolness of the evening wafting through. With a whoosh of skirts and petticoats, there was a woman on her knees beside him.

Marta. This woman never gave up. In her hand was a redware jug crudely corked. She also carried rags. "The floor will get no cleaner," she pronounced. "We must apply the oil to the wood to save it from the borax." She handed him a rough piece of muslin before she uncorked the jug.

The scent of the oil sprang forth, and Helm could not name it. It was sweet and tangy at the same time, and his nose wrinkled as Marta poured a generous amount onto his cloth. "Now work it into the wood with the grain," she ordered. His look told her her instructions were not necessary. She shrugged and set to work.

He concluded that Marta did this to unnerve him. Attended him without speaking, knowing somehow how to get him to accept help. He had not considered what the alkali would do to the broad pine boards. His only thought had been to clean away the residue of his shame, not repair the damage his ablutions would incur.

But even the borax and effort could not remove the shadow of the don's life blood from the pine, just as Helm could never be free of the shadow of his past. He maintained the long stroking motion, leting the oil bring out the wood's deep color, giving depth to the paleness, disguising the filth that he had sought to remove totally.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. Not today, not tomorrow. Perhaps never. The shadow would always lurk deep within him.

Together he and Marta covered the floor with the aromatic oil, rubbing the surface in a syncopation that only stopped when more oil was applied to a cloth. Their silence was a mutual benediction, part of a healing process.

Healing himself, he understood, but why was Marta here? The silent woman worked with quiet determination, never needing to resort to words after she had made her intentions plain. She seemed to understand well quietude and its healing qualities. He allowed her to stay beside him.

At last, the work was done. Marta straightened, still on her knees, to survey the floor. The oil had absorbed into the wood, darkening its hue, making the rough boards look richer. Corking the oil jug, she moved to gather the used rags to her, accepting one from Helm. Rolling to his feet, he offered her a hand up.

Marta frowned at the kindness, but placed her hand in his. There wasn't the flash of recognized pain when their hands touched, but she felt the overwhelming bleakness of his heart. He could see it in her eyes. He moved away from her to extinguish the candles.

With only the altar lit, they moved from the church into the cool, starry night. Marta put the jug and rags into the back of the carriage before moving to untie the horse.

"No one came with you?" He did not know why he had assumed someone would be out here waiting for her.

She looked up from the horse. "No." It was plain that she thought the question unnecessary.

"You should not ride alone in the dark."

Nodding, Marta agreed with his words. "But I must return to the hacienda. I have much to do."

Helm was torn. It was written on his face, as his common sense warred with good manners. "If you'll wait for me to wash, I will fetch my horse and take you home."

"That is not necessary, Doctor," Marta said. She was already moving to seat herself, only to be stayed by Helm's grasp on her wrist. "It is necessary." Her words of a week before were now used against her. "I will wash up and get my horse." She was released.

He walked toward his quarters with an easy grace, but she saw the tension that still rested on his shoulders. This man was very complicated. Contradictions visible in his every decision. She followed him.

Inside his office, she watched him strip to his undershirt before sluicing water over his forearms. Bringing handfuls of water up to his face and hair, he allowed the grime and oil be washed away as the water trailed dampness onto his shirt. A towel dried his face briskly. "Help yourself," he said, handing the damp cloth off to Marta as he passed into his private quarters. She washed her hands and wiped her face while waiting. He emerged buttoning his shirt, his hat on, duster thrown over his shoulder.

"If you bring your carriage over to the stable, I can put my saddle on the back seat and tie my horse behind it," he paused, "if I may?"

Politeness never hurt, but she knew it was half-hearted. "As you wish," she said before she walked off to do his bidding.

The saddle fell onto the seat behind, and the mare was tied through one of the slats. Hoisting himself up beside Marta, he moved to take the reins. She did not relinquish them, her fingers tightening on the leather. "Very well," he gritted out, slumping down into the seat, pulling his hat over his eyes.

Marta set her horse into motion.

The night was cool and clear, the stars as bright as jewels. Initially, Helm saw none of it, his eyes covered by his battered hat. But there was no point in remaining surly. That was no way to repay a kindness. He pushed his hat up and sat up to his full height. He didn't need the light of the moon to know that a smile began to creep across his companion's mouth. He could feel it.

Short puffs of cooled breath decorated the horse's head. Helm pulled his duster closer around him, noting that Marta held her shawl close to her with her bare hand. His lips thinned. It would be fractious to point out her lack of preparation for a desert trip late at night. Instead, he pulled his coat from under himself so that it would cover her when he encircled the woman with his arm.

She stiffened in surprise. The intimacy was totally unexpected.

"You're cold," he muttered.

"I am fine." Her voice was as stiff as her body.

"You'll be warmer." His tone was not inviting.

She said nothing to that. After a moment, "You are being forward."

Now Helm smiled. "Would you prefer my horse's blanket?"

She jabbed at him with her shoulder, his breath leaving him in a soft chuckle. The breath wafted across her neck, displacing tendrils of hair that escaped from its combs. Her scent was one of herbs, polishing oil and something that belonged only to this woman.

With a strong hand on her arm, he pulled her farther back to his chest. Her resistance was momentary as she relaxed onto him, deeper into his duster. He felt her sigh, a prelude to not quite relaxation. A large, gloved hand engulfed her small one, not to remove the reins, but to warm her within his grip.

How long had it been since he took this kind of liberty with a woman? Too long. Indulging in a whore or two in Texas was not the same as holding a beautiful, complicated woman in a simple, uncomplicated way.

But driving a beautiful woman home on a clear, star-filled night was somehow so very human, with a sweetness that Helm had met infrequently over the years. The need for a quiet understanding that did not involve the foolish prattle of the beautiful, spoiled women, young and old, that were so prevalent at Montoya's gatherings, that's what he needed.

Pulling his companion closer to him, to warm her, he was getting what he needed. He could feel the coolness of her skin slowly dissipating, her warmth radiating through the clothing she wore. Into the clothing that he wore.

With a sudden gasp, Marta pulled the horse to a stop. A questioning frown marred his brow as he looked down at her. Her head was tilted up, her mouth an open smile of awe. "It is beautiful."

Helm continued to frown, but followed her gaze to the skies. It was beautiful. Stars, many of them, shooting across the horizon in God's own display of pyrotechnics. Slowly, a smile was born -- small, but a smile nevertheless.

He turned his eyes from the falling stars to the woman beside him. She was still entranced by the display, eyes as bright as the jewels that arced earthward and disappeared as quickly as they came. The display continued, but Marta became aware of his scrutiny and bowed her head. After a moment, she raised it to meet his eyes.

Hers were dark, solemn. Helm was transfixed by their depth. She did not blink, he did not waver. A long, gloved finger tipped up her chin when it would have dipped. He held the strong dark eyes a little longer before lowering his mouth to hers.

Her lips were slightly parted, as if she were going to object. But the objection never came. As soft as they looked, they felt even softer under the tender questing of his touch. His tongue slipped across her lower lip, his teeth tugging at it, pulling it into his mouth with small suction.

Her hand was on his chest, fingertips grazing his nipple, hardening it with her touch. It was with greatest effort that he pulled away. "Enough," he barked, his voice destroying the intimacy. His arms pulled out of the duster leaving Marta encircled, but Helm in only his shirt sleeves in the cold.

Quick, deep breaths did not still his heart's wild beating, did not calm him. A shaking hand pushed his hat off his head. Agitated fingers moved through his hair.

"What does not please you, the kiss or the kissing?"

This woman cut through bramble without hesitation. He cast a glance at the now still sky, then looked at her, pleading for her understanding.

His head tilted in amazement. She did understand. Of course, she had been affected by his kiss -- her eyes were heavy with the same arousal that he felt -- but he also saw the kind understanding, the understanding of his need for connection. Once again, he relaxed, shouldering his way back into the warmth of his coat and shared body heat.

Marta flicked the reins and the horse resumed its journey home; she did not comment on the hand that rested easily on her hip. Or the gloved hand that resumed its hold of hers and the reins. She did, however, burrow deeper into the warmth of his coat.

Too soon, but with excruciating slowness, the Alvarado ranch came into sight, the soft glow of torches visible from a long distance. Helm was ready to be rid of her, the closeness too tempting, the need for companionship too strong. He pulled up on the reins they shared.

Now Marta frowned at him.

"I will leave you here. You will be safe the rest of the way."

Her frown softened, the understanding once more in place. He searched her face another moment, looking for pity. He found none. Before he pushed her from the protection of his coat, he pulled her small hands to his lips. Looking up over the knuckles, into her eyes, he breathed, "Thank you."

She watched him saddle his horse, cinching it into place silently. When mounted, he looked at her again for a long, long moment. He tipped his hat to her before dropping it back onto his head and wheeling the horse around.

The cool of the night air did nothing to dispel the heat within him, nor did the reckless pace he set his horse to in the moonlight. But the heat no longer held an urgency. It spread a uniform warmth within him, bringing a slight thaw to the area of his heart.