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she said, this man had somehow touched her.
    Unwilling to allow Chantalle to see she was so affected, Tricia glanced up at the older woman, who stood opposite her. Chantalle had responded to her call for help by summoning several men into the room to lift the big man back onto the bed. She had sent for the doctor and had then dismissed the men. Tricia had tried to make the fellow comfortable, but she knew the damage was done. His leg was bleeding again, and his head was grotesquely swollen where he had struck it when he fell. She had insisted that she was capable of caring for him, but she had obviously overestimated her ability. Her care had resulted in the wound that presently complicated the poor fellow’s condition.
    And she still didn’t know his name.
    Chantalle broke the silence to question softly, “You say you went through the contents of this man’s pockets, Tricia, and you didn’t find anything that could help us identify him?”
    Tricia responded helplessly, “He was only carrying a money pouch with a few coins in it and a few incidentals that don’t mean much.”
    “Incidentals?”
    “What appeared to be a Confederate military button or an insignia of some sort, a damaged piece of old jewelry, and a few other things.”
    “That’s strange. He should have some sort of identification.” Chantalle was still dressed in the crimson gown she had worn earlier, signifying that her evening had just begun; yet her expression was weary as shefrowned and said, “We need to contact his family . . . just in case.”
    Just in case.
    Tricia took a breath. “I don’t think he has any family. He said he’s responsible for himself.”
    “There has to be somebody.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “No one is
that
alone. He came here with a friend, so there has to be someone who cares about him.” Chantalle’s expression suddenly brightened. “Of course—I should have thought of it sooner. His mount is in our barn out back. I’ll get somebody to search his saddlebags. He’s bound to have some paperwork in there—especially if he was recently released from a military hospital.”
    Not waiting for Tricia’s reply, Chantalle turned toward the door. She said over her shoulder, “Doc Wesley should be here any minute. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    The silence of the room seemed thunderous as the door clicked closed behind Chantalle. Tricia took a few steps closer to the bed and stared helplessly down at the big man. The swelling on his forehead seemed to have intensified. He was still mumbling incoherently, and her sense of inadequacy increased. What was going to happen to him?
    Aching deep inside, Tricia scrutinized the fellow’s flushed visage. He was young, she guessed, probably in his mid-twenties. She supposed the average woman would think him handsome, considering his heavy dark hair and those startlingly light eyes that had looked at her so accusingly. His features were strongand chiseled despite the beard beginning to shadow his face, and his lips were pleasantly full.
    She wondered offhandedly what it would be like to see those lips move into a smile meant expressly for her. Realistically, she supposed she’d never find out.
    Tricia glanced up at the door tensely. Where was the doctor? Why was he taking so long to get there?
    Tricia looked back at the dresser where the fellow’s money pouch lay. She had been so hopeful when she had gone through his meager possessions in an attempt to identify him, but the effort had been a waste. Could she have missed something?
    Frowning, she walked to the dresser and scrutinized the few articles again. A money pouch . . . a comb . . . a military insignia of some type . . .
    Tricia opened the money pouch and looked inside. As before, she saw a few dollars and a damaged ring that had originally borne a crest that was hard to distinguish. She could barely make out the sailing ship on it, but she—
    “What are you doing?” Tricia jumped as the deep voice sounded