Four days later, the mud and pine cabin was quiet.
Outside, the mountain wind held a steady, low whistle against the roofbeams, but inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of charred resin and dried mint.
The sharp, metallic tang of blood that had filled the room during Morgan's first two days of consciousness had finally faded.
Morgan sat upright against the wooden headboard, his legs stretched out flat before him beneath a heavy wool blanket.
His right leg remained bound in rigid wooden splints, strapped tightly from his hip down to his ankle.
Pain was still a constant, heavy presence—a dull, throb-and-ache cycle that spiked into a white-hot sharp needle whenever he shifted his weight.
But atleast, the fever was gone.
His ribs no longer creaked sickeningly when he drew a deep breath. Which was something at least. He was alive, he was on the fast track to recovery.
And even more fortunately this particular morning, he was alone.
