But when a cowboy she barely knows is fatally injured, the only way to save him is by sacrificing an essential piece of the resurrection spell—and all possibility of seeing her lover again.
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Roy puts the horses out to pasture under the watchful gaze of the witch candles, his nose itching every time the wind carries the pale smoke in his direction. He keeps an eye out for the witch, but there's no sign of her; he overhears John talking about how witches only travel under cover of darkness, because the light of day will burn their blighted skin. Roy's curiosity starts to fade to resignation. Maybe he won't see her at all. Maybe Weber will keep her away from the men entirely; maybe he fears that a hex on one of them would be a hex on the whole ranch.

Around midday, he retreats into the stables to repair a stall door that one of the mares kicked down. It's unpleasant work, downwind of the house so the air reeks of smoke as well as manure and straw dust. He sneezes till his eyes are running and his throat is raw. It seems like it's getting hotter every minute, feverish almost. Soon his chest aches with each breath.

He stops to wipe his brow on his sleeve and notices that the straw is stirring around his feet as if picked up by a breeze, but there's no wind, just a strange agitation in the air.

A coil of soft heat, like a cat's tail, brushes the back of his neck.

Roy startles and glances over his shoulder. There's nothing out of the ordinary, just saddles and tack and a bare wall, but the air pushes around him like a hot bath. He takes a thick breath, his head swimming, and moves toward the stable door. Better sit down, he thinks, before you fall down—

But then he sees it: a seam of light cutting its way across the bare wall like a shooting star.

Roy stands stock still, staring at the light. He's filled with a giddy fear like the kind he used to get from his pa's candlelight stories. The heat is dizzying, past intolerable, the air swelling urgently around him. Roy blinks sweat out of his eyes, watching the light's progress as it traces a rectangle the size of a door.

Then the door cracks inward, and the pressure goes all at once. The air left behind is cold and thin and smells of flowers.

Roy sags against the wall, shivering and staring, as the witch steps through.

She moves like a deer, dainty and aloof, turning to press the glowing door closed behind her. She's dressed like Mr. Weber's young wife, in gray and white, with a bow around the high collar of her dress and a straw bonnet trimmed with silk. Roy hadn't expected her to be so pretty. She's the kind of lady who would make him stumble over his tongue if he met her in the street. Her lips are rosy, her cheekbones striking; her hair is dark and tame, pulled back into a shiny braid, loose ringlets curling over her brow and along her cheeks.

He realizes he's exposing his soul for her taking a moment too late when she turns and catches his eye. She looks straight at him, not in the forthright way that some people do, but like a cat watching an insect. Her eyes are black, languid—her eyelashes so thick and dark they seem to pull her eyelids down for each dispassionate blink. Roy, flushed and now freezing, finds himself unable to move.

"Do you need something, cowboy?" she asks, a cool voice with a distinct Texan drawl.