Enchanted Heart (22 page)

The night was quiet except for an occasional fit of pain that caused Greta to cry out, sending both of them to her side. Then, she slept almost too peacefully, making Marty think that she was sleeping too deeply, locked in the clutches of what Buck called a coma.

Before dawn the next morning, they dowsed the fire. Marty used the cooled coals to scrawl a crude map and a short note onto the wall,, telling Caid where to find them. Then they rode on Buck’s horse down the mountain and then up another one while Rising Sun and Hunts-with-a-knife carried Greta on the litter.

When they finally made it to the one-room cabin, Buck made Marty a pallet in the corner and gave his bed to Greta. He would sleep in the chair beside the fire, he told Marty, saying that he could keep watch much better from there. Then, he uncovered Greta and examined her mangled body in the light of the afternoon sun that streamed through the windows.

Marty stood next to him, wondering how this man would know how to mend her sister. She watched in wonder while Buck leaned over Greta to unwrap the bandage on her sister’s leg and she heard him cluck his tongue at the protruding bone and the blood that oozed from the wound.

“Hmm,” Buck mused without looking at Marty yet his next question was directed at her. “Who thought to use white oak powder?”

“Caid,” Marty replied, raising her head. “He keeps it for nosebleeds.”

Buck looked at her then and realized that the woman really did believe what this Caid person had told her. He knew that most folks who travel in Indian Territory and the Texas hill country, which was slithering with snakes and scorpions, always kept a pouch of white oak powder to stop bleeding and for poisonous bites. In fact, he intended to use it again after Greta’s leg was repaired and sewed up. The herb’s miraculous power to stop bleeding and to soak up venom, not to mention its ability to fight off infection, was known throughout the region. Silently, he commended this Caid for his quick thinking in saving the woman who had suddenly taken hold of his heart, even as she slept.

“Caid gave us more. It’s in our bags,” she added, walking to the table to retrieve the medication in question.

He loudly cleared his throat to tell her, “I keep white oak powder around at all times, along with other natural remedies.”

“Caid says it is also good for digestive problems, when it is mixed with water,” Marty added.

“Yes, a tea of white oak bark is the best thing for the back-door trots.”

Seeing her questioning expression, Buck explained, “Diarrhea. You know, trottin’ for the back door to the outhouse.”

Marty giggled. She had never heard that affliction referred to in such a humorous manner and it tickled her to hear it then, in the midst of a dire crisis.

Hearing voices, Greta opened her eyes to see the large figure that hovered above her like that gigantic pink rock that they had passed just before the wagon toppled and she was injured. The memory caused her to jerk in pain and she heard the man’s soft voice as if he was speaking from far, far away.

“Easy now,” he whispered with gentle words as he stopped his work and leaned toward her while she squinted at him. “We’re gonna take good care of you, Miss.”

Greta groaned, blinking hard to ward off the pain. She took in a deep breath and begged the man, “Please don’t let them take my leg!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head none,” Buck said. “I’m gonna do my damnedest to let you keep it.”

She smiled. He was kind. She could tell by the way he treated her as if she was a china doll, breakable and precious although he did not know who she was. He was possibly handsome beneath all that bristly fur on his face for his ruddy cheeks were soft and smooth as if they belonged to a man older than he appeared to be, for the wavy, unruly hair on his head was streaked with thin wisps of gray. And he must know something about medicine, for he worked proficiently with the bandages, being ever so careful not to cause her any more agony.

“Are you a doctor?” she moaned, trying to raise her head to watch but he gently eased her back onto the bed.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said with a warm smile that was barely visible within the hairy forest that encircled it. But his cheeks glistened a deeper red and his eyes sparkled with animation when he promised, “I’ll do everything I can for you. Just close your pretty little eyes and rest now.”

Greta could not keep the smile from returning. She was amazed that he thought that she was pretty. She never thought of herself as pretty. Marty was the pretty one even though they looked alike, for the most part. Marty was the one that caused all the men to stare, to instantly fall in love with her. Greta thought of herself as her sister’s shadow, meek and quiet, lurking just behind so as not to be noticed.

“Marty,” she called at the thought of her twin.

“I’m here, Greta,” Marty assured her with a squeeze of her hand. “Buck is going to take good care of you.”

“Buck,” she whispered the name as if it was the name of an angel. And then she looked upward to see a white handkerchief closing in on her face.

“Don’t fight it,” Buck said soothingly as he squeezed her forearm in his massive hand. “It’ll help you sleep.”

As the ether drifted into her lungs, Greta’s eyes began to close while she batted them open again. A warm hand upon her cheek made her allow them to flutter until she could not lift them anymore. The last thing that she felt was Buck’s palm on her face and the last thing that she saw was his reassuring smile.

Buck moved his hand to his side and balled his fist as if to savor the feel of her supple skin. Then he turned away from her and leaned over the table behind him. “We’ll have to get that bone back inside or she’ll lose that leg,” he said before he went to the basin to wash his hands. He called over his shoulder for Rising Sun to bring him a bag that had been hidden behind a table on the floor in the corner of the room. When the Indian brought it to Buck, he went to work on Greta’s broken body.

“Hold her down,” Buck told Hunts-with-a-knife before he took a shining scalpel from the bag and then poured liquor onto the gaping wound. He winked at Marty as if to silently assure her that Greta would not feel a thing and having the boy hold her was his way of easing Hunts-with-a-knife’s jumbled nerves. He knew his son was a little squeamish around injured folks and the more he was exposed to it the more he would be desensitized to it.

Without pausing, he deftly sliced the skin and muscle to widen the gap, taking care not to sever any vital blood vessels. Then he dug into the hole with his finger and found the other end of the bone and said, “She’s lucky an artery wasn’t severed. But if we don’t get that bone back just right, she’ll never walk again. I’ll need the magnifying glass. My eyes just ain’t what they used to be.”

He held out a bloody hand for the glass that Rising Sun searched for in the black bag on the table next to the bed. When it was dropped into his hands, he changed his mind, knowing that he would need both hands to operate and he handed it back. “No, hold it right there. I’ll need more light,” Buck ordered gruffly as he moved the lamp that Marty had brought close to Greta’s leg.

After two hours of operating, the bone was replaced into its position and the wound was stitched back together. A generous dose of white oak bark was sprinkled into the seeping wound before the leg was wrapped and then stabilized with straight wooden planks and tightly wrapped again with fresh linen.

Then Buck turned his attention to the wound on Greta’s head, which her hair had gratefully matted itself into a rudimentary bandage of sorts, causing the blood to clot. He clipped the hair away and then examined the wound. Finding it only a minor cut, but that it concaved over her skull, which caused more than a little concern in his mind, he bandaged it with fresh gauze.

When the operation was over and Buck was washing the blood from his hands, Marty joined him and looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man and said, “You never told me that you were a doctor.”

“I’m not,” he said with a growl. Then, his features softening a bit, he added, “At least not anymore.”

She wondered why he had stopped doctoring and then came out and asked, “Why not anymore?”

“It’s hard for me to talk about it,” he said gruffly before he waved her next question away and walked out of the cabin.

With purpose, he strode through the woods, down to the stream behind the cabin and then he followed the stream until it tumbled over a cliff in a waterfall of colors that always took his breath away. There, in the spray, he saw her face.

Tess called to him, “You must forget me, my love!”

“No!” he cried, burying his bearded face in his hefty hands. “Never!”

“It is time,” the water that gushed over the rocks whispered to his aching heart. “It is time to let her go.”

While he trudged through the underbrush, the thought of finding love with another woman tore at his heart while the forest tore at his clothes. How could his heart betray his loyalty and devotion to the love of his life? How could he be so callous as to replace her with another woman?

But he had. In an instant, he had let his heart betray the only woman that he had ever loved. And in the droplets that gathered in a mist around him, a new face appeared. It was the face of the sleeping woman, with whom he had never had a decent conversation, and yet, he knew that he loved her. It had been Fate that had taken his Tess and now, Fate had decided to bring him Greta.

For what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality, it had only been an hour or so, he sat and then he walked. He questioned his future and the fact that his heart had betrayed him, had betrayed his Tess. He yelled into the waterfall that refused to speak his dead wife’s name—that only whispered the name of the woman sleeping in the cabin. Greta, it told him, was his future.

After finally resigning himself to the fact that his heart had moved on, Buck knew that he was in love with Greta. And, as Linda Blue Sky had told him many, many times, ‘One must embrace the gift that Fate has provided. It may never be presented again.”

He often wondered about his Comanche maid’s ability to see inside his mind, to see the future. And he wondered why he was falling in love again, after he had promised to love and to cherish, until death parted him from the love of his life...

But he wasn’t about to question it, he just had to accept it.

***

When he returned that evening, he did not say a word to Marty. Instead, Buck checked to see if Greta’s wounds were still bleeding. There was a minimal amount of blood oozing but that was to be expected. Satisfied that he had done a good job, he nodded to himself and then settled into his chair beside the fire. In a few minutes, he was snoring.

Marty watched the sleeping bear of a man and wondered why he had been compelled to stop being a doctor. Deciding that it must have been something very traumatic, she told herself that she would not prod him for an answer to her question. She sat beside her sister for a few hours, and then curled up into her bed in the corner of the room.

Smiling in her sleep, she dreamed of standing with Caid high upon that rock of enchantment. Her worries were left behind in the confines of stark reality while her fantastic fantasy carried her away to the warm patchwork quilt of bliss that was sewn together by her bewildered mind. Swaddled in that cozy dream, she slept as sound as a newborn, innocent and trusting in the world in which she had been thrust.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Marty Ingram stared at the Comanche brave who stood near the fire after he had come into the cabin and announced that snow was coming. The red man was taller than she had expected an Indian to be, although she had never heard accounts of the natives’ heights, only the way they dressed. This one, it was apparent, did not adhere to the common clothes that she had heard were worn by Comanche men. Instead of buckskin breeches, this one wore Confederate pants with a thick yellow stripe adorning the outside of the leg. His chest was bare, save for the vest that must have been made of beautiful silk before he’d worn it until it was threadbare. There was a necklace made of what looked like shells and she wondered where he could have acquired shells deep in the mountains of Central Texas, but it was of no matter to her. His ears were pierced and the same shells dangled from them from silver strands of metal. His arms were bound with silver bands that made his biceps bulge when he moved his muscles. His long, black hair was woven into braids that fell just below his belt line and there were silver and shell adornments woven into the braids. A single feather had been interlaced with one of these braids and on the other was a silver bauble which had a beautiful setting of a green-blue rock. On his bare chest was a golden pendant in the shape of the sun, which was how he displayed his name, apparently.

Rising Sun noticed that Marty was appraising him and he lifted his head proudly, never smiling, but his eyes danced with pride at the formidable appearance that he must have posed to the woman in the chair facing him. He flexed his arms just enough to show her that he was a brave warrior and that he would make a proud husband for some lucky squaw. Then, he turned back toward the fire and spread his hands out over it, bringing them ever so close to the licking flames and never flinching from the burning pain.

Not impressed in the least by this young man’s show of boldness, Marty put down her sewing and walked toward the door of the cabin to see if Rising Sun had been telling the truth when he’d announced that a snow storm was coming just before he had warmed himself in front of the roaring fire. She sniffed the cold air and realized that he had. She knew that if they did not leave this cabin soon, they would be trapped here until the snow melted.