Texas Healer

by Jean Brashear

  “A man who has to put a woman down isn’t much of a man,” he said. “Put a move on you and you didn’t bite, right?”

  Her eyes warmed. “I don’t go for insufferable jerks.”

  He let the question shimmer unspoken for endless seconds while they watched each other with too many other questions crowding the otherwise quiet room.

  There was no reason to ask. He did, anyway. “So what type do you go for?” As soon as he’d said the words, he willed them back.

  But too late. She studied him for a long time, her shoulders curving inward, her face at once very young and very old. “I…don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t been—I don’t have much time—” She picked up her mug and took a long sip.

  In that moment, Rafe saw another woman inside the tough shell of the ambitious surgeon, the woman so driven to compete that a brilliant colleague felt compelled to knock her down.

  She wasn’t as sure of herself as she portrayed, not so hard as she’d like to convey. Rafe began to wonder if there wasn’t more to it than her recent injury.

  Susto. What had this woman lost of her soul? And why? All at once, Rafe wished he had his grandmother’s insight.

  But Diana Morgan would never stand for a healing. She would not welcome the long talks of the plática, the counseling where a curandera began to understand the pain beneath the body’s illness. He tried to imagine her lying still for the cleansing limpia—

  All at once, an image snared him: that long, slender body bared, the ivory skin softening beneath his touch as he massaged her to open her heart, readying her to accept the sweeping away of soul pain—

  Cristo—Rafe whirled. Unacceptable. A healer never got involved with his patient. Diana Morgan might not consider herself his patient, but she needed help.

  No. From his grandmother, maybe; not from him. Not when he was so aware of her as a woman.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing—” He barely curbed the urge to snap. “I have to go.” He hadn’t been involved with a woman since his injury. Now was a hell of a time for his body to be awakening.

  “Is it your hip?”

  “I don’t need your help—” He turned back to her. “You’re the patient, remember?”

  Lines formed between her brows. “I’m not a patient—certainly not your patient.”

  “Good—” He heard Lobo growl and crossed to the door. “I’m late. You should rest—” He jerked the knob.

  “Don’t tell me what to do—”

  “Fine—” he snarled.

  “Just go—”

  “Gladly.” He slammed the door. He was halfway down the steps before it registered that there had been tears in her eyes.

  Lobo’s voice rumbled.

  Rafe swore. For a moment he considered going back to apologize.

  The lock clicked into place behind him.

  He looked at Lobo. “What the hell just happened, buddy?”

  Lobo only whined and stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting with patient eyes.

  Rafe started toward his grandmother’s house and the peace that always lay in wait there.

  No. She would want to know what had happened. Why, for the second day in a row, he had lost a temper that he’d kept under iron control for a long time now.

  He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to talk about it.

  So though his grandmother’s house was much closer and his hip hurt like hell, Rafe headed instead up the long path that would lead to his house.

  Knowing also that for the second time in as many days, he owed the prickly Dr. Morgan an apology.

  Diana watched his torturous climb back to the ridge behind her cabin. He shouldn’t be pushing that hip so hard—she knew it; so did he. Damn male pride, anyway—

  If she had a car, she could—

  She slapped the palm of her left hand on the counter. Trapped. She was trapped here in Nowheresville with a hermit and a crazy old lady who—

  Not fair, Diana. Not even a little fair. Rosaria was as kind a soul as she’d ever met. The real McCoy, someone who gave of herself to others without any hope of recompense. Just the thought of Rosaria settled her.

  She eyed the cell phone. Walked halfway to it, reached to pick it up—

  What would be the use? They’d say what they always said—that everything was under control, that she should just relax and get well…

  Relax. Diana snorted. How could you relax when you were going bonkers?

  You could make rounds with me.

  No. It was crazy. What did she remember of basic medicine? It had been years. She might do harm, forgetting something important—

  An old woman who should be retired still seeing twenty patients a day—

  A load for anyone half Rosaria’s age. But how could she accompany Rafe anywhere? He was too—

  She shivered. Too big. Too overpowering. Too—

  Damaged. Not his body; that didn’t bother her. But within him something was still wounded. She didn’t need that, didn’t need anyone else’s problems on top of her own.

  She studied the hand that she could barely stand to look at anymore. The contrast hurt. Once it had been a thing of grace, a tool of rare skill. Once she had taken it for granted.

  No more. It was ugly and she hated it, hated what it represented to her.

  Failure. Who was she, if not the miracle worker? If not Dr. Diana Morgan, possessor of multiple awards and certifications, author of important papers, admired and sought after—

  If she wasn’t a doctor, who was she?

  Oh, God—

  Left hand pressed to her mouth, Diana removed her right hand from her blurring field of vision. She had to get out of here. Had to make something happen. She would go crazy if she didn’t find—

  What? She was halfway to the road before she knew it. What did she expect to find? Where was there help?

  And who would care, anyway? Who would understand that she was once again the terrified teenager on the streets alone that first night with no idea where to seek shelter?

  She’d stayed in the bus station all night, hiding in the rest room when the traffic thinned, scared to death that they’d throw her out on streets that seemed meaner, dirtier…but she’d known she couldn’t go back. They wouldn’t take her back.

  Nowhere to go.

  In the middle of the road, Diana snapped from memory to present time—

  It was the same now. She looked, just once, into the maw of her terror, afraid, deep inside her, that all she’d done, all she’d become, was over now and she had no future.

  Nowhere to go. No one who cared.

  Alone. Always so alone.

  When Rosaria stepped out into the road, Diana gasped, sure she’d imagined her.

  But no. Rosaria held out a hand. “Come, child. It is a beautiful morning, and I was hoping to see you.”

  The welcome in that lined brown face slid into Diana’s raw heart and sent terror skittering away on unsteady legs. “I—” She couldn’t figure out what to say, heart still juking and jiving out of control. “Rosaria, I—” She grasped for a safe place, an island in the middle of the sea that had been tossing her for months like so much flotsam.

  One small hand reached out and clasped hers, the ugly one, the damaged one. Diana tensed, but Rosaria wouldn’t release her.

  And peace slid into her the way her mother’s hot chocolate had once warmed her to the core so many years ago.

  “Oh, Rosaria—” Tears again. She never cried.

  An arm slid around her waist, steadying her. “I know, child. I know.”

  And somehow Diana thought it might really be true. Like the child she hadn’t been since long before adolescence, she let Rosaria lead her into the garden.

  It worked. Again, it worked…Rosaria’s garden refreshed like an oasis, silent and still to city ears, yet not silent at all. Humming and buzzing, bees flitted from roses to zinnias; a mockingbird warbled from a nearby tree. Beside Diana, a small tortoiseshell ca
t purred.

  And on her other side, Dulcita had plopped and now snored softly, the other half of an unmatched pair of bookends, unlikely guardians whose warm animal comfort settled something ragged inside Diana.

  A pet. Why had she never had a pet? When she got home, maybe she’d—

  Home. Viewed from the other side of the fault line that had sundered her life, Diana knew a moment of intense fear that she would never find a road back—

  Dulcita stirred and whined.

  The tortoiseshell cat arched and rubbed Diana’s leg where she knelt in the dirt.

  Diana swallowed back dread. Don’t think. Just don’t think. Not yet.

  She rose, brushing dirt from her jeans. “Rosaria—”

  Motion out of the corner of her eye choked off her words. A figure stood at the gate, a man with his hat in his hand. Rosaria started toward him, squeezing Diana’s arm as she passed.

  “La señora,” he began, rotating his straw hat hand to hand. He drew a young girl from behind him. A quick exchange in Spanish ensued.

  The girl was pale and strained. Rosaria placed one hand on the girl’s forehead, closing her eyes as the flat of her palm rested against the girl’s skin. She spoke too quietly for Diana to hear; the man’s eyes closed tightly as well.

  Then she stepped back and gestured them toward her front door, pausing to look at Diana. “Please come inside, niña. The sun is getting too warm.”

  Diana hesitated.

  Rosaria spoke. “I would appreciate it if you would cut me several stalks of romero about this long—” She indicated the length with her hands. “Cut it with these scissors and carry it upside down.” She pulled scissors from her apron pocket. “If you are not uncomfortable helping me.”

  Diana was, but she could not be so churlish as to refuse to help this woman who’d been so kind to her. She took the scissors and gathered the romero—rosemary in Spanish, she remembered.

  The cuts weren’t smooth and she’d had to use both hands on the scissors, but she’d managed. Carrying the stalks as instructed, she entered the house, not sure where they might be and concerned about interrupting.

  It was her first time inside Rosaria’s house. Like the outside, it bore evidence of much care and love. The furnishings, like those in her cabin, carried the weight of years. A potbellied stove stood in one corner; plants lined the windowsills. One wall was crowded with pictures Diana itched to peruse.

  As she crossed to the door from which she could hear voices, she halted in her tracks. On the old scarred dining table stood a vase filled with flowers—a vase as stunning and powerful as the one on her kitchen table. The same artisan had surely created both. This one was big and round, glazed in deep carmine red easing into a golden orange as vivid as any marigold.

  And on the wall behind the table hung a painting of a couple who had to be Rosaria and her beloved Rafe, rendered by an artist whose hands were surely guided by love. There was such tenderness and joy in that painting that Diana wanted to forget her errand and simply drink in the devotion that shouted from every stroke.

  “Niña?” Rosaria called.

  Diana jerked her gaze away from both vase and painting, resolving to find out who did them. A shared energy made her wonder if the same person had done both. Either way, she wanted to see more. Needed to see more.

  Rosaria stood in a small room with few furnishings. A bed covered with clean white linen was situated in front of the window, tables on each side of it with a lamp and assorted candles on each. A chest in deep blue ornamented with tiny bright-hued flowers stood against the wall to the left, and on the wall opposite the bed, a small altar reposed. A straight-backed chair stood by the door.

  The girl lay on the bed, and Rosaria spread out the girl’s arms from her sides as she murmured a low, soothing chant. The father watched from the foot of the bed, just far enough back that he would not impede Rosaria as she walked around it.

  Rosaria made the sign of the cross on the girl’s forehead, pausing at each table to light a blue candle. She crossed to the altar and lit two more, both blue.

  Diana wondered if she should leave, but she hesitated to disturb the concentration that hushed the room.

  Rosaria took an egg from one table and walked around the girl, holding the egg in her left hand just above the girl’s body, sweeping over the girl from head to foot, then hand to hand in the sign of the cross, all the while speaking softly in Spanish. Then she swept from the girl’s heart outward to the end of each limb.

  The silent man repeated the sign of the cross as Rosaria completed each sweep of his daughter. At the finish, she bowed her head, obviously praying. Then she walked to one table, cracked the egg into a bowl and studied it as long seconds passed. From a small handmade broom propped against the wall, she took two broomstraws, crossed them and placed them in the bowl.

  With a nod that seemed satisfied, Rosaria turned to the girl again, holding her hand and speaking to her in rapid-fire Spanish, occasionally touching the girl’s heart or her forehead. Still holding the girl’s hand, she turned to the father and spoke with him. The man nodded his understanding, then Rosaria turned to Diana.

  “Bring me the romero, please.” After taking it from Diana, she stepped to the altar and held the stalks on her outstretched hands, murmuring a prayer to the saint on the altar, then crossing herself again. She selected a red ribbon and tied it around the stalks, then said another prayer.

  Returning to the bed, she repeated the sweeping motions with the bundle as though it were a broom, beginning at the girl’s head and working down to the heart, where she paused to make the cross again. Then she worked outward from the heart once more.

  The girl, whose complexion had been almost gray when she’d arrived, had regained color in her cheeks. She lay quietly, her breathing slow and deep, eyes still closed.

  Then Rosaria motioned to the father to approach the bed. He knelt by his daughter’s side, and Rosaria placed his right hand over his daughter’s, then put both over the girl’s heart. She rested one of her hands atop each of their heads, closed her eyes and prayed.

  And despite everything Diana knew to be possible or logical, she felt the breath of sanctuary in this small, plain room.

  Something deep within her stirred even as she backed away, too aware that she was a stranger who didn’t belong here. Who didn’t understand what she’d seen and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She cared for Rosaria, was grateful for her kindness—but this was too much. She left the room.

  But before she could make her escape, the young girl emerged, eyes glowing, the picture of health. She hugged Rosaria, then Diana, who froze like a deer in a car’s beam.

  “Gracias,” the girl said. “I am Consuela Garza, and this is my father. Thank you for your help.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Consuela smiled. “La señora has cared for my family since my grandparents’ time, but it is harder on her these days. Perhaps with you and Rafe to help her, it won’t be so tiring.”

  “I don’t—I’m not—” But the girl had turned away.

  Rosaria and the father conversed in Spanish. She gave him the bowl in which she’d placed the egg. Then she gestured toward Diana with a smile.

  The father approached. “Doctora, I am Arturo Garza. On behalf of my child and myself, I thank you.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Rosaria stayed her with the touch of one hand. “Dr. Morgan is here only to rest and observe.”

  The man nodded graciously. “I would be pleased to bring you a fine hen when I bring one to La señora.”

  Diana opened her mouth to dissuade him, but Rosaria beat her to it. “Thank you, Arturo. As always, your fine hens will be welcome.”

  When they left, Rosaria gestured toward Diana. “This must seem strange to you. Let me make a pot of tea, and I will answer any questions you might have.”

  Curiosity battled scorn. Diana didn’t know where to begin or if she even wanted to know. She didn’t believe in whatever t
his was, but there was a goodness in Rosaria she could not discount.

  As they passed the table, she seized on a diversion. “There’s a vase in my cabin that must have been thrown by the same potter as this one. Who made them?”

  Rosaria turned. “Do you like them?”

  “Of course. They’re stunning. Beautiful and so powerful.”

  Rosaria smiled. “Rafael made them.”

  Diana’s head swiveled. “Your husband Rafael?”

  The old woman chuckled. “My grandson Rafael.”

  “Rafe?” she echoed. Soldier, artisan, healer—“The teapot, too?” All at once she remembered watching those long fingers cradle the teapot.

  Rosaria nodded. “Yes. And in my kitchen I have mugs he made as well as two bowls.”

  “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

  Dark eyes glowed with pride. “He is talented at many things, as is his brother.” Rosaria pointed to the painting.

  So…not the same artist but the same blood. “I wondered. There is such feeling in it. There’s a power in the work of both—” She turned from her study. “What’s his name?”

  “Alejandro. He is two years younger than Rafael.”

  “How old is Rafe?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Does Alejandro live around here?”

  Sorrow darkened the old woman’s eyes. “No. He has not lived here for many years.”

  Diana touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” She wanted to know more but wouldn’t ask.

  “There are no hard feelings. Alejandro is aware that he is welcome at any time. He is a busy man and he, like Rafael, once thought to leave the valley for good.”

  “Now Rafe is back.” But it took injury to bring him.

  “We missed him, all of us. His mother, especially.”

  “His mother lives around here?”

  “She and his stepfather live in Alpine, about fifty miles away. He has two half-brothers and a half-sister, all grown.”

  “Where are they?”

  Rosaria shrugged. “Too far. We lose our children from the valley now. The world woos them from us. Liam is an actor in California. Liam Sullivan.”