After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  Johnny used a knife to cut Grant’s shirt away from his body; in his capable hand the knife moved quickly, deftly. Blood dripped slowly onto the floor. It was like a dream. A wave of nausea washed over Tía. He could be dying. She’d only met him yesterday, but she remembered him because he was the only one with a real name. The others had short, convenient nicknames like Dap, Willie B., Leon, Robert, Lindy, Slim, Sandy, Red, High Card, but he was Grant Foreman. Alert intelligence sparkled in his gray eyes. She had liked his open, friendly smile.

  Judy touched her arm. “Will he be all right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What happened? Shooting woke me. I climbed into the hayloft, but it was mostly over by then.”

  “Indians attacked…”

  “Real Indians?”

  Tía nodded soberly, hardly able to believe it herself.

  “Well…” Judy sighed. “It was overdue. Things have been too good around here for too long. ’Sides, lately everything has gone wrong. Might as well be attacked by Indians, too.”

  “What else went wrong?”

  “What hasn’t? My father died, then he cut me out of his will and everybody in the world found out I was a bastard. Then Miss High and Mighty Andrea came, then my Indian scare backfired. Everything…”

  Looking very earnest, Judy’s wide brown eyes were clear; the sweet curve of her cheeks and the purity of her skin reminded Tía how easy it would be for Johnny to find her appealing.

  “You kill me, Tía Marlowe! You should have seen your face when I caught you with your arms around Johnny!”

  “I just reached out to steady him.”

  “Any port in a storm, as the old saying goes. Don’t fret yourself! I had a talk with Johnny last night. I told him if he really loves me, and I really love him, waiting a little longer to get married won’t kill either of us. He’s so impatient! That’s the only thing I don’t like about him. He’s always trying to pin me down. I’m still young. I enjoy dancing and flirting. He takes everything so seriously! Especially Grant! Grant has been my friend for ages. We’re very close. He adores me. He’ll do anything in the world for me. But Johnny seems to think that’s bad. Do you think it’s bad for a girl to have a friend who just happens to be a man?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  A knot formed in Tía’s stomach. “When are you and Johnny going to get married, then?”

  “Not for a while if I can help it. I’m not a girl who likes to be tied down. I told Johnny he should force himself to pay attention to other girls. Look around a little. Heavens! You’d think I was the only girl in the world. Grant loves me. Johnny loves me. Morgan Todd loves me. My head just spins sometimes.”

  “You’re very lucky.”

  “Lucky! It’s a curse! Sometimes I wish I weren’t so pretty. But”—she giggled mischievously—“not really.”

  “Who’s Morgan Todd?”

  “Don’t say that name so loud! Johnny sees red at the mere sound of it. Steve says if I’m not careful Johnny will kill Morgan.”

  “How awful.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” A curious look came into Judy’s eyes. “But it would be sort of romantic, wouldn’t it?”

  “For a man to be killed?” Tía asked.

  “Don’t be so serious! He won’t really be killed. We’re just talking.”

  Tía breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course, I forgot.”

  Judy lifted one corner of her skirt and swung it gracefully. “Do you think I look like a great lady?”

  “Yes,” Tía said quietly. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s what Grant says, too. He loves me a lot. He would love me a lot more if I let him, but I won’t,” she said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s my best friend! Besides, he’s not handsome enough. If he looked like Johnny…” She paused, admiring her shadow. “Maybe if he had lots of money…no, not even then. Grant is my friend. He loves me no matter what I do. He’ll do anything for me. Anything at all.”

  “Aren’t you worried about him?”

  Judy frowned. “He wouldn’t dare die. Besides, he’s as strong as an ox. He’ll be fine.” But she suddenly felt a strange sense of foreboding.

  From her vantage point on the platform, Andrea watched the Indian ponies being fitted with aparejos to carry the sacks of staples Johnny had promised the braves—fierce brown savages on horseback, several of them on paints and pintos—who waited in a loose-knit group at the bottom of the long, grassy slope.

  “Why are you giving in to them?” she asked.

  Steve looked at her sharply, so sharply she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Because enough men have died or been wounded. The Indians have always kept their word to us in the past. No sense losing men if we don’t have to. If they take our staples, they won’t come back for a while,” he ended curtly. During the fight, Andrea had stayed close to Steve. Now, because of his brusqueness, she stepped back. Chin high, she tossed the auburn mass of curls off her shoulders and pushed them back with a slender golden hand.

  Any kind of fight always got Steve’s dander up. But seeing that instinctive, totally feminine movement, he was unexpectedly filled with the memory of burying his face in Andrea’s thick curls. Then shame capsized his reverie.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I would take the money I offered you and go back to Albany, where you’ll be safe.”

  Andrea looked him up and down slowly, much the way a man would appraise a horse he was too smart to buy. “Perhaps you would, but you are only a man, aren’t you?” she asked scornfully. “While I am a Garcia-Lorca! The blood of conquistadores runs in my veins, Mr. Burkhart. We are not cowards!”

  Steve nearly laughed aloud. If she really were a Garcia-Lorca instead of a Burkhart, they wouldn’t have this problem. He had the wild urge to drag her into his arms and show her what only a man could do. But this woman, the ultimate in grace and beauty, pulsing with intense and vivid life, was his sister, and that knowledge drained the blood from his heart and choked the retort in his throat. His anger turned to defeat and then to resignation.

  Turning away abruptly, Steve skimmed down the rough wooden steps that led from the catwalk on the adobe wall. He stalked off toward the kitchen to see about Johnny and Grant.

  “Keep a sharp eye out,” he yelled gruffly to the man beside Andrea. “They may decide to come back.”

  In the kitchen Johnny was easing the arrow out of Grant’s back. Arm bandaged now, Johnny handed the broken shaft to Carmen and sat down.

  “How is he?” Steve asked.

  “Lucky. We were able to cut it out instead of shoving it through,” Johnny said, wiping the beaded perspiration off his forehead. “I don’t think it hit any vital organs.”

  “Good. Let’s hope he doesn’t get an infection. How are the other two?”

  “Flesh wounds. Carmen cleaned ’em good and wrapped ’em. We wasted a heap of good whiskey so’s they wouldn’t get infected.”

  “Too bad you weren’t still together when they saw you.”

  “Yeah. I had just sent more than half the riders south into the brakes along the foothills when we spotted ’em. Hell, we’d only been outside the walls a few minutes.”

  “Let’s have a drink,” Steve said.

  The parlor was deserted. Steve poured each of them a stiff shot, gave Johnny his, and then stared morosely at his own. Bad sign. Now he was drinking in the morning. He downed it as if it were water.

  “Do you think you could manage here without me? I’ve decided to go back to the mine.”

  Johnny leaned against the doorjamb. “Bad time to be traveling. Rumor’s that Chatto’s all fired up, looking for scalps. Any time a scraggly bunch like these cut loose, you know there’s a thousand Injuns around. Stragglers like them don’t take on a fort like this unless they’re feeling their oats.”

  Johnny decided to take a guess about what was bothering his boss. He had noticed Steve looking at Andrea,
and he had noticed Andrea looking at Steve. “Andrea’s quite a beautiful woman,” he said meaningfully.

  “She happens to be my sister,” Steve said evenly. He wasn’t surprised that Johnny had guessed about his frustrations. They had known each other a long time.

  Johnny tasted the whiskey and set it on the mahogany credenza. He couldn’t drink it, but he’d probably be sorry he hadn’t. He felt a little tired, but he wanted to speak his mind to Steve.

  Johnny teased other men, but he rarely teased Steve. Something about Steve’s seriousness moved him to charity. Other men moved through life relatively unaffected, but not Steve. He took on little bruises that Johnny could almost see, like the bruise he still carried from losing his pa.

  “When I was about fourteen, the year before my folks were killed, one of my mother’s relatives came to visit. His name was Tatanga Mani, Walking Buffalo. He was a Stoney Indian from Canada. One of Ma’s cousins had been carried off or got lost and wandered up there. My folks let us go off into the mountains to hunt. The second day out Tatanga Mani shot a moose. The arrow barely went into his hide. I saw it as clear as anything and told Tatanga Mani that it was a waste of time to follow him, but follow him we did.

  “Tatanga Mani would stop every now and then and put his ear to the ground or to a tree and listen for the moose. He seemed to be slowing down, and as we followed we saw more and more blood. I couldn’t figure it out. I’m too white, I guess. We followed that moose for three days. When we finally found him he was dying. I couldn’t figure out how a moose could die from a little wound like that arrow barely sticking in his thick hide. Tatanga Mani told me that the arrows do not kill. The Great Spirit kills. The arrow sticks in the moose’s side, and like all living things the moose goes to his mother the earth to be healed. But by laying his wound against the earth to heal it, he drives the arrow farther in.”

  Not understanding, Steve scowled at him. “Is there a moral to this story?”

  “I don’t know. I just had the urge to tell you an Indian tale, I guess.”

  Johnny left the room, and Steve shook his head. Sometimes Johnny was too deep for him.

  Carmen opened the door and motioned Judy and Tía inside. Judy hung back, afraid. Tía took Judy’s hand and led her into the dining hall.

  At sight of Grant, Judy groaned. He looked dead. His face was ashen. His chest barely moved with his breathing. Part of her felt terrified by him. Another part of her wanted to pull him to her breast and rock him like a baby.

  “How is he?” Judy whispered.

  God does not confide in housekeepers.” Carmen shrugged. She had no hope for Grant. She had no faith in any man overcoming an arrow wound. She’d seen too many die of them.

  Judy insisted Grant be moved to the small bedroom between the dining room and Steve’s office on the west end of the casa grande.

  They settled Grant on the comfortable feather mattress. As clumsy as they were, he did not wake up.

  “Shouldn’t we send for Dr. Potter?” Judy asked, frowning at how still Grant lay.

  Carmen shook her head. “What can he do that wasn’t done? I have seen many wounds like this, niña mía. Some heal cleanly. Some do not. It is not a thing that can be predicted. Not even by a doctor.”

  Judy moved a chair next to Grant’s bed and motioned to Tía. “You stay with him.”

  Tía started to sit down in the chair, then thought better of it. “No, you stay with him.”

  “Me! I can’t. I get sick at the sight of blood.”

  “He’s your best friend. He needs you. It’ll be good for you to take care of him.”

  “No, it won’t. I hate it when people are sick. I especially hate it when it’s someone I care about.”

  Tía took Judy by the shoulders and sat her down on the chair. “That’s because you don’t know anything about it.”

  “And I don’t want to learn. He needs a doctor, not me.”

  “You heard Carmen. Doctors don’t make people well. Folks make themselves well. Doctors either help or they don’t, mostly they don’t.”

  “What if he dies?”

  “Then he’ll be grateful you were here instead of someone he doesn’t care for as much.”

  Judy stood up. “I don’t want to be within a mile of this place.” She stepped away from Grant as if he had already moved a step closer to death. She could not imagine surviving it if Grant died in front of her.

  Tía took Judy by the shoulders and led her back to Grant’s bedside. “Sit down and hold his hand. What man would want to die with you holding his hand?”

  Tía had a way of making this bedside vigil sound like the only thing to do. “If he dies and I see it, I’ll never forgive you, Tía Marlowe,” Judy warned.

  “Carmen and I will check on you,” Tía said. “If you need help, yell.”

  Tía herded Carmen out of the room quickly. “Si,” Carmen called over her shoulder. “I will check again soon. Call Carmen if the bleeding starts again.”

  “Deserters!” Judy cried. The door closed behind them, and Judy slumped onto the chair beside Grant. Tía Marlowe would be sorry for this. Judy knew she would not be able to stand the waiting. She couldn’t sit still waiting for her friend to live or die.

  Nothing ever worked out the way she wanted it to. Grant would die; she knew it. She felt betrayed—almost as if he had gotten hurt deliberately. Her very best friend in the whole world would die and leave her. Then she would be really alone.

  For hours Judy held Grant’s hand and sat in a strange trancelike state. He breathed in and out, and she grew hypnotized by his breathing, willing him to continue. His forehead felt hot. She began making conditions. If he breathed three more times in the space of time she breathed three times, he would live. If a bird sang so many notes in the space of time he breathed so many breaths, he would live. She watched him breathe; occasionally she manipulated the numbers to make them come out right.

  Could he actually just stop breathing? She would never forgive him if he did. It wasn’t fair, anyway. She had been the one who wanted to die, not Grant. He was the epitome of life—so complacently alive he obviously expected to live forever. He never worried about dying.

  The day dragged on. She decided Grant’s easy complacence had been a trick to lull her into becoming his friend. She would never make that mistake again. Men always looked indestructible, but they weren’t. It was just a trick a man used to get a woman to love him and depend on him, so he could leave her when she least expected it.

  He stirred, and her heart lurched. His eyes opened tentatively and then focused on her. “Grant?”

  “Hi, pretty one. What’re you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you,” she whispered, her voice strangely hoarse.

  “Was I gone somewhere?”

  “I think so. How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been nailed to the bed with a pitchfork.”

  “You took an arrow in your back. Johnny had to cut it out.”

  “Guess that must be it. Didn’t feel exactly like hunger pains.”

  A small laugh came out of nowhere. Leaning forward, Judy touched him to reassure herself that he was really alive. A tear escaped, slipped down her face, and dripped on his hand.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  “Yes.” She gulped, fighting for control. “How do you feel?”

  “Grateful I missed the cuttin’ it out part. I’m a genuine coward when it comes to pain.”

  “Sure you are,” she chided him. Carmen had said they would know how the wound was healing by whether or not he got a fever. Shaking her head, she leaned forward and put her hand on his forehead. Her hand was so cold from fear that anything would have felt warm to her. “Damn!”

  “I’m dead?”

  Judy laughed. “No.”

  Mesmerized by her cool, trembling touch, Grant closed his eyes. When she touched him, he couldn’t feel the pain of his wound—he could only feel Judy.

  “Does it hurt real bad?” Judy asked, her dark e
yes filled with compassion.

  “Not when you touch me. I can’t feel anything but your hand.”

  “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  Judy moved her hand away, and his face contorted with agony, which he only slightly exaggerated to mirror the pain he felt.

  Judy’s smile faded. She looked so strained and tense that Grant repented. “It doesn’t really hurt that bad. I was just joshing you.”

  “Liar! Shhh, go back to sleep. I’ll stay with you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  “Surprised? You’re my best friend! You’d take care of me, wouldn’t you?” she demanded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then just hush and go back to sleep. You need your strength.”

  Grant sipped the water she offered him. He wanted to bask in this compassionate side of Judy, but too quickly his eyes closed.

  At dinnertime, Carmen stuck her head in the door. Judy sat close to the bed, holding Grant’s hand.

  “Come eat something, pequeña. Lupe will spell you.”

  “No, thank you, Carmen. Grant might wake up.” Judy had lost her desire to be distant from any calamity that might befall Grant. It felt good to be needed. Besides, Lupe’s hands might not relieve his pain.

  Grant seemed to drift in and out of sleep without any ability to control it. Every time he opened his eyes, Judy was beside him, offering liquids, soothing his brow, whispering words of comfort. Grant wanted to talk to her, to chide her for staying with him so long, but his eyes closed.

  Even in his dreams, if they were dreams, Judy’s anxious face floated before him. She was so pale with concern he felt obliged to get well as fast as possible to spare her feelings. But his body remained heavy and unresponsive. He had never felt that way before. Even his dreams were not his own. They were agitated, disjointed excursions that led nowhere. Perhaps they were Judy’s dreams…

  Once, in the dark of night, Grant moaned in pain. Tears of frustration at her own helplessness welled up in Judy, begging to be cried, but she couldn’t. She made bargains with unseen, malevolent powers. She accepted their challenge. If she cried, he could die. She sat like a stone all night, refusing to weep, refusing to sleep, refusing to let Carmen or Tía take her place.