Enchanted Heart

by Brianna Lee McKenzie

  “The name’s Henry Buchanan,” he’d said as he’d handed her a piece of roasted rabbit. “Most folks call me Buck.”

  Marty observed the hulky man who sat beside the fire on a big rock, tearing the flesh from the bone of the rabbit. His ragged features were heightened in the firelight, making him appear more of a threat than he really was. With his hulking shoulders hunched over and his face attacking the bone as if he were a wolf upon a fresh kill, he looked terrifying to her. His huge muscled arms, which were covered in a buckskin tunic, tossed the leather fringe wildly as he devoured his meal. And his loud, frightening voice echoed off the limestone walls, giving her chills that the fire failed to warm.

  But, she summoned the courage to tell him, “I’m pleased to meet you, Buck.” She accepted the meat that he handed her and nodded a thank-you before she said, “My name is Marty and that is my sister Greta.”

  “She’s almost an exact duplicate of you, Marty,” Buck said without thinking, his bristly brows rising as if taking flight. He stole a look at the sleeping woman and his heart fluttered in his barrel chest. In his mind, he wondered how he could feel such tender emotion toward a woman that he had never even had the pleasure of meeting. And yet, there before him she sat, awake and talking to him—at least her twin did. But the woman who spoke to him did not evoke such warm feelings within him as the one who slumbered only a few feet away from him. For a moment, just a moment, he wondered why. Then, her sister brought him back to the conversation.

  “Yes,” Marty agreed with a smile, although she almost pointed out to him that there were slight differences in their appearance. “She’s my twin sister.”

  “I thought as much,” he said with a wink as he sucked the rabbit juice from his thumb. “I haven’t seen a set of twins in—ah it’s been awhile.”

  He quickly changed the subject, “Uh, sorry it’s only rabbit. We’d be eatin’ bear meat if something hadn’t tripped my trap.”

  Immediately, Marty thought of that poor little fox and Caid’s effort to release it from the steel teeth that had ensnared it. She shrugged and said, although it was a lie, “I like rabbit better.”

  The truth was that she didn’t like rabbit or any ‘critter’ other than those that had been domesticated. But she didn’t want to get into that conversation with the burly man who attacked his food with such voracity, a man who seemed to want to ferociously consume meat of any variety, as long as it was meat.

  “So, you’re headed up to Fort Concho, are you?” His voice brought her back to the conversation.

  Marty swallowed hard before she nodded and answered, “Yes, we are moving there with my cousin and her family.”

  The man shook his head and wiped his leather sleeve on his bearded chin before he commented, “Seems like a mighty rowdy place for ladies to be moving to.”

  “Yes, I have heard,” Marty agreed. “But, there is a new town being built just five miles away. When it is finished, we will move there and we will have our peace and quiet and still have the protection from the Indians.”

  She coughed when she saw Hunts-with-a-knife’s brow furrow in annoyance at her words, then she corrected, “I hear there are Apache and Lipan Indians in this part of the country.”

  “Mmm,” Buck grumbled before he sucked the last bit of flesh from the bone and then tossed it into the fire. Deciding not to correct her by telling her that Lipan Indians were Apaches, he said, “Yep, when they get on the warpath, they have no mercy for man, woman or child. They take no prisoners and their lodge poles are decorated with the scalps of their victims. And they don’t have a treaty with the settlers either, so they don’t care whether a person is German or Anglo. If a body’s white, it’s their enemy.”

  A sudden illumination of fear settled in his heart at the thought of the sleeping woman in danger of an attack by any breed of Indian and he drew in a breath of cleansing air to chase it away. To Marty, he warned, “Just you be careful!”

  Marty shuddered at the thought, but squared her shoulders in bravery before she stood up and dusted off her skirt. Then she defiantly told him, loud enough for Hunts-with-a-knife to hear, “I will. But I guarantee you that two savages will die before I am ever killed by them!”

  Buck huffed a hardy chuckle, but he choked it back when Marty stamped her foot in irritation at his mocking behavior. Then, he cleared his throat and said, “I have no doubt, little lady, that you can defend yourself. But, those ‘savages’ are ruthless and notorious for their despicable behavior. You and your sister better stick close to that fort, just in case. That is, if and when she is able to go on.”

  Marty seemed to be more composed after his warning and his interjection about Greta’s welfare, but all she could do was nod in an affirmative agreement with him. Then before she turned to check on her sister, she said resolutely, “Greta will be fine.”

  She curled her fingers to her sister’s cheek and silently willed her to live. In response to the touch or as if hearing her name had roused her, Greta moaned again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Buck followed Marty to her sister’s side and his face was mangled in concern as he knelt beside the pallet. He looked at the blood-soaked bandage on Greta’s leg and he shook his head. He told Marty that they should be getting up pretty early in order to get back to his cabin sooner rather than later.

  Marty nodded in grave agreement. Secretly, she was thankful for the large man who had sauntered into their lives. It was a shame that poor Daniel had lost his life in exchange for their rescuer.

  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.