***
In a few days, Greta was awake enough to talk and, with gentle coaxing from Buck, she even drank some broth. When they thought that she could bear the news that Daniel Bader had died, they told her together. Marty reported that Rising Sun, one of Buck’s Comanche sons had killed Daniel while Buck cleared his throat before interjecting that it had been an accident.
“The whole ordeal could have been avoided if I had insisted that we press on to the cabin,” Buck asserted. “But the boys wanted to rest for a few hours so we decided to stay in the cave where we always stay when we’re tired.”
He drew in a breath before he continued, “If that young man had not reached for his rifle, he would still be alive.”
“Daniel was only trying to protect us,” Marty insisted.
“I’m sure he was,” Greta agreed, trying to mediate between them. “And I’m sure that Rising Sun was acting in self-defense.”
“No, he was protecting his brother,” Buck growled. “If the bullets had not started flying, there would have been no need for Sunny to shoot that arrow.”
“Bullet,” Marty corrected. “There was only one bullet before Daniel was killed.”
“Well, any one of us could have been hurt, even you, Greta. Or you, Marty.”
“Or you,” Greta told Buck while touching his arm.
He smiled and covered her hand with his. For long moments, his eyes lingered on her face, drinking in her beauty. He seemed to have forgotten their conversation and was focused solely on Greta.
She, too, had felt the sudden surge of fascination. She allowed him to keep his hand upon hers, sandwiching it between his palm and forearm. Greta enjoyed his touch. She wanted him to repeat the gesture, for it caused a thrill in her that she had not felt in quite a while. Inside her mind, she believed that his magical touch was healing her, body, heart and soul.
***
As the weeks went by, Greta’s face became pink with life and she thrived on the attention that Buck seemed to give her. Secret smiles and whispered words passed between the two of them, making Marty think that there was something other than a doctor-patient relationship occurring between them.
What she did not see or hear was the love that had begun to blossom between her sister and the man who had saved her life. Yes, he would examine her on schedule, as he knew should be performed. But he found many reasons to visit her on the pretense of checking her healing progress and yet all he wanted to do was to look at her, to marvel at her beauty, to touch her even if it was just to take her pulse or to hear her heart beat against the rising and falling of her breasts.
For Buck, love was forever, infinite and unbound by time’s constricting limitations. It was ceaseless, unchanging and ever-growing. And he believed that, until a few weeks ago, it was meant for only one woman and one man, united together for eternity as he had been with Tess. But watching Greta sleep, while she dreamt of some mystical fairytale that brought forth a smile upon her velvety lips, made him consider the idea that love could be granted more than once.
For Greta, whose fluttering eyes beheld the man who looked upon her as if he was captivated by her, love was God’s gift to those who deserved the experience. Her life with Gunnar had been wonderful but she believed in the verses in the Bible that bound a husband to a wife until death forced them apart. She believed that she was left a widow for a reason and she never questioned the journey that she knew that she had to take, no matter how painful it might have been. But, her footsteps away from that life would only bring her to the life that she knew she was destined to live. And, seeing the adoring man before her, she understood that her path lay with him, a marvelous alternative to the destructive grief that she had let herself follow.
She closed her eyes again so that she could concentrate on the emotions that overtook her. To feel his fingertips upon her skin was to journey beyond Heaven to a place where Love must begin, a magical, sparkling realm enchanted with fluttering butterflies that carry upon their wings the blessing of true, undying adoration. It was a place where colorful rainbows arch their glory from one heart to the other, joining them in a union that might never have occurred without that sublime intervention. To her, love was Henry Buchannan, handsome, gentle and kind, a man who seemed to love her more than life itself.
She watched him lean closer to her face as if he was about to kiss her but he paused and squinted, pretending to examine the wound behind her ear. But his eyes fell upon hers, a long, lingering gaze that must have lasted for hours. She was not sure and she did not care, she had all the time in the world.
Without thinking, Buck accidentally whispered, “Beautiful”, when he looked into her blue eyes.
“You did wonderful work on my injuries,” Greta said with a blush when he pretended to stare at her head behind her ears where only a small scar remained.
“I only mended them,” he said with a wink of a brown eye. “It was up to you to want to live.”
She drew in a breath and said dreamily, “I wanted to live.”
“I wanted you to live,” Buck said without thinking. Then he turned away but she lifted her hand and caught his face in her palm.
“When two or more people agree upon a notion, it usually is true,” she said, quoting her mother’s wise words.
“Is that from the Bible?”
She scrunched her shoulders and answered, “I suppose. Mama was always spouting scriptures.”
“Ah, the fountain of knowledge that never goes dry,” he quipped with a wide smile.
Greta giggled and said, “I wish I was so knowledgeable.”
“You are,” Buck said with a wrinkle of confusion denting his forehead.
She shook her head, musing, “Marty was the smart one—and the pretty one.”
“Nonsense!” Buck scoffed. “You are very intelligent. Why, I heard you reading to Linda the other day and you answered her questions like someone who knew all about that history book. And you are the pretty one!”
Greta blushed deeply and ducked her head. She had not been called pretty since her Gunnar had proclaimed it many times after making love to her. Hearing it from the man who had turned out to be quite handsome after he’d shaved and dressed himself in city clothes seemed to warm her heart all over again. But, somehow, even in the stupor of fathomless agony, she knew that Buck was just as beautiful on the outside as he was on the inside.
She allowed him to take her hand into his and then bring it to his lips.
“You are beautiful, Greta…what is your last name?”
“Goldstein,” she told him, and then added, “It was my husband’s name.” She felt the need to also append, “Before he was killed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said with genuine remorse.
“It was a long time ago, during the War,” she said, emphasizing the word that disdained her, the cause of her loss, and the cause of the separation of the country at the colossal cost of many young men’s lives.
“And yet you still wear your wedding ring,” Buck mused aloud.
She raised her left hand and looked at the gleaming token of love on her finger, turning it around subconsciously like she had often done during nervous fits, and then she shoved both of her hands beneath the blankets. Without apology but with explanation, as if she needed to, she said, “It was my mother’s ring when she was married to my father.”
“Of course,” Buck agreed with a nod. “It is special to you.”
“Yes. It is,” she began. Then she pulled her right hand from beneath the blanket and proclaimed while she touched his hand for emphasis, “When my mother remarried, she didn’t think that it was appropriate to wear it so she saved it for my sister and me. It just happened that I was the first to get married.”
“I see,” Buck replied, realizing that the ring carried a lot more significance in her heart than just a bond to her dead husband.
At that moment, Linda Blue Sky entered the room with a tray of food for Greta. Buck moved away from the bed, cleared h
is throat and excused himself. Linda smiled at Greta, who returned the gesture. Between them, there seemed to be an unspoken conversation and this one reflected on the fact that Buck was in love and that Greta might possibly be as well.
“He loves you.” Linda’s eyes told Greta.
“I know,” Greta’s blush replied. Her heart gushed, “And I love him!”
“I know,” Linda said aloud while she laid the tray on Greta’s lap.
Greta did not question why her new friend seemed to read her mind. Instead, she grinned sheepishly and settled into the bed for her meal. Her relationship with Linda was almost as telepathic as it was with her sister. But Marty knew Greta more than Greta knew herself and there was no hiding her emotions where her sister was concerned.
Chapter Twenty-Six
One afternoon when Buck was in his office, Marty brought Gunnar’s letters and poems to Greta, thinking that they would bring her some joyful memories.
“I forgot all about them,” Marty said apologetically as she handed the bundle to her sister. She did not mention that she had also found the change of clothes for Sera Dear that she had stuffed into the burlap bag of supplies. Fearing that the sight would bring sadness to Greta’s lonely heart, Marty left the tiny clothes in the bag in her room.
Sitting up in the bed, Greta reached for the stack of papers and envelopes with a smile that was nothing like the usual grin that had creased her face whenever she had fingered the pages before. This time, she fanned them out on her lap and ran her fingertips over the handwriting for just a moment as if she was remembering each and every word. Then she straightened them into a stack and handed them back to Marty, saying, “Will you put them in a safe place? I’d like to keep them for Seraphina.”
“Certainly,” Marty replied with a questioning expression. She took the stack and placed it on the table beside the bed before she hiked her skirt up and sat next to her sister. “I’ll put them in my bedroom with my things.”
With a knowing look, she took her sister’s hand. Without letting on that she knew the reason for Greta’s actions, Marty smoothed the auburn hair that fell across her sister’s shoulder.
“Buck is taking good care of you,” Marty said, adjusting the pillows behind Greta’s back.
Greta merely smiled and ducked her head sheepishly before saying, “He’s a nice man.”
“I think that he likes you,” Marty said, and then she corrected herself. “I mean, I think that he loves you.”
“I think so too,” Greta admitted, staring at the wedding ring that still adorned her hand. Not since losing her Gunnar had she felt the warm, overpowering sentiment of love in her broken heart. But now, she felt it. She felt it every time Buck looked at her, every time he touched her, no matter how slight and accidental the contact might have been. She felt the spark of attraction, the electrifying emotion that spread throughout her body as if his touch was a lightning bolt of passion sent from his heart to hers.
“And I think that I might love him,” she whispered, as if her words, if not her feelings for Buck, might forever eclipse her love for Gunnar.
Marty’s face lit up with joy at the news and she asked, “Are you sure? Are you finally ready to love someone again?”
Greta nodded and smiled, a distant expression on her pretty face, “Yes. Buck is so caring and so gentle with me.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Marty admitted, remembering all the times that she had caught him holding her hand and whispering into her sister’s ear while Greta slept. “I think that he would realize that you care for him if you take that wedding ring off.”
Greta looked again at her finger and then nodded, “I suppose you are right.”
She twirled it round and round her finger of love, reliving her time with Gunnar. The magnificent wedding, the wonderful pregnancy with her beautiful Seraphina, and finally the tragic demise of the husband who had, in her eyes, pushed aside all that they possessed together to fight a war that she felt was not his to fight. But, his actions had not lessened her love for Gunnar, only made her realize that she and Seraphina were not the only thing upon which her husband had been focused. Her love for him saw through that inane, inherent need that seemed to have overtaken him, that yearning to be a part of something that was larger than he, larger than his life with his family, and larger than life itself. Her love for him was so intense that when she received word that Gunnar had been killed by the Confederates, she had vowed to never let it fade away.
But, time has a way of changing one’s mind and one’s heart, she thought as she slipped the golden ring from her finger and handed it to her sister saying, “Here, take it and put it with the letters and poems. We’ll keep it all for Seraphina.”
“Sera Dear,” Marty corrected with a laugh as she took the ring and slid it onto her pointing finger.
Greta laughed with her sister, but the misery of missing her daughter was becoming harder to bear than the physical pain in her body.
“I’m sure she is well,” Marty said as if reading her sister’s mind. “Caid promised to get her to Fort Concho safely.”
“I know,” Greta replied with a nod. “But I miss her so. I wonder if she is crying for her mama.”
“Don’t think about things like that,” Marty told her with a pat on her shoulder.
“I can’t help it,” Greta argued with a pout. “I’m her mother.”
She stopped before she said that Marty wouldn’t understand. Knowing that the statement would upset her sister, she refrained from reminding Marty that she could not be a mother herself. She sighed instead and smiled, saying, “I know she is safe.”
Marty bent to kiss Greta’s forehead, mentally thanking her for not saying the words that she knew her sister was thinking. Then she pulled Mama’s quilt, which was freshly laundered by the Comanche maid, up to rest beneath Greta’s chin and smoothed it down with the palms of her hands.
“Now, you get some rest and maybe tomorrow you can sit in a chair in the sunshine.”
“I’d like that,” Greta mused with a sleepy smile. Then she closed her eyes and slept.
Marty picked up the stack of papers and left her to go downstairs to help in the kitchen and to introduce herself to the Comanche maid, for the elusive woman seemed to disappear into the shadows every time Marty wanted to meet her. She strolled past the examination room and peeked inside to see if Linda might be there, but she only saw the table and instruments that Buck used and a black bag that looked exactly like the one that he had left at the cabin. She closed the door and started to look for the Comanche woman again. But, when she passed the office door, she heard Buck call her into the room.
She sat where he had indicated and he took off his spectacles to look at her before he asked, “Marty, do you have prolonged bleeding during your monthly cycle?”
It would have been an embarrassing question if a doctor had not asked it of her, so she answered without mortification, “Yes, sometimes.”
“And Greta? Does this happen to her?”
“I think so,” she answered.
“What did your doctor prescribe for it?”
She shook her head, “I don’t remember—a powder that I steeped in boiling water. But I ran out of it months ago and I never asked him for more. Does it make a difference?”
“Not really,” Buck said with a shake of his head. “It was probably Cranesbill or Trillium. There are modern remedies but most doctors here in these parts rely on herbs and other preparations that have been used by the natives for centuries. I’ll give you a fresh supply if you would like it.”
“Thank you,” Marty said with a smile, for the tea really did help with her long menstrual cycles. Suddenly, she remembered being dosed with that same tea every time she had miscarried. The thought was chased away by Buck’s next question.
“You told me that your brother died of bleeding internally.”
“Yes, that is what my parents said,” Marty told him, now wondering where his questioning was leading.
&n
bsp; “Have you ever heard of hemophilia?” he asked, staring at her intently.
“No,” she said flatly, yet her brow flew up in question.
“It is a hereditary disorder that is passed on by the mother,” he began to explain. “It is very rare that the daughter inherits it, and in your case, it must be that your father had it and either your mother has it or is a carrier. In most cases, the daughter will be a carrier if the mother was. It is very probable that both you and Greta are one of those rare cases where it is passed to the daughter. I’ll have to take some blood and inspect it in a microscope to be sure.”
“Will we die?” Marty asked with fear in her voice.
“It could be that yours is a mild case,” he explained. “You see, when Greta had her accident and the bleeding couldn’t be stopped, I suspected that she might have the disease. Even though the wound was repaired, the bleeding still seeped. It took another poultice of white oak bark to stop it.”
Enchanted Heart Page 19