by Terri Reid
Hazel nodded and pulled some long rubber gloves out of her pocket and put them on.
“Okay, I’ll look and guide you,” Rowan said. “Henry, if you can place your hands on Clover’s side…”
Rowan took Henry’s wrists and placed his hands on the goat’s stomach. He immediately felt movement beneath his hands and looked over at Rowan in wonder. “I can feel the baby,” he said.
She grinned. “And now you get to help,” she replied. She put her hands alongside Henry’s and closed her eyes, seeing the baby once again. She felt a contraction and absorbed the pain herself, gasping slightly.
“Are you okay?” Henry asked, immediately concerned.
She nodded, not opening her eyes. “Just giving Clover a little relief,” she explained. “She’s going to need what little strength she has to push him out.”
She focused on the legs. “Okay, Henry, I want you to slowly put a little pressure on your left hand and move it to the right,” she said.
Henry did as he was asked, and Rowan saw the baby shift slightly in the uterus. “Great,” she said. “Now keep your hand there, so he doesn’t scoot back.”
“Hazel, reach in,” Rowan said, watching for Hazel’s hand inside of Clover. “Okay, great, I can see you. Go a little to your right and then up. Can you feel the little hoof?”
“Got it,” Hazel said.
“Great,” Rowan said, and paused as another contraction hit and she took the pain. She breathed slowly for a few moments and then took a cleansing breath. “Okay, you need to push that little leg back, to unlock his front leg from his back leg.”
She watched Hazel slowly move the leg back and then smiled when she saw the other leg pop free. “You did it,” she breathed. “Now, his two rear hooves are near the opening.”
She saw Hazel grab both hooves in one hand.
“Okay, there’s a contraction coming,” Rowan said. “Ready, set, pull.”
Clover grunted and pushed, while Hazel pulled gently and a moment later, a tiny goat was laying in the straw. Hazel rubbed the baby’s face to remove the afterbirth and allow the goat to breath. “He’s not moving,” Hazel said.
Rowan leaned over and placed her hands on the goat. She could sense the exhaustion from the tiny being, but knew to survive, it needed to nurse. She took her own energy and gave it to the small creature. In a moment, it was hungrily bleating and pushing against it’s mother’s teats for its first meal.
Hazel leaned over and hugged her sister. “Thank you,” she said.
Rowan smiled at her, and then wobbled a little.
“You’re exhausted,” Hazel said. “You gave him too much.”
“What does that mean?” Henry asked, standing up and brushing the straw from his legs. He watched the baby goat nurse happily, his little tail wagging in delight.
“A healer has to pay the price for her gift,” Hazel explained. “Rowan took the pain from Clover and then gave her own energy to the baby.”
Rowan shook her head. “I gave him what he needed,” she said.
“No, you do what you always to,” Hazel chided gently. “You give too much.”
“What happens if she does too much?” Henry asked.
“Healers aren’t invincible,” Hazel said. “They have been known to die from the wounds of others.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rowan said softly. She tried to stand, but nearly fell over. Henry caught her in his arms and lifted her up. Then he turned to Hazel. “Where to?”
Hazel grinned. “To her bedroom,” she said. “She needs a nap more than anything.”
Hazel went ahead and opened doors for Henry. When they finally arrived in Rowan’s bedroom, Hazel opened the door and turned to look at her sister. “You have the magic touch, Professor,” she whispered.
Henry looked down to see Rowan sound asleep in his arms, her face pressed securely against his chest, and smiled tenderly. “She must have been exhausted,” he whispered back.
“Lay her on her bed,” Hazel said, pulling the light blanket and top sheet down. “I’ll get a towel to wipe off her hands.”
Henry gently laid Rowan on the bed. She complained softly when he released her from his hold, but then snuggled into her pillow.
“Lucky pillow,” Henry murmured.
He went to the foot of the bed, slipped her shoes off her feet, put them on the floor, and pulled the blanket over her. Then he moved back up to the top of the bed, slipped her glasses from her face and put them on the nightstand. “There,” he whispered. “A little better.”
She rolled to the side and several pins fell out of her hair, releasing half of her bun onto the pillow. Henry sat next to her on the bed and scooped them up, depositing them next to her glasses. Then he carefully reached over and pulled the remaining pins out, indulging himself by carefully running his fingers through her soft, silky hair to discover any hidden hairpins, spreading the auburn tresses out over the pillowcase.
“Having fun, Professor?” Hazel asked with a wicked smile.
Henry jumped up immediately and hated himself for blushing. “I was just…her hair fell out… I was only…” Then he stopped and sighed. “I give up. I wasn’t taking advantage of her, I promise.”
Hazel chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, Professor,” she said, as she came forward with a washcloth and a towel. “I wouldn’t have left you with her if I thought you had anything but the best intentions toward my sister.” She lifted her sister’s soiled hand, snapped her fingers and Rowan’s hand was completely clean. She grinned at Henry. “I really didn’t need a towel, but I figured you could use a moment alone.”
Henry shook his head. “Why do I always feel like I’m being outmaneuvered by you?”
Hazel grinned. “Because you are an astute man,” she replied.
Hours later, Henry stretched his neck slowly, trying to get all the kinks out of it. He glanced at the clock on the bottom of his laptop screen—it was nearly three in the morning. “The witching hour,” he mumbled to himself with a wry smile, and he had to admit, after a week of living alongside the Willoughby women, he was bewitched.
He looked across the room at the empty dinner plate on the counter. He had been pleasantly surprised to find a steaming plate of dinner on his kitchen counter when he looked up from his work. Another point for the Willoughby charm.
But now, tonight, as he pulled all his research together, along with the work he’d done online, he had nothing. Nothing he’d found felt like he was moving any closer to the solution to their problem. He’d been in this situation before, whether he was floating up the wrong branch of a river or exploring the wrong room in a cave. He’d learned that he had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that the Willoughby women did not hold the key to him getting any closer to a solution. The only thing Henry had learned throughout the past week was that all the Willoughby women were amazing in their own right, witchcraft notwithstanding.
And then there was Rowan. He ran his hand absently over his heart and sighed softly. He hoped she was resting and dreaming of… “Me,” he admitted softly. “Rowan, I want you to be dreaming of me.”
Then what? he wondered. Once this thing was solved, he’d been traveling back to England. Away from the Willoughby witches and all of their unique brand of magic. If he could remember before it was too late. He knew there was something else on his mind, and it was hovering just beyond his memory.
“What is this damn key?” he muttered, pushing away from the table and walking across the room to the window.
He stared out the window into the night sky and swore softly. He couldn’t fail them.
Like you failed your mother.
They were words he’d repeated often enough in his mind. But this time, he realized that they were not only words of self-recrimination and frustration—they were words of fear. Once again the consequence for too little too late could be death. He raised his hand and massaged the back of his neck. Maybe he should try to get some sleep. Maybe they would all come up with a new d
irection in the morning.
He started to turn back to his desk when he suddenly felt pressure in his shoulder. The pain of glass in front of him shattered, and the whole world seemed to tilt.
He slowly looked down and saw blood pooling on his shirt.
“Well, shit,” he mumbled and then tumbled to the floor.
Chapter Forty-three
Rowan sat straight up in her bed. “Henry’s in trouble,” she whispered, her voice filled with fear. And then she jumped out of bed, threw on her robe and ran into the hallway.
“Henry’s in trouble,” she screamed as she dashed down the stairs.
Fuzzy was already at the back door when Rowan arrived. She threw it open and dashed across the yard toward the barn. Fuzzy knocked her down just before another bullet whizzed by.
“Oh no they just didn’t,” Hazel said from the back porch. She turned and gazed across the field.
“Give me eyes that see,” she whispered, and suddenly her vision traveled across the field to the road. There, sitting in the back of his pickup truck, Buck was kneeling with his rifle aimed in their direction.
“Don’t kill him,” Cat whispered to her sister.
“He shot at Rowan,” she growled.
“Hurt him badly,” Cat agreed.
Hazel waved her arm, and the pickup truck rolled over, pinning Buck underneath.
“Go!” Hazel called to Rowan.
Rowan dashed forward toward the barn just as Agnes got to the back porch. “What?” she asked frantically. “What’s going on?”
Hazel turned to her mother. “You need to make us all some tea,” she said, her voice clear and focused. “Then, after the water has boiled and the tea has steeped for at least five minutes, you need to call 911 and say there was a car accident on Old Pine Road. A pickup rolled over. They’re probably going to need an ambulance.”
Hazel jumped off the porch and ran after her sister.
Agnes turned to Cat. “But shouldn’t I call 911 first?” she asked.
Cat shook her head. “No, you shouldn’t,” she said, and then she paused to look in the direction of the pickup. “He’ll be fine. He doesn’t deserve it, but he’ll be fine.”
She hurried down the steps and walked across the lawn. Then she stopped and turned back to her mother. “Let the tea steep for ten minutes.”
Rowan pushed open the door and cried out when she saw Henry’s body lying on the floor in a small pool of blood. She ran over and placed her hands on his shoulder.
“Wait,” Hazel insisted.
“He’s dying,” she cried. “He’s dying, and it’s our fault.”
Hazel knelt on the other side of Henry and faced her sister. “It won’t do us any good if you die too,” she said softly. “So, before you try to heal him, I want you to see where the wound is.”
Rowan closed her eyes and winced at Henry’s pain.
“Don’t take it on you yet,” Hazel ordered. “You might need that power to fix his internal organs. Henry can deal with pain. He can’t deal with dead.”
Rowan nodded and kept moving through Henry’s body. She saw his heart beating slowly, but it wasn’t damaged. She located his lungs, and they were slowly filling with oxygen on their own. Then she moved up into his shoulder and saw the torn muscle and severed artery. “The bullet nicked an artery,” she said. “I need to fix it.”
“Okay,” Hazel said. “But wait just a moment. Let me try to move some of his blood back into his body.”
Hazel looked down at the pool of blood and raised her arms above her head.
The vital fluid that flows through veins
That now from Henry’s body drains,
Reverse your flow and go upstream.
As I request, so mote it be.
The pool of blood swirled and began to pour back into the wound.
“How does it look from the inside?” Hazel asked.
Amazed, Rowan watched the blood flow evenly back into the artery, stemming any further flow out.
“Okay, it’s about done,” Hazel said. “Heal his artery, but take your time.”
Rowan concentrated on the artery, pulling the damage from Henry into her own body. She gasped at the pain and clenched her teeth as her body worked on the repair. She watched the ragged edges seal together and the blood flow through the artery, unfettered.
“I’m going to work on the other damage now,” Rowan gasped through clenched teeth.
“No. No, you’re not,” Henry said, placing his hand on hers.
She opened her eyes, tears falling freely now. “You’re alive!” she cried. “You’re safe.”
He struggled to a sitting position and leaned against the wall. “That hurt like hell,” he admitted.
Hazel placed a folded dishtowel against the wound and sat down on the floor, holding it in place. “I bet it did,” she said with a relieved smile. “Nice to have you up and talking, professor.”
Rowan took a deep breath, wiped the tears off her cheeks and sat up on her knees. “Really, I can fix the rest,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He looked at her. Her face was nearly ashen, and there was a shadow of pain in her eyes. “You saved my life,” he said. “I think that’s enough.”
“Actually, Hazel saved your life,” Rowan said. “She reversed the blood flow, so it went in instead of out.”
He looked at her and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “That was ingenious.”
Hazel shrugged. “Oh yeah, I did it all,” she said. “All Rowan did was reach inside you and take the pain of the severed artery into her own body so yours would be healed. So much lamer than my uphill flow trick.”
He turned back to Rowan. She looked like she was going to fall over. “Come here and sit beside me,” he asked softly.
She slid over to kneel beside him and looked up at him. “What do you need?”
She had nearly killed herself saving him, and she would give him more. Her hair was tumbled down around her shoulders. Her glasses were gone. She was the woman from his dreams. He saw the generosity, the selflessness, and now, because she was tired and unguarded, he saw the love. He wrapped his good arm around her and pulled her against him. “You,” he whispered. “I need you.”
He crushed his lips against hers. She moaned softly and stole her arms around his neck.
“Yeah, this is so my cue to exit,” Hazel muttered, sliding away from the pair and walking softly to the door. As she reached the door, Cat opened it from the other side.
Hazel shook her head. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “They’re just practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in case there’s another emergency.”
Cat peeked over Hazel’s shoulder and grinned. “Somebody ought to remind them to occasionally come up for air.”
Chapter Forty-four
The closest emergency room was in Fort Atkinson, fifteen miles away from the Willoughby Farm. Cat drove them all in her SUV, despite Henry’s protests.
“I’m fine,” he had insisted.
“Yes, you are,” Agnes had stated. “But we’re going anyway.”
That seemed to be the end of the discussion.
Cat pulled up next to the ER entrance, and Rowan and Agnes helped Henry out of the car and into the hospital. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “This man has a gunshot wound. Someone shot him through his apartment window.”
“Have you notified the police?” she asked.
“We thought it would be best to bring him in here first,” Agnes replied. “And file with the Fort Atkinson police.”
The receptionist immediately brought a wheelchair around the desk.
“I can walk, really,” Henry said.
“Sit down,” both Agnes and the receptionist replied.
Henry shook his head. “Why do I even bother?” he asked, sitting down in the chair.
Rowan grinned down at him. “It’s hard being surrounded by a bunch of strong-minded women, isn’t it?” s
he asked.
He smiled up at her. “You’re telling me,” he replied.
A nurse came out of the double doors to the emergency and took control of Henry’s wheelchair. He looked at Rowan and Agnes. “Are you family?” he asked.
“Yes,” they both replied immediately.
The nurse looked down to Henry for verification. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, they are,” he replied with a look of appreciation in their direction.
Within thirty minutes, an x-ray had been taken and a doctor was at Henry’s side. “The bullet is lodged in the muscle and right behind your subclavian artery,” she shook her head. “I don’t know how that bullet missed your artery. You are one lucky guy.”
Henry glanced over at Rowan and nodded. “I agree,” he said. “Other than the fact that someone shot me, of course.”
The doctor nodded. “Well, of course,” she said. “So, we’d really prefer not to take the bullet out and risk hitting the artery. It seems to be lodged in there good and tight.”
“So, what are you going to do for him?” Rowan asked.
“We’ll stitch up the wound and let it heal on its own,” she said. “It’s the best we can do.”
“That’s the best…” Rowan began.
Henry grabbed hold of Rowan’s hand, interrupting her and then smiled at the doctor. “That will be fine,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll get things prepped for the stitches,” the doctor said. “But in the meantime, we have a couple of police officers who want to take your statement.”
“That would be great,” Henry replied.
The doctor left the room, and Rowan turned to Henry. “That’s the best they can do?” she asked. “Leave a bullet lodged inside your body, hoping that it doesn’t someday dislodge and cause further damage?”
Henry looked at her, his avenging angel, and felt a sweet certainty sweep through his body. This was fate. She was his destiny. He didn’t care what he’d had to endure to get to this point. He was here, and she wasn’t getting away.
“Rowan,” he began.
“Mr. McDermott?” the policeman asked, walking through the partially opened door.