His Medicine Woman

by Stella Bagwell

  God only knew how a woman like her had come into his life. She truly was a gift to him and gifts weren’t supposed to be returned or set aside. They were meant to be cherished and enjoyed. Johnny didn’t know when that realization had finally come to him. Maybe it had been five years in the making. Or maybe it had suddenly struck him that day he’d gone to her clinic and she’d flung Natan Kenoi in his face.

  At least he’s not afraid to have an open relationship with a white woman.

  Of all the things that Bridget had ever said to him, those words had cut the deepest and opened his eyes wider than they’d ever been. Throughout his life, he’d been called plenty of things, some too ugly to repeat, but none of them had been “coward.” He wasn’t afraid of loving a white woman, or having her as his wife. But if the Donovans rejected him, he might not be given the chance to prove his bravery or his love. No matter how much he wanted her, he couldn’t destroy the bond between Bridget and her family.

  The somber thought was settling in his mind like unwanted dregs in a coffee cup when he felt her stir beside him. Glancing down, he saw that her eyes were open and anxiously searching his face.

  “The snow. Is it—”

  “Very little has fallen.”

  “Thank God. What time is it?”

  “Somewhere around three,” he answered.

  “You should be asleep—resting,” she murmured.

  Smiling faintly, his eyes softly searched her shadowed features. “Don’t worry about me. Are you warm?”

  “Yes. But I wish you would hold me.”

  Casting one last look at the fire, he laid his head next to hers and then pulled her into the warm crook of his body. As she nestled against him, he heard her sigh and the sound pierced his heart with a bittersweet arrow.

  She loved him. But would that be enough to bind their future together?

  Knowing that question couldn’t be answered any time soon, Johnny closed his eyes and willed a brief respite of sleep to come to him.

  The next time Bridget stirred from her fitful sleep, faint gray light was filtering through the tent and the comfort of Johnny’s body was gone.

  Instantly, she rolled to her stomach and peered out the opening of the flimsy shelter. The fire was still burning, but there was no sign of Johnny and the dogs.

  Scrambling out of the tent, she turned full circle as her gaze searched the surrounding forest. She could see that the snow on the ground was little more than a faint dusting of powder, but the air was almost white, as though the foggy clouds were trying to freeze against the mountainside.

  Johnny’s backpack was still propped against the pine trunk where he’d left it last night. Hers rested next to it.

  Why had he left without waking her? She’d wanted to go along, to be with him in case he picked up Peter’s trail. If he found the boy, and he needed medical help, she wanted to be there to administer it.

  She was trying to decide whether to follow his tracks in the snow when she heard one of the dogs bark once and then again.

  Immobilized by the sound, she stared anxiously through the trees as she tried to figure out the direction of the bark. After a moment, she decided it was coming from a southerly bearing, the same path that Johnny had predicted the horse had taken.

  Hopeful now, she left the stark little camp and, with the aid of Johnny’s faint foot tracks, began to make her way southward along the mountain shelf. She’d traveled less than fifty yards when another bark sounded, closer this time.

  Pausing, she looked up and was about to shout Johnny’s name when she spotted movements through the trees. And then incredibly he appeared, with Peter in his arms and the dogs trotting alongside him.

  “Oh! Oh, God!” Her heart hammering, she ran, stumbling over fallen logs and underbrush until she reached the two of them.

  Before she could think the worst, she could see that the towheaded, freckle-faced boy was awake and smiling as though he’d just walked in on his own birthday party. “Johnny—is he—”

  “Just a little cold,” Johnny assured her. “Let’s get him by the fire before I tell you the rest.”

  Nodding, Bridget dashed happy tears from her face and practically ran to keep up with Johnny’s long stride as he hurried to get the boy to a warm spot.

  Once they reached camp, Johnny turned Peter over to Bridget. While she made a basic examination to assess the boy’s condition, Johnny texted the good news to Brady and then set about throwing more wood on the fire.

  When the blaze had finally grown enough to feel its warmth, Bridget went to work removing the boy’s boots and angling his feet toward the heat of the flames. Amazingly, she’d learned through her hasty examination that he’d appeared to come through the ordeal with only a bit of frostbite on his cheeks and a few cuts and scrapes on his hands that had occurred when he’d fallen from the horse. Otherwise, he appeared to be perfectly healthy and in happy spirits for a child who’d been through such a traumatic ordeal.

  But the more Peter talked, the more Bridget began to realize that the boy hadn’t viewed the long cold night or any part of the incident as harrowing. He considered the whole thing an adventure. And that was probably for the best, she decided. Most likely he wouldn’t suffer from nightmares or post-traumatic stress.

  “You must be a very strong young man,” she said to Peter. “I would have frozen.”

  “Peter found a cave and propped pine boughs in front of the opening to block out the wind and snow,” Johnny explained as he stoked the blaze. “That’s where I found him.”

  Bridget cast the child a proud smile. “You’re a very smart boy, Peter. Where did you learn to do a thing like that?”

  “On a cowboy movie, that’s where,” the boy answered. “I watch them, ’cause I’m a cowboy, too. And so is Mr. Chino.”

  Bridget looked up from the child long enough to share a smile with Johnny. “Oh? How can you tell?” she asked Peter, as she gently massaged his toes.

  “See, he has on boots. And he told me he knows how to ride a horse. Like me. And he’s a hero. ’Cause he knew right where to find me! And his dogs licked my face!”

  “Uh—I doubt anyone needs to hear about the dog licking,” Johnny said.

  Chuckling, Bridget darted Johnny another grin. The drawn, tense expression he’d been wearing last night was now gone. And though he wasn’t the sort of man that smiled from ear to ear, she could see in his eyes that he was happy about finding the boy unharmed, happy that he’d triumphed where once he’d failed.

  “Hmm, really?” Bridget asked the child. “But Johnny’s not wearing a white hat.”

  “That don’t make no difference, Doctor Bridget. My mommy told me that I don’t need a hat to make me a hero. So Mr. Chino don’t need one, either.”

  Her heart full of emotion, Bridget affectionately ruffled her fingers through the child’s thick blond bangs. “You know what, Peter, I believe your mother is exactly right.”

  Later that morning, when the three of them emerged from the forest at the bottom of the mountain, Dallas and Brady were waiting with horses so they could finish the trek back to the stables riding rather than walking. And just as Bridget would have expected from her sister, Dallas had brought Peter the same horse he’d left on yesterday.

  While Johnny helped the child into the saddle, Bridget teased her sister. “At least you have a bridle on Tumbleweed today.”

  “You betcha I do, and I have an eagle eye on little Peter, too,” she said with a laugh, then before Johnny realized her intentions, Dallas walked over to him and drew him into a tight hug. “Thank you, Johnny. I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me and Peter’s family—my family.”

  Humbled by Dallas’s praise, he cleared his throat and extricated himself from her embrace. “It was nothing, Dallas.”

  “It was nothing. That’s what he always says.” Brady grinned broadly at his friend. “And I’ll warn you ahead of time, you’d better get ready for a lot of hugs and kisses when we get back to the ranch. P
eter’s mother is overcome with joy.”

  Bridget spoke up. “We all are.”

  She reached for Johnny’s hand and was relieved when his fingers momentarily tightened over hers.

  “Mom and Dad have made it home from Kentucky,” Brady said to Bridget. “They’re waiting to see the both of you.”

  Beside her, she felt Johnny tense, and suddenly the joy of rescuing Peter was swept aside by the fear of what might lay ahead for her, for Johnny and a future together.

  Last night he’d made innuendoes that were still confusing and haunting her. Things had happened in the past, he’d said. Things he needed to talk over with her father. But what could that possibly be?

  A few feet away, Brady swung himself into the saddle. “You two mount up and let’s get out of here,” he tossed to Bridget and Johnny. “It’s starting to snow again!”

  At the side of the buckskin horse, Johnny cupped a hand beneath her elbow in order to give her a boost up. But before he could, Bridget turned and pressed her mouth against his ear.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  For one brief moment he pressed his cheek to hers and then his hand was urging her upward and into the saddle.

  Seconds later, they were all riding toward the ranch with little Peter talking a blue streak to Johnny. The sight should have filled Bridget with immense joy. Instead, she had to fight the urge to drop her head and weep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hours later, after Johnny had given Sheriff Hamilton a recount of Peter’s rescue and dealt with Mrs. Holland and the swarm of local media surrounding her, the chaos of the morning had finally waned and he and Bridget had managed to slip away from the hectic scene at Angel Wing Stables.

  Now, as Johnny and Bridget approached the huge, two-story brick house that had housed the Donovan family for more than fifty years, he stared at the ornate door that made up the entrance and wondered what he would find behind it.

  He’d been in the house only a handful of times, the last one being when he and Brady were still in high school, and even then he’d only ventured as far as the kitchen. That had been before he’d known about his mother’s attempts to pawn him off on the Donovans and her later crimes of setting fire to the barn and accusing Doyle of fathering her child.

  Down through the years, her sins had followed him like a menacing ghost and Johnny could only hope that meeting with Bridget’s parents would finally give him a chance to end the haunts of Scarlett Chino.

  Once they passed through the ornate door, Bridget ushered him through a spacious foyer decorated with huge potted succulents, and then into a room that would come close to holding the whole Chino house.

  As he stared around at the opulent furnishings, Bridget’s arm looped possessively through his and her touch braced him like nothing else could have.

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a soft laugh. “We’re not going to talk with my parents in here. We reserve this room for socializing with people that we don’t like. Unless we’re having a party and then all the furniture and stuff is moved out so we can dance. When that happens, everyone wants to be in here.”

  “The only dancing I’ve ever done has been in a bar,” he admitted as she urged him along toward the far end of the room.

  Leaning her head toward his, she whispered suggestively, “In that case, I’m going to have fun teaching you some moves.”

  She was already leaping ahead, planning their future. But for now, all Johnny could think about was the present and what he was going to read on her parents’ faces whenever he walked into the room. Disgust? Concern? Did Scarlett Chino and what she tried to do even matter to this family anymore? “Bridget, I—”

  What he was about to say never got finished as a tall, slender, middle-aged woman with short brown hair appeared in an open doorway in front of them.

  “Hi, Reggie,” Bridget greeted her fondly. “Mom and Dad around?”

  The woman’s smile encompassed both Bridget and Johnny. “Yes, Doc. They’re in the family room with your Grandmother Kate.”

  “Great,” Bridget said, then quickly gestured to Johnny. “Reggie, this is Johnny Chino. He’s—”

  “The man who found little Peter,” she finished warmly and reached to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Johnny. And just let me know if there’s anything you want. I’ve just taken refreshments to the family room. But if there’s anything special you want, all you have to do is give me the word. But don’t eat too much,” she added with a wink. “We’re going to have a big dinner for you two tonight.”

  A bit overwhelmed, Johnny thanked her, then watched as she turned and disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room. At his side, Bridget urged him forward.

  “Let’s go,” she said quietly. “I think we both need to get this over with.”

  Johnny couldn’t have agreed more.

  Thirty minutes later, Peter’s rescue had been recounted, refreshments had been served, and the Donovans had expressed their general happiness to get, not only Peter back safely, but also their daughter.

  As for their reaction to Johnny, he still didn’t know what to make of the genuine warmth they’d extended to him. Even Bridget’s grandmother looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes and he could only think that none of them had yet connected him in a romantic way to Bridget.

  “I must say, I was worried sick when Brady told me she’d headed off into the mountains with you,” Fiona said to Johnny. “Not that I had any doubts in your ability to care for her, Mr. Chino. But let’s face it,” she said with an impish grin at Bridget, “our youngest daughter isn’t quite as—well—robust a gal as her sister Dallas. I was afraid you might have to deal with a collapsing woman while you were trying to track Peter.”

  “Mom! That’s an awful thing to say! I’m just as strong as Dallas! Just because I have a stethoscope hanging around my neck instead of a horse halter, doesn’t mean that I’m a weakling. Tell her, Johnny, how well I kept up with you.”

  He looked at Fiona, a woman he’d never met until a few minutes ago. Seeing her, he could easily understand where Bridget had gotten her strength and beauty.

  “Your daughter is like a bulldog. She won’t give up a fight until she wins.”

  Smiling, Fiona cast her husband a pointed look. “He’s got her figured out.”

  From her seat in a large, overstuffed armchair, Kate spoke up. “Well, I’ll tell you what I was thinking whenever I heard she was heading off into the mountains with Johnny. I thought, thank God, at least now we don’t have to worry that she hates men.”

  Bridget gasped. “Grandmother!”

  Doyle suddenly rose from his seat on the couch and made a shooing gesture with his hand. “You women go find something else to do. I want to talk with Johnny. Alone,” he added.

  Bridget’s lips parted as though she wanted to protest, but after a parting glance at Johnny, she rose to her feet and followed her mother toward the door.

  Kate was slower to rise from her chair. “This is a hell of a note, running your own mother out of the family room! What if I don’t want to go?”

  With a patient smile, Doyle walked over and took his mother by the arm. “Then I’ll convince you that you do.”

  Laughing now, she allowed her son to escort her out of the room. By the time Doyle returned, Johnny had left his seat on the couch and stood waiting in the middle of the hardwood floor.

  “No need for you to stand, Johnny,” Doyle insisted as he gestured for him to take one of the empty chairs grouped around them. “Would you like a glass of wine? Brandy?”

  Easing down into one of the armchairs, Johnny’s eyes followed the tall, dark-haired man as he walked over to a small wet bar situated in a far corner of the room. He was a physically impressive man with broad shoulders and a trim waist that belied his sixty-plus years. If Johnny hadn’t known better he would have guessed the man to be in his early fifties.

  “No, thanks. I—don’t drink alcohol.”

  He glanced at Johnn
y. “Then would you mind if I have a dab of brandy?”

  Surprised that Doyle would be so considerate, he replied, “Not at all.”

  After he’d poured a small amount of the spirits into a goblet, Doyle walked back over to where Johnny sat and took a seat directly across from him.

  “I’m glad you sent the women away,” Johnny told him. “I’ve wanted to speak with you and I—didn’t want Bridget to overhear.”

  Doyle leveled a steady stare at him. “I had already figured that out. Just like I’ve already figured out that you love my daughter and she loves you. Do you want to marry her?”

  Stunned by the abrupt question, Johnny leaned forward. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

  Doyle’s heavy black brows shot upward. “What the hell does that mean? You either do or you don’t!”

  “It’s not that simple, sir.”

  Doyle frowned with disapproval. “Why isn’t it? When I first met Fiona and decided I wanted her to be my wife, I wasn’t about to let hell or high water stop me. If you don’t have the guts for it, you’d better speak up and not keep my daughter dangling.”

  Unable to remain still, Johnny rose to his feet. “I admit that I’ve kept Bridget—more than dangling. But not for the reasons you’re thinking. I’ve tried my best to make her see reason, to find someone else—more suitable. But like I said earlier, she’s stubborn and I—” Uncertain of how to go on, he paused and shook his head. “Well, I’ve had to face the fact that I don’t want to let her go.”

  Doyle studied him thoughtfully. “More suitable,” he repeated Johnny’s words. “Who do you think that would be?”

  Annoyed that the other man was dragging this out, Johnny frowned. “A man that is—not like me,” was all he could manage to say.

  Doyle drained the last of the brandy then set the glass on a table near his arm. “I think you need to know something, Johnny. Something about Fiona and me. We want our children to be respectful of their parents. But we also want them to be independent and able to think and choose for themselves. We’ve never expressed to them that we want them to marry a certain type. We don’t care if the person is young or old, rich or poor, or somewhere in between. And we certainly don’t care what color they are. The only thing we hope for is that our daughter-in-law or son-in-law is a good and decent person, one that will make our child happy. And I believe you have those qualifications.”