by DiAnn Mills
She stroked the keys lightly. “I graduated from the New England Conservatory of Music. And thank you.”
“But why are you here?” Immediately my hand flew to my mouth. “I didn’t mean to sound rude.”
She shook her head. “My dear, others have said much worse.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m at Ghost Ranch because I cannot not be here. This is where life flows through me. The air is fresh, free, and untouched by humans who are out to change the terrain. If I were artistic, I would gladly put my soul on canvas so the world could see in a few brush strokes what is painted in my heart.”
“How poetic.” My new friend was a far deeper person than I’d ever imagined. “I’m so envious of your wisdom and complexity.”
“We’re all given gifts and talents to use for a specific purpose.” She rose from the piano bench, where only moments before her fingers had danced on the ivories.
“I hope I learn mine soon.”
“Yours are courage and determination.”
I startled. “I don’t feel very courageous under the circumstances.”
“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “Look at how you sparkle with the Monarch boys.”
“I do love those three.”
“Precisely. You’ve discovered a gift of teaching. And I think you’ll blossom like a spring flower in the days ahead.”
I didn’t quite believe her, but the words inspired me nevertheless.
“Shall we eat?” she said. “Contrary to the piano piece, we shall dine on common beans and ham.”
“Perfect. I can’t think of anything finer.”
Miss Arnold hooked her arm around mine, and we entered the dining room.
“Please, have a seat, and I will serve you,” she said.
“I’d like to help.”
“Nonsense. And when we’re finished, you can play the piano for me.”
I cringed, thinking how inadequate I’d sound next to this accomplished musician.
Yet no matter how much I enjoyed the evening, I’d soon need to excuse myself so I could tend to the injured man.
Shortly after ten o’clock, I saddled my palomino and swung up onto the saddle with a lantern in my hand. I’d learned that Mr. Murdock had made arrangements for me to have the fine horse, and I’d written to thank him for his thoughtfulness. It didn’t matter that the funds to purchase the animal were mine; my gratitude was rooted in his concern for me. I’d also written Victoria and told her of my new adventures. Asking her to forgive me for going against her wishes was important to me. I could only imagine her loneliness.
My sense of direction had always been good, but I didn’t trust myself at night to find the wall of rock that sheltered the man. As soon as I rode beyond the adobe buildings of Ghost Ranch, I lit the lantern dimly, keenly aware that the light could be seen by ranch hands. I marveled at the Creator’s handiwork in the night sky: all the familiar constellations, the twinkling stars, and the half moon.
I also needed my brains rearranged for what I was attempting to do.
How odd that I could possibly be riding into danger, and I had no fear at all. Could I have come so close to death that I no longer feared all mankind’s ultimate end? Or did a secret part of me realize that time was the only barrier between me and my demise?
How far I’d come from the spoiled socialite to a pioneer woman—of sorts. When I dwelled on my life in Syracuse, I thought of how I did what I was told without much rebellion. But then some people might term my stay at Ghost Ranch as a prison of sorts. And granted, I did feel that way on the train ride out here and on the first day. Yet once I met Miss Arnold, the ranch hands, and my three boys and their parents, a strange peacefulness engulfed me, for now I had an opportunity to spread my wings without a threat of criticism. If something had not happened to Grandfather, would I ever have known this expression of my inner being?
In less than an hour, I found the rock concealing the wounded man. How very strange of me not to ask him his name. He could be a notorious killer. I shivered, and not all from the chilly night air.
I dismounted and tossed a blanket over my shoulder then gathered my rifle and two canteens of water in one hand and the bag of dressings and the lantern in the other. Minding every step, I made my way over rocks to the spot I remembered from earlier in the day.
“Is that you, miss?” came a feeble voice.
My heart lurched at the weak sound. “Yes, it is. And I’ve brought bandages and medicine to treat your wound.”
“The angels are smiling on me.” His labored breathing broke through the stillness of night. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”
“I needed to wait until the ranch hands were in for the night.” That wasn’t altogether true, but it made me appear more like a seasoned Westerner than a naive Easterner.
I anchored the lantern beside him and pulled out a clean cloth, a bar of soap, a bottle of alcohol, cotton balls, and bandages and tape. I’d never done any kind of nursing before, so I hoped I could help. I kneeled beside him and trembled. To make matters worse, his long hair, beard, and mustache made him look primitive—and scary.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“Should I be?” Indeed, I was playing a role.
“Not tonight, miss. I can barely move.”
He was right, and I needed to treat his wound and leave. Whoever had done this to him could be watching. I tried to think of the proper way to remove his torn and bloody shirt and clean his shoulder. I searched my mind to find something clever to say, to keep his mind off the ordeal.
The moment I touched him, he winced, and I jerked back. “The shirt has to come off,” I said. “Can you remove it?”
“We can try together.” In the lantern light, I saw him clench his jaw. The angry wound puffed with infection and needed more attention than I knew how to offer. But my pitiful nursing was all the injured man would receive this night.
Several moments later, I’d finally ripped through the sleeve portion and cast the remains of the shirt to one side. His chest lay bare. I’d never seen a man without his shirt. Later I’d think through what tonight meant, sneaking about like a thief. But not now.
The wound looked ugly: deep and caked with blood. I cleaned it the best I could with the water from one of the canteens and a bar of soap.
“The alcohol will burn like I put a match to your shoulder,” I said. “Let’s talk to keep your mind off the pain.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
I moistened the cotton ball with the alcohol and took a deep breath for strength, while the topic of conversation “burned” in my mind. “What is your name?” I began patting the exposed area with the alcohol.
He swore.
“I’m sorry, but if I don’t do this, the infection will grow worse. Now, what is your name?”
I dabbed his shoulder again, and this time he moaned. “Walt. Walt Chambers.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Walt. My name is Miss Fortier.”
He nodded. “No first name?”
“No. That’s personal. Why did those Indians think you swindled them out of money?”
“I sold them feed for their horses, and they said I charged too much.”
“Did you?”
“You have a habit of asking annoying questions.”
“How else am I to learn the truth?” I continued disinfecting the wound and ignoring his gasps and curses. I found his language highly offensive, but I had no idea how I would react to such torture. “From the looks of your wound, the Indian used a dull knife.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I’d think an Indian would have a wickedly sharp one.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
“I never said that. I’m simply cautious and want to make good decisions.”
“About what?”
“Whether to report you to the authorities or not. Granted, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, but this is still a civilized country, and crimes should not go unpunished.” I took a breath. �
��You need stitches, but I have neither the medical supplies or the know-how to do the procedure.”
Walt closed his eyes. “You’ve been kind enough to ride all this way to treat me, and I refuse to put your life in danger. Those Indians meant what they said.”
“Why didn’t you give them their money back? Better to lose a few dollars than your life.” I paused from my dabbing. “Or your arm.”
“Couldn’t. I spent it…before they made their inquiry.”
I sighed. “You do have a problem.”
“And so do you if you tell anyone about this.”
I wanted to ponder his words before I decided on the proper action. “I gather you intend to stay here and mend?”
“Do you see a means of me leaving?” He spit his words.
“Guess I had that coming. I brought another canteen of water and a little food.” I covered him with the blanket.
“Thank you…for all you’ve done.”
I recapped the bottle of alcohol and reached for the gauze and tape. “Try to keep this clean.”
“I’ll do my best. I want to get up and move around a bit in the morning.”
“Why not walk five miles?”
He eyed me curiously, and I shrugged. For a moment, I sounded like Grandfather, lacing my words with sarcasm.
“Walt, moving about will probably get your shoulder bleeding again. But do what you want. I’m finished.” I scooted back and picked up the things I’d brought to treat him.
“Now you’re mad?”
“Irritated.”
“Same thing. Feisty, aren’t you?”
I’d never thought about that before. Maybe I was. “Coming out here, I risked being attacked by your Indian friends and getting caught ‘borrowing’ the medicine and bandages to patch you up. This is my blanket, and I’ve lost sleep. The least you can do is rest and heal.”
He laughed, rather weakly.
“I’m glad you find humor in all this.” I chuckled with him. Maybe I was pretending to be a movie actress. At the very least, I’d taken on a new persona.
“If we ever see each other again, I’ll act as though we never met,” Walt said.
“Good. And I’ll do the same.” I stood and loaded my arms with all the paraphernalia. Compassion nudged me, and I smiled. “Honestly, I wish you the best.”
He returned the smile. “Thank you. I’ll never forget the day you stepped from behind this rock. Fortune has a way of blessing a man.”
I said good-bye and hurried to my horse. I had to get back to Ghost Ranch and put these things away without being detected.
Yet satisfaction wrapped around me. I’d taken care of someone in need, and I felt good.
CHAPTER 13
Tahoma fought a dizzying throb to his temples. The hammering intensified, and he held his breath to hold back the rising nausea. Claude would have finished him off if not for his father’s intervention. Nascha Benally held respect among the people, even if some of them wanted Tahoma gone from their midst—or dead.
“Son, can you hear me?” his mother whispered.
He wanted her to go away. This was his private hell, the war dividing him against Diné culture and Truth, when he wanted the two united. He struggled against another wave of nausea and focused on the cause of his bitterness. These were the people he loved—his family and extended family. Their way of life was engrained in him. He merely wanted to weave modern medicine with their centuries-old beliefs and show them the power of God.
While attending medical school, he’d convinced himself that Christianity and the ways of his people had the power to restore true health, vitality, and optimism among his people: the hozho—balance.
Had he been gullible to accept the white man’s teachings, thinking his people would respond favorably to their medicine and faith? He’d been a fool. The white man hadn’t been successful in converting the Diné to the salvation of Jesus Christ. How could he? What did the white man know about a proud people who had roots on this continent long before they’d set foot here?
“Tahoma, are you awake?”
He needed to respond. No doubt Mother was worried. “Yes.” He forced his swollen eyes to open. “I’m all right.”
“Maybe tomorrow, but not today.” She touched a damp cloth to his face.
How many times had he comforted patients in the same way? Being a recipient had far less appeal.
“Rest now, and I’ll be right here if you need me.”
He remembered his father helping him to his parents’ hogan. And then blacking out. “How is Yanaba?”
“Her mother is taking care of her.”
“She needs herbs to stop any infection.”
“Willencia is taking care of her.”
“I did not kill her baby.”
“Not intentionally. Tahoma. Our ways are best.”
His own mother did not believe in him. He’d thought as much, but she’d never voiced her opinion until now. “If you think that way, then why did you approve of my attending medical school?”
“I didn’t.” She hesitated, and her brows narrowed. He knew that sign of regret. “I agreed when your father believed the knowledge could help us.”
Why hadn’t he known this? As a teenage boy, he’d dreamed of bringing hozho to his people with more scientific ways of keeping them healthy. Perhaps he’d spent too much time in the white man’s schools and not enough time respecting the ceremonies.
“Mother.” He sucked in a sharp stab of pain in his ribs and remembered the vicious punches to his side. “Why didn’t you speak up?”
“Being a doctor meant more to you than being a Diné.”
Her words hurt as much as the pain raging through his body. “I am a doctor who is Diné. I don’t deny either.” He turned his head to read her eyes. “I cannot forget the things I learned and value.”
“Can you forget the things you learned and value when your own people distrust you? Claude accuses you of being a sorcerer.”
“He grieves over the loss of yet another child. I can’t blame him for that. Yanaba’s body was not designed to bear children. At least not yet.”
His mother stiffened. “All women are created to bear children. Those who cannot have healthy children have not found balance in their lives.”
Balance. He was beginning to despise the word. “The human body is not always perfect. Yanaba is not the first among the women to have this problem.” He heard the bitterness in his voice and reached for the strength to show reason. “I’m sorry for her sorrow, but I don’t have the power to give her a healthy baby.”
“Who do you blame? Yourself? Are we back to that position?”
“It’s the fault of ignorance and a refusal to accept progress. I do not discount our ways. The blood flowing through my veins is the same.”
She stiffened and frowned. “So we are to become white and conform to their demands?”
He’d never wanted his beloved people to fade into extinction. The agony in his head blurred his thinking but not his passion for medicine. Earlier he’d questioned his calling, but not now. His mother’s insistence strengthened his resolve to continue.
“That’s not what I mean at all,” he said.
“You’ve fallen away from all you are. I could summon a singer, even—”
“No, Mother.”
“You know the steps you must take.” She touched his shoulder. “Seek the counsel of those wise in these matters.”
Tahoma squeezed his eyes shut. The two worlds could exist together—somehow.
“Son, no more talk. You have to get your strength back.”
What he needed to do was restore his relationship with the Lord. Nothing in his life made sense until he set his knees on holy ground.
CHAPTER 14
Like a child nursing a sick puppy, I returned the next night to see how Walt fared with his knife wound. I was afraid Juan, the ranch’s foreman, might have seen me, and I hid for a long while in a dark stall until I was certain he’d left the horse
barn. And here I was again, riding across the desert for a third time with a lantern, food, and a change of bandages and medicine. Every trip increased my chances of being discovered.
I’d feared Walt might lose his arm, and I wanted to prevent that no matter whether he told me the truth about himself or not. For all I knew, he could have swindled those poor Indians, and they didn’t have money to buy feed for their animals.
Once I reached him, I saw his pallor had improved, and the wound no longer looked as fiery. He sat up and leaned against the wall of rock and ate heartily of ham between thick slices of bread, pinto beans, and apple pie. I had to search hard for a tin container to bring them in.
Afterward, he appeared more appreciative of my willingness to help him. I liked him, and he told marvelous stories about his experiences on a navy vessel in the Mediterranean Sea.
“I haven’t been to the Mediterranean,” I said. “But now Italy and Greece, and, oh, the island of Capri are on my list of must-see places.”
“You must be wealthy.” He chuckled. “Very few have money to travel during these hard times. Most of us have trouble affording food.”
Guilt wiggled through me. “I meant for someday when I’d have the funds to travel.”
“I see. Are you ready for another story? This one is about the time I came face-to-face with a grizzly in Yellowstone.”
Once he finished, he eyed me strangely. “Tell me about yourself. You always seem…well, so proper. But you also appear sad.”
So he’d detected my grief. “I lost someone close to me.”
“A parent? A relative? A male friend?”
“My grandfather. I lived with him, and I miss him terribly.”
“So you were close?”
I laughed lightly to keep from crying. “Not exactly. We argued constantly, and I resented his lecturing. But, oh, it’s not important.”
“I think it is. What’s bothering you?”
“I’d give almost anything to hear a lecture from him.”
“I understand. Was he ill?”
I’d said enough, so I tilted my head while I considered an appropriate response. “His death happened suddenly.”