Stone Dreaming Woman

by Lael R. Neill

  “The fact remains that if we stop and skin this bear out we’ll be spending the night in the woods. Actually I do know what we can do. We can stop at Thomas Wise Hand’s ranch, and I’ll send him back here. He and his boys can take care of it. However, I do have to slit the throat so it’ll bleed out. That keeps the meat from getting sour.” He stopped to pick up his rifle, then went back to his saddlebags and produced a fearsome Bowie knife that looked to be razor sharp. It was no easy feat to lift the bear’s huge head and get the knife into the proper spot to sever both pairs of jugular veins and arteries, but he knew what he was doing. A moment later a growing pool of dark, deoxygenated blood soaked into the fine gravel. Then he walked out on the same log Jenny had availed herself of earlier, washed the knife, and rinsed his hands. As he returned the knife to his saddlebag, he flinched and rubbed his shoulder. Jenny was on it in an instant. She came to him and cupped his elbow in a gentle palm.

  “Are you all right, Shane?” she asked, her voice soft.

  “I think so,” he responded cautiously. “I think I do have a bruise, though. I landed on the point of my shoulder with most of my weight, after I pushed you out of the way.”

  “And you were moving fast. Let me look, please? You may have hurt yourself and don’t realize it yet. You were pretty full of adrenaline for a while, and that keeps people from feeling pain.” She saw the grass stain and a dirty scrape on his shirt where it lay over his shoulder. He was right about having hit hard.

  “All right, Jenny. You’re the doctor,” he capitulated. She gave him her best warm smile and was gratified when he made a great effort to return it.

  “Good. I’m sure you’re fine, but I’m glad you’re letting me reassure myself,” she said, leading him back toward the beach. “Come over to that big log and sit down.” Before he sat, she tugged his shirttail out of his breeches, then eased his shirt off, left arm first. When she saw his bare chest, her mind veered off in a totally unclinical direction. She had often observed that his waist seemed slender in proportion to the rest of him. Now she saw why. His upper chest and shoulders were bulky and strongly defined in a way that told her he exercised hard; every muscle was corded and cut. She was reminded of Michelangelo’s exquisite David. Her trained eyes picked out the heavily developed pectorals and trapezii that obscured his clavicles, and, wrapped around his ribs, the small, highly defined serratus anterior and latissimus dorsi stood out in plain relief. She reluctantly left off recounting after the abdominal rectus and obliques. This was, after all, no anatomy quiz.

  “My God, Shane, you look like a kinesiology text!” she exclaimed.

  “I don’t know if I’ve been insulted or complimented. What’s kinesiology?”

  “The study of muscles,” she responded with a giggle. “And it’s a high compliment. Do you work out with weights, then?”

  “Yes, plus running and swimming and calisthenics. I had to get into shape to play hockey in college, and I just kept it up. When your worst enemy is the town blacksmith, you have to stay strong.” His wry smile made her chuckle again. Then she came back to earth when she saw the darkening bruise on the point of his shoulder. She touched it, but he did not wince.

  “Painful?” she asked.

  “Not too much. I really don’t think anything is wrong.”

  “Hopefully not. That’s what we’re going to find out.” She looked him over, making sure his shoulders were symmetrical. She checked that from the back, too. And there she encountered more of the same exquisite musculature. The developed deltoids made wonderfully sharp indentations over his shoulder blades, and she could even pick out the tiny teres major and minor just below his armpits. She ached to caress that marvelous power; she did allow her fingertips to trace the tops of his shoulders, just to let him know she was indeed doing something besides ogling him. She swallowed heavily and walked around to his right side.

  “All right. I’m going to check your collarbone. But I don’t know how I’ll find it under all those muscles. From now on, let me know if anything I do hurts, all right?” Her fingertips probed gently, finding the proximal end of the clavicle. She pushed on it, at first gently and then with some firmness, eventually palpitating its entire length, but he did not react. Then she turned to his shoulder joint. A blow to the point of the shoulder could result in separation or dislocation, but that caused the patient to carry the affected arm low and immobile. She had already ruled that out by the easy way he had been moving for the last half hour. But she could not rule out a fracture of the scapular fossa. She reached over his shoulder and palpitated the top of his shoulder blade. His fine, fair skin was sensual, and beneath it the muscles felt like marble. Oh, Doctor Jennifer Catherine Weston, where is your professional detachment? she asked herself. Then she took his arm and manipulated it through a full range of motion, encountering the bunched biceps brachii, and its fraternal twin, the triceps. She located the bursa down the front of the shoulder joint and squeezed with some firmness.

  “Still no pain?” she asked as she eased his arm around in a big circle for the second time.

  “Not really. It’s just sore where I landed on it.”

  “Well, you’re probably right. You’re not really hurt except for that bruise. It’s coloring up already, which is just what I’d expect for somebody with skin as fair as yours. If we were at Mount Hope I’d prescribe aspirin, an ice pack, rest for twenty-four hours, and then if you were experiencing stiffness or discomfort, moist heat. But the real curative would be Tincture of Time.”

  “Tincture of Time?”

  “Yes. It’s medical jargon for the fact that most patients eventually get better on their own no matter what you do for them.”

  “Then I’ll live?” he asked mischievously.

  “Well, when you do die, it won’t be from this.” She laid her hand over the point of his shoulder, feeling the heat of the coming bruise. “If you’re stiff or sore tomorrow, try aspirin and a hot shower or a hot towel. Or just tough it out. But if it really bothers you, let me know, and I’ll check you again.”

  “I have a sneaking feeling that it will. In fact, by tomorrow morning it may become excruciatingly painful.” She cuffed the top of his head.

  “You really are Irish, aren’t you? Here. I’ll help you with your shirt.” She eased the sleeve over his right arm, then guided his left arm down the opposite sleeve. When she settled it over his shoulders, she saw the tiny, dark scar below his left collarbone, the remnant of the gunshot wound that had been responsible for their rocky beginnings.

  “Does that ever bother you anymore?” she asked.

  “No. For a while I woke up stiff in the morning, but that hasn’t happened for a long time.” She nodded approvingly, but her fingertips did not want to lose contact with the soft warmth of his skin. She knew she was pushing the situation. With a sigh she buttoned his collar, then worked down the front of his shirt. He caught her hands.

  “Thank you, Jenny.”

  “For what? You’re fine.”

  “For being gentle with me.”

  “Doctors are that way, Shane.”

  “I’m grateful for your concern. It’s touching. But now we’ve been here about as long as I want to be. Let’s get back on the trail.” However, she stood her ground, looking up at him, until he leaned forward and gently touched his lips to hers. She did reach around him then, her touch as ethereal as the summer breeze. One gentle, reassuring kiss was enough.

  Moving tiredly in the aftermath of the crisis, he led her back to where the horses were tethered. He turned to give her a hand up.

  “How far are we from Thomas Wise Hand’s ranch, then?” she asked as she turned Fleur abreast of Midnight.

  “Oh, half an hour, maybe. And when we get there, please do me a favor? Pretend you’re a proper Iroquois maiden? It’s best if you don’t look too directly at Thomas, and don’t speak to him. If you have anything to say to him, say it to me and I’ll relay it. And if I signal you to stay behind, just stop and stay where you are unt
il I either beckon to you or come back. All right?”

  “Certainly. The last thing I ever want to do is give offense or embarrass you. But why can’t I speak to him? Doesn’t he understand French at all?”

  “Not really. Moreover, the Iroquois would consider it immodest because you’re a woman and a stranger. He’s a shaman and he’s old-fashioned and reclusive, even for an Iroquois.”

  The trail narrowed and forced her behind him. She watched him riding ahead, noticing that he had started to look tired. Her clinical mind told her it was the aftermath of the huge adrenaline rush, while the young woman in love wanted to take him in her arms and console him.

  Eventually they broke out of the woods and into a big meadow that had been logged perhaps twenty years ago. The land there lay relatively flat and, she noticed, most of it had been recently fenced. They rode along a wagon track that paralleled the fence line. She guessed this was Thomas Wise Hand’s ranch. Eventually she saw a cabin in the distance, with a big barn behind it and a few horses in the pasture. Shane was uncharacteristically silent as they approached the house. In Indian fashion he stopped outside and simply waited to be noticed. Presently a young boy of perhaps ten years emerged from the doorway and spoke to him in Iroquois. There was a lengthy exchange, and then the boy opened the pasture gate. Jenny, uncertain what she should do, hung back until Shane motioned her to follow him. Then across a rise in the pasture she saw a man riding a red horse at a breakneck gallop, controlling the animal with a single-reined rope bridle. Shane’s palm-down gesture told her to stay where she was. When he kicked Midnight into a hard gallop, Fleur, recognizing her former home and her old herd, begged to follow, but Jenny halted her. For a minute or two the men raced, until Midnight began to pull away from the red gelding. Thomas capitulated and reined his mount in, and Jenny saw the two talking earnestly as they trotted back toward her. When they were close enough to hear, she realized they were speaking Iroquois.

  As Thomas approached, his green-broke mount fidgeted. Jenny tightened her reins, touched Fleur’s flanks, and urged her back. The mare moved off several obedient steps until she was a respectful distance away from Shane and Thomas, while Jenny watched Shane and heard more of the baffling language. Whatever Thomas said caused Shane to blush furiously before the older man slapped him on the shoulder so hard it shoved him forward over Midnight’s neck. A moment later Thomas heeled his sorrel gelding, sweeping off in a thunder of beating hooves.

  The boy who had initially greeted them was waiting at the gate. He gave Jenny a shy smile. Still in character, she broke eye contact and demurely looked away. Shane led out and she followed until she caught up and pulled abreast of him down the lane next to the fence. Far away in the pasture, Thomas was still galloping the half-broken gelding, ostensibly to tire him so he would be in a mood for training.

  “What did he say to you, Shane?” Jenny asked at length.

  “That he’d send his boys after the bear. He thanked me and said they would eat well tonight.”

  “No. I mean when he slapped your shoulder.” To her vast amusement, Shane reddened again.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Well, I can guess. You look embarrassed half to death.”

  “He was impressed when you backed Fleur to give his horse room. He complimented you. He said you are modest. In the eyes of the Iroquois, modesty is a great virtue.”

  “Then I’m glad. I don’t want to be a discredit to you.”

  They took a trail that skirted the eastern edge of North Village, obviating the necessity of stopping to visit. Then they picked up the steep, serpentine descent toward the Elk Gap Road. At the first ford of a small creek, Midnight asked for a drink, and Shane stopped to let him indulge himself. Fleur fell in beside him a moment later, gulping and swallowing noisily.

  “Shane?” Jenny asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “How close are we to where that man with the knife attacked you last January?”

  “It was right here, as a matter of fact. Why?”

  “Look down there in the water and tell me if you see what I do.” She pointed at an object glinting in the declining afternoon sunlight. It was edge up between a stone and a tree root, hard to see unless one happened to be at just the right angle. He dismounted, handed her his reins, and pushed his sleeve up to just above his elbow at the beginning swell of a bulky biceps. Then he knelt and fished around in the cool water. A moment later he came up with a dripping knife even larger than the one he had used on the bear. The wicked, curving point made her stomach tighten.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  “I hope not.”

  “Huh?”

  Her reply was a giggle. “Nothing. Is that his knife, then?”

  “It has to be. How on earth did you spot it?”

  “The light was reflecting off the blade. I was in just the right place to pick it out.”

  “No wonder Paul couldn’t find it. It went into the creek, and at the time it was mostly covered up with snow and half frozen over. Well, I’ll have to write an addendum to Paul’s report and give this to Bob Shepherd. Even though the Board of Inquiry cleared me, the Northwest Mounted doesn’t like loose ends.” He wiped the knife ineffectually on his wool breeches, then put it in his right saddlebag.

  “What a day,” she sighed.

  “It has been pretty full, all right,” he agreed. He lifted himself slowly to his saddle, taking his time to set his right toe into the stirrup.

  “Well, we’re close to home now.”

  “Home for you,” he responded tiredly.

  “Shane, you know you can stay with Uncle Richard any time you want to.”

  “I have plenty of time to make it back to town.”

  “If you stay with us tonight, we can ride into town together tomorrow morning.” He looked across at her.

  “You make that sound so tempting, Jenny. But I have to clean my rifle, and I need to write that report. It should go on the train tomorrow, and I can’t do it in the morning. I have to ride patrol, and heaven only knows what else may crop up.”

  “Well, then, at least stay to supper. You’ll never make it back home in time.”

  The instant he opened the door they were assaulted by the rich, spicy scent of apple pie. Mavis was standing at the sink rinsing dishes.

  “My! It smells like you remembered you owe me a pie!” he exclaimed.

  “For all the times you’ve brought Mr. Weston’s mail, it’s probably several pies,” Mavis responded. “How was the grand affair, then?”

  “Lovely!” Jenny said.

  “Wonderful,” Shane replied simultaneously.

  “Oh, dear, how very sad. It doesn’t sound as if you two enjoyed yourselves at all,” she said with a tongue-in-cheek grin.

  “Is Uncle Richard upstairs working, then?”

  “Unless he sneaked out, yes.”

  “That reception must have been something,” Mavis remarked, pouring tea for them.

  “It was just an average overblown Beaufort party, but Jenny nearly caused a stampede. Even the Governor himself practically tripped over his boot laces to get her to dance with him,” Shane replied. He and Jenny traded a poignant glance.

  At dinner, Richard insisted on a complete chronicle of events. He seemed to enjoy it as much as they had. But, with his usual innate tact, he did not keep Shane long. It was not yet twilight when Jenny accompanied him to the barn.

  “I’ll walk to the end of the lane with you,” she volunteered.

  “I’d like that,” he responded. She knew their goodbye would leave her full of longing. Leading Midnight, he walked slowly out of the light from the kitchen windows. As soon as they were in the balmy dusk again, her hand found its way into his.

  “Thank you for not mentioning the bear in front of Uncle Richard,” she said at length. “I’m afraid it would have upset him.”

  “It upset me plenty,” he said grimly. “I don’t even want to think about it ever again.”

&nb
sp; “Well, you saved my life. All I can do is say thank you, and that sounds so inadequate.”

  “There’s a saying that all’s well that ends well. I just hope you’re not frightened of the woods now.”

  She shook her head. “No. That was probably a one-time thing.”

  “It was. I’ve been in the woods all my life, and that’s the first time I’ve ever had to shoot anything bigger than a snake in self-defense. Oh, we’ve all shot mad wolves from time to time, but that’s only humane. They would die in agony otherwise, and they do pose a danger of contagion. But I’m more adamant than ever that you learn to shoot. I think I’ll get you a nice tame little Model ’94 carbine. It’s almost a smaller version of my rifle. I’d feel a lot better if you’re armed when you start answering calls alone.”

  “Then let’s just leave it at that. Thank you. And thank you for taking me to River Bend. These last two days have been a fairy tale for me.”

  “I said before that I’m the one who should thank you. I’ve come to realize that…that dreams do come true sometimes.”

  “I remember you telling me you dreamed we went to a ball. Did it live up to your dream, then?”

  “That and then some,” he replied. He stopped around the curve of the lane, just shy of where it met North Village Road. She looked up into his strong face, shadowed in the light of the westering sun. “I’ll see you in town tomorrow, then, Jenny—although I don’t want to say goodbye, even for that long.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse.

  “I know, Shane. I don’t either. Saying good night to you means I have to come down off the pink cloud I’ve been floating around on for the last two days.”

  “Me too, though I daresay mine’s a few miles higher than yours.” He was so close, and she felt drawn to him by some power outside herself. She took a step nearer, into his arms, tacitly asking to be kissed. He held her close for a moment before they kissed, long and very tenderly. His lips touched her eyebrow, her temple, and her forehead.

  “Oh, Jenny,” he whispered.