Sweet Mountain Magic

by Rosanne Bittner

  What difference did it make now how successful he became? He didn’t have Mary to share his good fortune with him—didn’t have his little girl to buy things for. His relationship with his in-laws had deteriorated. James St. Claire was a broken man, no longer a jovial friend with whom Rafe could talk for hours about the future of Texas.

  James blamed Rafe for what had happened to Mary, because Rafe had taken her for a buggy ride too far into the hills. Charlet St. Claire blamed both of them—James for bringing them to Texas in the first place, and Rafe for the buggy ride.

  He closed his eyes, not sure if anyone was to blame. Who could tell why certain things happened? The same tragedy had befallen many a Texas family, but most had gone on with life. That was what Rafe was trying to do. After all, he was still a young man. But every time he closed his eyes he could see her beautiful face, looked into violet eyes that trusted him. And in his worst nightmares he could still hear her screaming and the baby crying as they were dragged away while he lay helpless. He still had pain in his lower right back at times, when he moved a certain way or when the weather changed. He wondered if anything hurt more than an arrow wound. Surely not.

  He rose and walked to the window, looking down at the dirt street below. Austin was growing rapidly. He had intended to grow with it. Now he was torn with indecision. He wanted to go home—go back to New Orleans and start over. But how could he leave Texas when Mary still hadn’t been found? And either way, how did he go on with life? Should he consider her dead? What if he found another woman someday and then discovered Mary was alive?

  The door opened and a young man came inside. He was Billy Wade, a bank clerk and also a friend to Rafe. Billy was twenty-two, only five years younger than Rafe. Billy had grown up in Texas, had taught Rafe a lot about this land, its people. They were a tough lot, tougher than he and other newcomers.

  Rafe turned his dark, handsome eyes to meet Billy’s, and Billy saw the sorrow there. He set some papers on Rafe’s desk. “You aren’t thinking of going on another search, are you?” he asked. “I see that look in your eyes.”

  Rafe sighed, coming back to stand near the desk. He took a cigar from a box on the desk but just toyed with it in his fingers instead of lighting it. “I have given it some thought.”

  “It’s no use now, Rafe. Believe me. I’ve lived here all my life. Those renegades are the worst of the lot, and the Comanche are bad to begin with. You know what they did to your daughter. Believe me, there’s no hope for your wife. You’ve got to understand, for your own sanity, that your wife is dead. It’s time to give it up and go on to other things. I know that sounds cold, but a man can live in the past just so long, and then it’s either die or go on to new things. I’m worried about you.”

  Rafe smiled sorrowfully. “I know you’re right.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Tell me one thing, Billy. You’ve seen this damned Comanche thing before. What if—just what if she’s still alive?”

  Billy rolled his eyes.

  “Just what if, Billy? You tell me what the situation would be if she’s still alive. Those renegades are long gone. Would she still be with them?”

  Billy studied him, then closed his eyes and turned away. “You don’t want to ask questions like that. Let’s just say if she’s still alive, she’s not the woman who was stolen from you that day. She can never be that woman again.”

  Rafe swallowed back a painful lump in his throat. “I want to know, Billy. Would she still be with them?”

  Billy shook his head. “She’d be too much of a burden. And to be spotted with a white woman along only makes soldiers chase you that much harder.” He walked to the window himself then. “If they didn’t kill her, and I still say they must have, they would have dumped her off on someone else—sold her.”

  “To whom?”

  Billy shrugged. “Who knows? Comancheros, maybe—for resale in Mexico. Maybe to some trader for whiskey. There are some white men out there just as bad or worse than the Indians, you know. However you look at it, if she’s still alive, she’s been tossed around like a sack of potatoes, used by who knows how many men.” He shook his head. “You don’t want her to be alive, Rafe. You want her to be dead, if you really love her.”

  Rafe blinked back tears. “I could never want that.”

  “No?” Billy turned, approaching the desk. “And what if she turns up? Just what if, Rafe? You’re supposing things. Let’s suppose that she’s found one day, returned to you. And let’s suppose she was raped by five, ten Comanche—”

  “Stop it!” The words were spoken through gritted teeth, and there was bitter pain in Rafe’s eyes.

  “No, damn it! You’ve got to consider that, Rafe! You’re so bent on finding her—what if you do? Could you love her the same as before? Could you still love her and want her after Indians and white trash have used her? She wouldn’t be the same Mary, Rafe. You’d be lucky if she wasn’t insane. And if she didn’t lose her mind, she’d probably never be happy again. As for you, every time you made love to her—if you could even want her that way—you would see all those other men.”

  “Shut up, Billy! I didn’t ask for an opinion on those things! I only asked what the situation would be if she was still alive!”

  “And I just told you! She’s better off dead!”

  Rafe stiffened, then turned away. “Leave me alone for a while, will you?”

  Billy sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. You asked, and I told you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

  Billy started out, but Rafe called him back.

  “What is it?”

  Rafe’s back was still to him. “That suggestion you made—about my taking that spare room at the rooming house where you live. Is the room still available?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Tell your landlady I’ll take it. Things are getting unbearable at the St. Claires’. Charlet won’t talk to me, and James just lies there weak as a kitten. I have a feeling he won’t be coming back to the bank.”

  “All right. I’ll tell her. Sorry about the situation at home. It isn’t right, Mrs. St. Claire’s blaming you and her husband. These things happen, Rafe. I hope you understand that nobody is to blame. This is a hard land, and it takes brave people to settle it. Someday we’ll have law and order, and there won’t be any more Indian trouble.”

  The man did not reply, and Billy left. Rafe backed up and sank into his chair, then put his head in his hands and wept.

  Sage seemed to move in and out of consciousness. He lay still all the rest of the day of the bear attack, and all that night. The next morning he seemed no better, nor any more alert. A feeling of helplessness began to move through Mary in panic proportions. Sometimes she wanted to run but knew she didn’t dare. Sage needed her, and she needed him to stay alive. But more than that, she loved this man. She wished she could remember beyond the day she had met him, but she couldn’t worry about that. She only knew that she loved this Sage MacKenzie who had helped her and loved her. Now he was the one who needed help.

  She rose and dressed, then reheated the rocks. He had been still since she first had put them around him. The warmth seemed to help. She had no idea what else to do for him. She pulled the covers away from his chest and grimaced at the red and yellowish stains on the bandages. She was afraid to remove them for fear she would pull off dried scabs.

  She sighed deeply, stroking his forehead. “Sage, you have to get better. I wish you would wake up and tell me what to do.”

  There was no reply. She decided to shave him while he lay so still, out of a mixture of wanting to stay busy, and a need to clean the wounds on his face. She wondered if the claw marks were going to leave scars. They weren’t nearly as deep on his face as they were on his chest. She prayed they would go away completely in time.

  She searched for scissors but found none. She had no choice then but to try cutting off the worst of the hair with the razor before actually shaving him. She found his razor, and slid it from its leath
er pouch, wondering how long it had been since he had used it. She brought the pan of water to his side along with an extra bowl and some soap and a towel. She proceeded to grasp some of the beard in her left hand and slide the razor along close to his face. It cut through the hairs with ease, and she placed them in the bowl.

  She worked her way around the entire beard so that just a stubble was left. She soaped his face then, being careful of the claw marks.

  “I’m going to shave you, Sage. I hope you won’t be angry with me.”

  He made no reply. She proceeded to very gently shave off the beard, deciding to leave a mustache, afraid if she shaved everything he would look too different, or be too angry with her for shaving him at all. A mustache seemed to fit him. It didn’t seem right to shave a man like Sage MacKenzie completely.

  “I’m playing a terrible trick on you, Sage,” she said with a smile. “Wait until you wake up and see yourself.” She took extra precaution around the claw marks. She rewashed that area, and some of the dried scabbing came off, making the cuts bleed again, but they were not deep. She quickly removed all the beard around them, then washed them once more and gently dabbed at them until the bleeding stopped again.

  It was only then that she was able to sit back and study the shaved face. Her eyes widened and she smiled.

  “Sage! You’re so handsome! And so young!” she exclaimed. She leaned closer, running her fingers over the clean-shaven cheeks. “Why, that beard aged you ten years! Just look at you! Why did you hide this face behind a beard?”

  He was stirringly handsome. She had thought him handsome even with the beard, but she had not expected this. He moved a little then, a soft groan coming from his lips.

  “Get away,” he mumbled. “Down. Get down. I’ve…got to shoot him.”

  “It’s all right, Sage. You got him. You got the bear. Now you’ve got to get well.”

  “Mary. Mary, get down,” he mumbled. He began sweating and tossing his head. She hurriedly wet a clean rag from a bucket of cool water, bringing it over and sponging his face with it.

  “Sage, I’m all right.”

  He began to calm again, and his eyes opened, focusing on her lovely face. “Mary?”

  “You’ve got to rest now, Sage. I’m all right, and the bear is dead.”

  He swallowed. “Thirsty,” he muttered.

  She quickly dipped out some water and brought it to him, helping him drink a little.

  “Are you hungry, Sage? Do you want to try to eat?”

  His eyes were closed again.

  “Sage?”

  He did not reply and she put back the ladle of water, then threw the beard hair into the fire and washed everything. She kept glancing at the bloody gauze, feeling a chill at seeing the yellowish stains. Was there more she could do? She had no idea what it would be. The cabin suddenly seemed too silent. Sage MacKenzie was a big, strong man. Surely he had been badly wounded before in his wild life. Why was he lying there that way? Why wasn’t he feeling better, sitting up and talking to her? Why was he so still?

  Again the feeling of desperate panic swept through her. How could she live without Sage MacKenzie? He was everything to her. He was her best friend, her protector, her lover. She needed him desperately. He was the only one who understood her, the only person with whom she could be safe.

  Outside the wind howled, and she felt so alone. If only they were near the fort. Maybe his friend there would know what to do. If only there were a doctor near.

  The thought was surprising. A doctor! How did she know about doctors? Why could she remember what things were called, remember how to function, remember things like doctors and how to care for wounds, yet not remember her own past? Only things came to mind. Why wouldn’t people come, too? What was it her soul was so afraid to remember that it had blocked out so much else as well? Had someone hit her on the head and caused a strange injury?

  “A doctor,” she said softly. She turned to look at Sage again. “That’s what you need.”

  Her eyes teared and she walked to the little window, trying to see out. But it was frosted badly and she had to scratch at the frost to see anything. Outside all was an endless sea of white. She couldn’t even see the horses. Were they even around anymore?

  Alone. She was totally alone, with the wind and snow howling around the little cabin, and the man she loved and needed lying unconscious, perhaps dying. Dying. A man lying wounded and dying—blood. Something about it was so familiar, but details would not come.

  She walked over to Sage, kneeling beside him. “Don’t die, Sage. You’re so strong. You can’t die.”

  The day passed slowly, and Sage MacKenzie seemed to get no better. By the second night his fever had begun to build and he perspired constantly. Mary tried to keep him cool by frequently bathing him with a cool rag. She hadn’t wanted to remove the bandages, but by the next morning she finally decided she must somehow try to change them.

  She grimaced as she pulled up on them slightly and sliced through them with Sage’s razor. She set the razor aside and carefully pulled away the bandages, fighting panic when some of them stuck. His chest was a mass of infection. The claw marks were not just clear, deep cuts now. They had widened with infection, and the skin surrounding the wounds was a deep red.

  “Oh, Sage,” she whimpered. “What should I do?”

  She just sat and stared at the wounds, then forced herself to finish removing the bandages and throw them into the fireplace. She stood there then, thinking frantically, trying to remember what things she might do to help him. He began to shake again and he groaned as though in great pain. She began searching through their supplies, remembering that sometimes an infection could be tied off, if it was in an arm or a leg. But there was no way to stop this. An arm or a leg could even be cut off if necessary, although she could not imagine herself doing such a thing. Still, she probably would have tried if it had meant his life. But this kind of infection was impossible to stop or cut out. If it did not go away…

  She dared not think about it. She came across a bottle of whiskey and remembered it was supposed to be good for infection. She hurried over to his trembling body.

  “I’m sorry, Sage. This will probably sting and startle you.” She uncorked the whiskey, then grimaced as she dumped it over the wounds.

  Sage cried out from somewhere deep in another world. Tears stung Mary’s eyes as she quickly searched for more bandages and began wrapping him again. Sage lay there groaning and shivering.

  “You’ll be all right now, Sage. I just know you will. Clean bandages will help. And I’ll put hot rocks all around you again and you’ll be nice and warm.”

  His only reply was a moan. She struggled to finish bandaging him again, then pulled the covers back up to his neck.

  “You have to get better,” she whimpered. “Just look how handsome you are. I’ve got to see you standing up tall and strong again, see how nice you look with your beard gone. Please, Sage. Please get well.”

  She wiped at tears with the sleeve of her dress, taking the rocks from beside him and reheating them. Her struggle to stay calm was getting more difficult. She drank a little coffee, then decided to make some bread. She had to keep busy, of that she was sure. She placed the reheated rocks around him, and he calmed again. Then she got out flour and yeast and proceeded to make some bread dough.

  “You’ll be mighty hungry when you wake up, Sage. I’ll have some nice, fresh bread for you.”

  She prepared the dough and began kneading it, over and over, wanting to scream. The wind outside had calmed and the snowing had stopped. She decided she would have to go outside soon and see if the horses were about, and get more wood into the cabin. It was then she heard the whinny of a horse. Had their own horses returned?

  She wiped her hands on a towel and ran to the window, again scraping off frost. Her blood froze at the sight of two painted men outside. Painted men! Painted men were bad, dangerous! The sight of them made her chest hurt and her whole body feel numb. But she r
eminded herself that Sage lay hurt and maybe dying. She had to think straight. She must not panic. She must not!

  The two men were dismounting and coming to the door. She just stared at it as they pounded. They had looked familiar. Were they the two painted men Sage called friends? Wasn’t one of them the same one who had helped her after she had run away from the fort, the same one whose wife had nursed her, the man who had gone to find Sage for her?

  She hurried over and picked up Sage’s rifle, not even sure how to use it. The pounding came again.

  “What do you want,” she screamed out, pointing the rifle at the door. “Go away!”

  “Come see Sage. Why he not let us in?” came the reply.

  She hesitated. It was the same painted man. She recognized his voice. He was the only one who could speak in her own language. Red Dog. Wasn’t that what Sage had called him?

  “Who are you?” she yelled. Only her love for Sage gave her the strength to keep from slipping into that other world. She remembered. She remembered running away, remembered waking up in the smoky tipi, remembered a kind Indian woman helping her.

  “It is I, Red Dog, and my friend, Walks Slowly. We hunt. Caught in storm. Need get warm. Tell Sage MacKenzie let us in.”

  She went to the door, her hand shaking as she slowly slid back the bar that locked it. Sage needed help. She had to take the chance, for his sake. She pushed up the latch and stepped back.

  “Come in,” she shouted, holding the rifle in shaking hands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mary held the rifle on Red Dog and Walks Slowly as they stood in the open doorway. “You’re Sage’s friends, aren’t you? You…you wouldn’t hurt him or me?”

  Red Dog stared cautiously at the gun. The Indians considered this woman crazy. But the last time he had seen her, she hadn’t been talking. Now she talked as well as any other white-eyes. He frowned.

  “You speak words now?”