Texas Healer

by Jean Brashear

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Not surprising.” The old woman smiled. “Western medical schools have only recently begun to explore alternative methods of healing. My grandson was skeptical until he began to study with me. He’d seen me work before, of course, but a child takes little note of such things. The roots of modern medicine lie in these plants.” She gestured. “That one there, with the spire of bell-shaped flowers? That is foxglove, the source of digitalis. This one—” she pointed to a tall green plant with oval leaves “—I’m sure you recognize as basil.” She plucked a leaf and brought it to Diana’s nose.

  “I’ve cooked with it—not that I cook much,” Diana admitted. “But I’ve never seen it growing. It’s pretty.”

  “Yes, it is. One of my most useful plants. It can be used to stop cramping and it works as a sedative. In a concentrated tea, it is a gargle for sore throats or for sores inside the mouth.” She stopped by another plant. “This is manzanilla, though you may have heard it by the name chamomile.”

  Chamomile reminded Diana of genteel Victorian ladies in old English novels. “What is its purpose?”

  Mrs. Sandoval studied her. “I will make you a tea. It will help you sleep. By itself, it is too bitter, but I combine others with it.” She frowned. “You have not rested well in a very long time, have you?”

  Diana turned away, uncomfortable under the gaze of those too-knowing eyes. “I guess I’ll get plenty of that now,” she muttered.

  The old woman didn’t respond but continued her tour, stopping here and there to pull weeds as she explained the names and uses of various plants. Though Diana doubted the effectiveness of any of them compared with modern pharmaceuticals, she didn’t want to argue the merits of medical protocols with someone so kind and well-meaning.

  Their slow progress soothed her. Mrs. Sandoval didn’t speak simply to chatter; long silences passed in which the only sound was that of a mockingbird’s song, the soft nicker of a horse, the constant brush of the wind. She saw zinnias again, learned that the greenery with them on her table was rosemary.

  Diana began to help, finding the loamy scent of earth agreeable, the feel of the soil more enjoyable than she would have ever imagined. As they touched sage and lavender and rosemary, a lavish, constantly changing bouquet perfumed the air, sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp, always pungent.

  She made tentative efforts to use her right hand. She could grip now, to some extent, but the radial nerve injury meant that she couldn’t extend her fingers, so she released things only by using her left hand to remove items from the clasp of her right. Not expecting to need it, she’d left her brace off this morning, making progress slow and awkward.

  Nonetheless, she found herself relaxing by inches, working side by side in the sunshine with this remarkable woman. If her colleagues could see her now, dirt under her fingernails and caking her knees, they wouldn’t believe it was Queen Diana.

  Nor could she herself believe it. This was a way of life completely outside her experience. She exhaled, the tightness in her shoulders dissolving beneath the rays of the sun, the richly scented air, the deep and lasting peace this woman exuded.

  Into this buzzing, drifting quiet came the sound of hoofbeats. Like a landlocked sailor at the first sound of waves, Diana stirred to sudden attention. The harrowing results of her accident had not made her fear horses; she knew the fault had been her inattention, not Star King’s blunder. The biggest loss after her career was having to stop riding. She missed it every day.

  In the distance, she saw a big man on an Appaloosa stallion, the two strong and sure and beautiful in the crisp morning light. Mesmerized, she hadn’t realized how still she’d become until she jolted when the old woman spoke.

  “On horseback, Rafael forgets the ghosts that haunt him. When he rides is the only time he is whole and young again.”

  Rafael? The caretaker Rafe? Is that what he told you? she remembered the old woman asking. Who was this man who fixed pipes, who studied herbal medicine, who rode as though born to it?

  “Mrs. Sandoval,” she began.

  “Rosaria, please.”

  Diana nodded. “Rosaria, what did you mean? He said he was the caretaker. They told me there would be—”

  Rosaria smiled. “Did he say those words or did he simply let you believe them?”

  She’d been made a fool. “What do you mean?”

  The small brown hand came to rest on her shoulder and once again, Diana felt the unusual warmth and comfort. “The cabin belongs to Rafael, as does the land bordering mine. On occasion he leases the cabin, More often, it shelters friends in need of retreat.”

  She’d ordered him around and tried to give him a tip last night, then wondered at his brusque refusal. Her cheeks burned. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  The ancient hand soothed up and down her arm. “My grandson has his own battles to fight.”

  “What kind of battles?” As soon as she said it, Diana knew the man she’d met wouldn’t appreciate her prying.

  “He almost died, but he would not let death take him.” Sharp, proud eyes turned to hers. “Rafael was in the Special Forces.”

  “Special Forces? But they’re—” Warriors, she thought. Deadly ones. She tried to picture the man she’d met as a warrior and found that she had little trouble.

  “He is retired now, after a serious injury. They said he would never walk again, but my Rafael has always been proud and stubborn. He proved them wrong.”

  The limp. Diana remembered now the faint limp that had seemed so out of place in the tall, striking man. She’d been too tired to notice much, but she remembered his unusual light eyes, so at odds with the black hair and sharp-bladed, copper-skinned face. “How did he get those eyes?” she mused, unaware that she’d said the words aloud.

  “Rafael is half Anglo on his mother’s side. It has always been a battle for both him and his brother Alejandro—this feeling of being caught in two worlds.” Then she frowned. “He helps me with my patients, but he does not yet believe in the role he will play.”

  Patients? Diana was just about to ask more, when the hoofbeats grew louder, commanding her attention.

  With the previous night’s exhaustion now vanquished, Diana took a new look at him as he dismounted and tied the reins to Rosaria’s fence. He stood several inches taller than her, slightly too gaunt for his big frame, deep lines carved in a face suited to a painting of Aztec warriors standing their ground against invading conquistadors. He even had the long black hair.

  The only thing that didn’t match was those eyes—not gray, not blue, so light they seemed to see more deeply than most. The eyes of a mage, of a sorcerer, irises banded by a dark ring, framed by heavy brows and sooty, thick lashes.

  “Good morning, m’ijito,” the old woman said. “Did you come for breakfast?”

  Diana snapped out of thoughts she could only call fanciful, totally uncharacteristic of her.

  Rafe met her gaze, his own scrutiny intense and unwelcome. Then he turned to his grandmother, his harsh features breaking into a smile of deep affection. “If I had, I’d be at least two hours late, wouldn’t I?”

  Rosaria smiled. “Another meal would not hurt you. You need more meat on your bones.”

  “You’d feed me until I looked like Dulcita.” He grinned, turning to Diana. “I see you and my grandmother have met already.”

  “She was—” Diana gestured toward the garden. “She showed me her plants.”

  “Diana is a good audience for an old woman’s chattering,” Rosaria said. “We are about to have tea. Would you like to join us?”

  “I should go,” Diana interjected. “I need to finish my run.”

  “Perhaps you should not try it again so soon after losing your balance,” Rosaria murmured.

  The pale eyes sharpened on her. “You were running?”

  She didn’t like his tone. “I’ve run every morning for years. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You got light-headed, right?” />
  She shrugged. “After my accident, I had to stop until recently. I’ll get back in shape soon.” Not that it’s any of your business, she didn’t add.

  “You’re here from Dallas?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve come nearly five thousand feet in altitude. Give your body a chance to acclimatize before you try running again.”

  “How long?” Good grief. She should have thought of that herself.

  “Ease up the rest of the week. Walk instead of run, drink plenty of water and rest more often. By the weekend, your body should have adjusted, but work up to your normal running distance in stages for another few days after that.”

  To deny his expertise would be uncharitable. “I guess you learn about physical conditioning in the Special Forces.”

  His gaze shot to his grandmother’s. “Someone’s been talking out of school.”

  Rosaria only smiled serenely, placing one hand on his arm. “My Rafael es un médico. He cared for all the members of his team.”

  “Médico? You were a medic?”

  Rafael nodded and looked away, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

  “My grandson is a healer, just as I am.”

  Diana frowned. “Are there no doctors nearby?”

  Rosaria shook her head. “The nearest medical facility is one hundred thirty-five miles away.”

  “What sort of equipment do you have?” she asked him.

  Rosaria answered first. “Our ways do not require medical instruments or machines.”

  “But how can you possibly—”

  “Abuelita—” He intervened, respect and affection softening his tone. “Dr. Morgan said she must go.”

  Rosaria’s gaze took in her grandson’s obvious discomfort. Shaking her head, she lifted wise eyes to Diana. “If you will wait a moment, I will bring you the tea we discussed. Please avoid caffeine and drink it, instead.” She aimed a pointed glance at Diana’s hand. “It will be a good first step on your road to healing.” After a gentle pat on Diana’s shoulder, she turned toward her house.

  With her went all warmth. Rafe shifted his weight, and Diana remembered his injury.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Silence clogged the air around them.

  “You don’t have to wait with me,” she said. “I’m sure you’re very busy—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “My grandmother has delivered babies, healed the sick, comforted the dying for many years before I was born. The people here respect her and love her. What she does may not conform to the training either of us received, but it works for them. They are not stupid or ignorant, only poor. She is not a quack. Whatever your opinion of the medical value of what she does,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would use some restraint in letting your cynicism show. She has no bias against doctors and often refers patients when needed, but most of them cannot pay for expensive medical care. Her way is ancient and honored, no matter that you believe it to be primitive.” His jaw flexed again. “The scalpel, Dr. Morgan, does not cure all ills.”

  That stung. “I meant no disrespect to your grandmother. I think she’s a very kind and compassionate woman.”

  “But?” he challenged. “Misguided? Ignorant of proper medical treatment?”

  His anger had claws. He was a stranger, and his contempt dug deep into raw, vulnerable flesh. For a few moments, drifting in the lazy morning sun with Rosaria, she’d let her guard down. Forgotten that she belonged nowhere, that her life was a shambles. Now she had the awful, unthinkable urge to cry.

  No one made Diana Morgan cry. “No but, Mr. Sandoval. I’m only staying for a short while. What goes on around here is none of my business. Please tell your grandmother that I’ll come back later for the tea. Tell her I suddenly felt tired or—” Her voice wavered. Horrified, she whirled away. “I don’t care what you tell her. Just—” She shot him a glare that somehow got lost through an odd haze that blurred her vision. “Be kind. Say something kind.”

  She wouldn’t run away; she never ran from any confrontation. Instead, she walked through the gate and down the road, head high despite the lingering sense of shame that he’d been exactly right, and a kind, generous woman deserved more. Despite the equal urge to throw something at another man who had a need to whittle her down to size.

  When she reached her cabin, she locked the door and sank against it, shocked to see her fingers tremble, to feel the shaking in her knees. The control that was second nature felt more like wallpaper stretched over a gaping hole.

  Diana gulped hard and wrapped her arms around herself. She’d never felt so alone, wishing she had someone to call, somewhere to go—

  She clenched her jaw, squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t cried once since the accident. She wouldn’t start now.

  But despite her resolve, the hated tears came.

  Chapter Three

  Rafe stared after her. It had been a long time since he’d been this angry. He’d lived in a state of rage after the ill-fated mission; to get better, he’d had to be ruthless in paring away his explosive nature. He’d become an emotional ascetic, banishing all passions from his life but one: getting out of that damn bed.

  So what had brought it back? With the ease of long practice, he took a deep, cleansing breath to release the tension that would impair his ability to look inward, to probe for the sore tooth she had jarred. Staring out over his grandmother’s garden, watching Diana Morgan’s slender frame recede into the distance, he let his mind wander, seeking the source of his fury.

  Part of it was sheer unwelcome physical response, he knew. Edgy and too-thin and nervous as she was, she was still a beautiful woman. He didn’t think she realized that. She didn’t flirt; she had no come-hither stare as women often did around him, no matter that he was aware that his looks were nothing of his making, without value or meaning.

  Given her profession, she would have appreciated her mind and relied on it. Would have developed the muscles of her will and determination, not practiced skills with makeup or hair or showcasing the curves of her body. He had a sense that her body was, to her, a machine accorded constant maintenance solely for it to perform at the service of her ambition—

  Bingo. Ambition was the blow she’d struck that had hit home.

  As a boy, Rafe had lived secure in a family filled with love, never questioning his place in the world until his father had died. Even then, his mother and Abuelita kept him and Alex safely grounded in the knowledge that they were cherished and special. When his mother had married Hal Sullivan and moved from the little house where they’d been surrounded by kin, Hal had settled them not far away and welcomed Roberto Sandoval’s family into their lives. Rafe had seen enough stepfathers since then to know just how lucky he and Alex had been.

  But their high school had drawn from many miles around, and they’d been thrown together with kids from backgrounds less understanding of diversity. Rafe had learned the double-edged blade of his mixed heritage—too big and athletic to ignore when choosing teams, too Latino to bring home to lily-white parents.

  Meanwhile, his mother and Hal had had three more children, solidly Anglo, free to belong where he and Alex never would. No matter how hard they worked not to favor any of their children, Celeste and Hal could not extend their protective shield to the outer world. Rafe loved his stepsiblings and was still very close to them. Liam and Dane and yes, even Jilly, had gotten into more than one fight defending their elder brothers’ right to be considered equal to any.

  But within Rafe had grown a powerful need to gain the acceptance of the wider world, to prove that he fit into the mainstream, that he could take on all comers. He worked overtime to stamp out every trace of the culture that would forever be engraved upon his features.

  He wasn’t proud of it, now that he’d had plenty of time to think about how he must have hurt Abuelita, especially, by turning his back on a place that had cradled and cherished him. Even his mother had shown her dis
appointment when he’d rejected the heritage she’d tried so hard to keep alive for him in respect for his father’s memory.

  Rafe didn’t even want to think how much his dad would have been wounded by him.

  First in college, then in the service, Rafe had made his mark, respected and admired, expected to rise high. He’d been proud to be in the Special Forces, to fight for his country and the band of brothers who only saw a man’s skills and not his skin.

  And then had come the mistake in Afghanistan when he’d lost two men and almost died himself. Released from the hospital, Rafe had traveled home for lack of anyplace better to go, sick and lost and angry. No idea what to do next, all his plans in ruins. Lashing out like a bear with a fencepost-sized thorn in his paw.

  While his family closed around him and smothered him in comfort, the best Rafe could manage was to brood—a far better alternative, he reasoned, than striking out at people who had nothing to do with his failures to save his men and only wanted to help him make the transition to a new life.

  But he didn’t want a new life. He wanted his old one back and his men safe and healthy in it.

  Abuelita was a cagey old woman, though. She let the rest of them soothe and flutter, but aside from sending him treats, she left him alone. She didn’t try any of her time-honored practices, no pláticas to talk out his pain, no limpias to sweep him clean of misery, no massage or soothing teas or baths to release the bilis of his rage. No ceremony to ameliorate the wounding she called susto.

  Instead she let him get sick to death of brooding before she made her move. She would visit and ask his medical opinion about a patient or, better yet, she would send word with Jilly or Dane or Liam about some unusual problem she swore she couldn’t diagnose. He’d been aggravated as hell that she wouldn’t leave him alone but out of his mind from boredom. Understanding him better than anyone, she used his curiosity to lure him out of his cabin.