Texas Healer

by Jean Brashear

  And then the trap was sprung. From that day, she involved him in more and more of her cases. Hampered by the crutches to which he’d graduated despite warnings he would never leave a wheelchair, Rafe decided to join the land of the living and fought his way past crutches, then cane, to stand at last on his own two feet again.

  Bit by bit, one wily old woman helped draw out the poison of his fury, all the while slipping him pieces of traditions that went back centuries in the blood he shared with her. Slowly he’d hit his stride feeling, if not a worthy successor to her, at least useful and productive again. He’d come to understand that what the outside world saw as metaphysical mumbo-jumbo instead was an age-old body of knowledge with a long track record of success—healing by recognizing that a patient’s physical condition was intimately connected to his mental and spiritual well-being.

  He thought he’d gotten comfortable with his new place in that world, no matter his doubts about Abuelita’s assurance that he had only scratched the surface of his abilities. He was carving out his own path, mingling the best of ancient wisdom and modern medical practices.

  Then into the mix had walked Dr. Diana Morgan, a living embodiment of the life he’d lost. And the look of disappointment in those green eyes unraveled three years of painstaking weaving.

  She didn’t believe, and she made him doubt again. Made him question if he was hiding, unwilling to reenter the game because he’d lost so spectacularly before.

  He could deal with being mistaken for a caretaker and rendered invisible. He could deal with her skepticism about a different method of healing from what she knew.

  But making him see himself through her eyes as someone who could have been more, churning up waters that had taken him months to still…that was something else altogether.

  The sooner she left, the better.

  He shook his head that he’d let her bother him. It didn’t matter what she thought. She would only be here a month.

  No sweat.

  Now he braced for the scolding he would get from Abuelita when she discovered he’d run off her guest. With a quick, rueful grin, he reached for the screen door handle, readying himself to offer to deliver the tea as penance.

  Drained by the storm of tears she was ashamed of shedding, Diana entered the kitchen on shaky legs and filled a glass with water, which she then gulped down too fast. She stared out the window at the pasture dotted with prime horseflesh, a fierce, bone-deep longing to leap on one of them and ride out this tumult alive inside her.

  Finally, pride returned to steady her. With it came anger. How dared he? Who did he think he was? She’d had more medical training than he could imagine, had saved countless lives. Rosaria was kind and well-meaning, but no amount of herbs could—

  It didn’t matter. She’d stay out of his way and do as planned. Catch up on her reading. Tackle the needlework that would help restore the precision of her hands. Take a lot of naps, build up her strength—

  And try not to go out of her ever-lovin’ mind.

  She glanced at the cellphone lying on the counter. She wanted to dial her office to make contact, to touch again the life she knew. To check on her patients, though they were her partners’ patients now.

  As she eyed the phone with as much longing as any drunk’s gaze ever caressed a bottle, a knock sounded on her door. Glancing through the glass top of it, she saw a frame too imposing to be anyone else but Rafe.

  The urge to hide competed with one to make clear to him just how little standing he had to criticize her.

  Instead she assumed the mask she wore when she had to deliver bad news, the one that was made of Kevlar and would let nothing past.

  She pulled the door open, expecting the worst.

  Instead, he greeted her with a smile. “Hello,” he said, brandishing a tin in one big hand, its design a mosaic of hot orange, sunny yellow and peacock blue. “My choices were to deliver this to you with an apology or meet Abuelita in the woodshed.”

  Lines around his silvered eyes crinkled as his lips curved in a smile that must have stolen hearts all his life. Beautiful white teeth against copper skin. Dangerous, that smile was, all the more so for its contrast to his normally stoic demeanor.

  Dangerous enough to make her take a step back.

  “Forget it.” Good grief. She’d met men more classically handsome, even dated them. She grasped for the robes of Queen Diana but found only a tattered shred. “I don’t need an apology. You’re right—I don’t understand your way. I don’t understand how you could—” She shook her head again. “It doesn’t matter. I do know people all over the world have different protocols for healing.”

  “But yours is better,” he said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “It was yours, too. Why did that change?”

  “You’d have to—” Those crystalline eyes focused on her like a laser. “Come see for yourself, why don’t you?”

  Diana frowned. “No. I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” She didn’t know why not, just that she felt too much at sea already. She was supposed to be storing up her strength to return with a vengeance. “I have to rest.”

  “How many hours a day can you do nothing?” His eyes scanned the room, lighting on the bookshelves. “Ah. I got it. You’re a slow reader.”

  She glared. “Of course I’m not.”

  He grinned. “You don’t strike me as the kind to sit around very well.”

  She drew herself up. “What makes you think that?”

  His gaze dipped to her feet. She realized one foot was tapping.

  “Greyhounds are meant to race, not sit by the fire. You’re meant to heal people, not lie around. Come with me, just once. There’s an old man who needs someone with your expertise.”

  “Rafael, I can’t—” She glanced at her injured hand, slipping it beneath the other elbow.

  “Rafe.” He looked at her hand but didn’t argue. “All right.” He shrugged as though it wasn’t important. “If you’re determined to rest, my grandmother’s tea will help. Let me make some for you.” Then he stepped forward as if she couldn’t possibly refuse.

  She moved out of his way as he strode toward her kitchen, his limp barely perceptible.

  “Tell me how it happened,” she said. “Your hip.”

  His step faltered. “Just an accident.” He crossed to the cabinets and retrieved a teapot from the back of a cupboard—a gorgeous one, obviously handcrafted, in shades of cobalt and terra cotta. Something about it reminded her of the vase. She was curious about both pieces, but more interested in hearing details of his injury, which he was obviously not going to share.

  He set down the teapot. “Tell me what happened to your hand.”

  “I already told you. A riding accident. Is it hard for you to ride now?” Stupid question—he rode like a dream.

  “Mounting and dismounting aren’t so easy, but I resumed riding even before I got rid of my cane. It was the one thing I really missed while I was in the service.”

  “Yeah.” She was silent, thinking of Star King and how she longed to be on his back.

  “What about you? Afraid to ride now?” He set water to boil.

  “I miss it so much some days I think I’ll lose my mind, but I can’t—” She looked down at her hand.

  “What was the injury?”

  “Humeral fracture. Radial nerve damage.”

  “And you’re right-handed?”

  She nodded.

  “Tough break. How much grip strength have you gotten back?”

  “Not enough,” she frowned. “I can grip some, but I can’t release.”

  He crossed the distance between them. “May I look at it? I’ll be careful.”

  She hesitated. For too long now, touching had meant pain. In the beginning, she’d felt nothing; Don had been ecstatic when she’d regained sensation, but the odd, electrical shooting pains had worn her down. Medications didn’t help
. Exercise and use made them worse.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, understanding medical curiosity. “It’s just that once I started regaining sensation, all I felt was pain. The hand’s better now, but—” She held it out, hating the sight of the fingers that hung like limp stalks.

  “Nerves take a long time to heal.” He placed her hand on top of his outstretched palm with care.

  In his grip, she trembled like the frightened animal she was, tensing against the urge to snatch her hand away.

  Somehow, though, Rafe’s touch soothed. With extreme gentleness, he turned her hand over, stroking her thumb, softly touching the metacarpal joints beneath her fingers. His fingers supported her wrist, and warmth slid over her skin and up her arm, surprising her with the comfort of it. There was about him an element of that same peace, that slow, deep river of patience she’d felt from his grandmother, despite the other parts of him that got under her skin.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No.”

  “Nerve pain is tricky. It wears you down.” He placed his other hand on top. “Take a slow, deep breath,” he coaxed. “Nothing will harm you here.”

  His voice inspired trust. Conveyed strength and some darker admission of knowledge. He had known pain, too. He had had to fight to heal.

  So she kept her eyes closed and simply breathed until her heart stopped racing and her legs didn’t twitch with the urge to run.

  The tea kettle began to whistle.

  He let go carefully and crossed to the teapot, pouring some water inside, then swirling the teapot to warm it. The contrast struck her: pottery dwarfed by strong, rugged hands wrapped around it with such care. She couldn’t take her eyes off the long fingers, the wide palms.

  “Why are you here? Did you overdo it in therapy?”

  She jerked her gaze from his hands. “How did you know?”

  He glanced over, one dark eyebrow cocked. “You mean besides the fact that you have to be driven to become a cardiac surgeon, much less one so invaluable that the hospital administrator himself would look for a place for you to rest?” He grinned. “Or maybe because you’re tense and exhausted and bored out of your mind after less than twenty-four hours.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  He finished putting water and the herbs in the pot, then turned to her, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  She could see in him the arrogance required for the dangerous work he’d once done. “Maybe.” Then she cocked her head. “Or maybe you did the same thing. Did you push too hard in therapy, Mr. Know-It-All?”

  He grinned again, and she thought there ought to be a law against any man looking like that. He tipped an imaginary hat. “Twice. Got busted both times.”

  For the first time since Don had refused her treatment until she took a break, Diana could see the slightest bit of humor in what had been the most agonizing period of her life.

  And so she smiled back. “I hate that they can do that.”

  “Yeah.” There was understanding in his voice as he studied her. “But if you don’t listen to the coach, you’ll never get back in the game. And that’s important, isn’t it?”

  “It’s everything.” When a shadow darkened his eyes, she was sorry she’d said that. He hadn’t made it back into his game.

  But he could be doing so much more. Why wasn’t he in med school or something else where he could use his medical skills properly?

  Rafe busied himself pouring her a cup of tea. “Then you’d better get started on that resting. And if you get bored enough, you can make rounds with me.”

  Diana accepted the cup, shaking her head. She didn’t know him and would never see him again once the month ended. It wasn’t her business what he chose to do. “Thanks, but I don’t see the point.”

  His dark brows drew together. “Maybe that you could be helpful to people in need, like in that oath you swore?” His voice was harsh with challenge. “Of course, they can’t pay your prices, so it would be a waste of your time, wouldn’t it?”

  Diana bit back the urge to defend herself with stories of her pro bono patients. “I’m not a family physician. My skills wouldn’t help.”

  “You went through medical school, didn’t you? You had to learn the basics.”

  “That was a long time ago. I don’t remember any of it.”

  He towered over her, his manner anything but calming now. “Don’t want to waste your talents on the mundane, Dr. Morgan? Or are you just afraid? It’s like riding—you never totally forget how.”

  “I’m not afraid.” She stood up to him, toe to toe, the way she’d had to do so many times before in her life. “I just don’t see how I could—”

  “Fine—” he snapped, brushing past her to the door. “Forget I asked. Forget that an old woman who needs to rest worse than you do is still taking twenty patients a day when her back aches and her feet hurt and she gets short of breath—” He grabbed the knob and leveled a hard look at her. “And you could help, but you won’t.”

  “You don’t understand—” she replied, stung. “I would if I could, but—”

  “Never mind.” He closed the door behind him, leaving accusation throbbing in the empty air where he’d stood.

  “Without my hand, I’m useless,” she finished in a strained whisper to an empty room.

  And scared. So very scared.

  Chapter Four

  Moonlight carved thick bars across the wide plane of Rafe’s bed. Shoving the covers aside, he rumpled the pure geometry of light and dark. Sleep was a cruel mistress, taunting and elusive most nights, the pain in his once-shattered leg never far from the surface. Containing enough metal for a junkyard, his left side reminded Rafe often that he was no longer the man who had run for miles bearing a comrade on his shoulders without breaking a serious sweat.

  Sometimes it was not pain that held him from the sweet embrace of sleep; sometimes it was the faces of the men who were as much brothers as Alex.

  Except Alex still lived. Thank God.

  Scrubbing his hands over his face, sliding them back over the hair that brushed his shoulders, Rafe arose. The bad leg gave way, and he gripped the headboard to steady himself.

  Warm fur brushed his bare thigh in sympathy.

  “Hey, boy, you want out?” Rafe asked, gripping Lobo’s ruff. “Just give me a minute.” Jaw tight, Rafe rubbed the knotted muscles and forced himself to straighten.

  Lobo never moved from his side, only whimpering once. Solid black, part German shepherd and part God knows what, he cocked his head and watched Rafe out of wolf-yellow eyes that seemed to see more than any dog should.

  The vet had guessed that Lobo was about five years old, but something ancient stared from his eyes, perhaps formed from the pain of his past. Lobo understood pain, too, Rafe knew. He’d been beaten and half starved when he’d crawled up to Rafe’s cabin two years ago, his fur matted with the bloody tracks of a mountain lion’s claws. In a towering rage after yet another fall, Rafe had just shattered a coffee mug against his fireplace when he’d heard the whimper outside. He’d had to pull himself along the floor to investigate.

  Lobo and he had healed together, Lobo much faster, of course. Every step of the way—every fall, as well—Lobo had been by his side, patient and strong and watchful.

  Abuelita called Lobo Rafe’s ángel de la guarda—his guardian angel. Though Lobo was black as pitch and fearsome-looking enough to frighten children, ángel he was to Abuelita. The years of abuse had made him wary of humans, but he loved Rafe’s grandmother.

  Rafe had been forced to order Lobo not to follow him on his rounds where the dog’s fear of humans battled with his need to protect his master. But he was Rafe’s shadow whenever allowed, always there when he sensed pain, always watching.

  “Okay,” Rafe said, straightening. His gaze landed on the cane he kept by his bed. Tonight the support called like a lover, but he ref
used to yield. If he’d keep moving, the cramped muscles would eventually loosen.

  He took one short step, then another. Lobo walked pressed against his weak side. On the third step, Rafe’s leg faltered, and he grasped Lobo’s ruff for support, swearing.

  Breathe deeply. Relax the leg. Picture the muscle fibers lengthening…smoothing.

  It would work. Eventually it would work. Today would be a bad day, he could tell, but he would not give in to the pain. He had thought to go to his spring, to let the waters and the moonlight bathe away the memories that left him sleepless this night, but that was not an option now. Even if he could make the walk, the cold waters that so often cleansed his spirit would only tighten his tortured muscles.

  “It’s the whirlpool tonight for me, buddy,” he said, scratching Lobo behind one ear. “You want out to run? One of us ought to be having some fun.” He hobbled to his bedroom door to let Lobo go.

  But Lobo padded over to the bathroom door and stared at Rafe with patient eyes. Rafe realized that, once again, it wasn’t Lobo’s discomfort that had brought the dog to his side.

  It was Rafe’s.

  Rafe eyed the distance he must cross to get to the relief the whirlpool promised. He thought of the painkillers he kept in his medicine cabinet, small sirens singing lovely, dangerous melodies of oblivion and comfort. They were at least six steps closer than the tub. Rafe heard their call this night like the sighs of a seductress and wondered yet again why he didn’t just throw them away, why he kept them there to tempt him.

  But he knew why. Victory only came in having escape right at his fingertips and turning away from its allure.

  His pain was a reminder. His men had no escape, no sighing sirens to pleasure them. They would never again feel a lover’s arms, never hear birdsong, never greet the kiss of morning sun.

  Rafe might still have all those things, might have even more. He had plenty of years left to enjoy so much that his men had lost forever.