Magic in Her Touch

by Donna Dalton

  Her fingers jabbed something soft and warm. It groaned. Anson. She groped for his arm and shouldered under it. “I’ve got you. Let’s get out of here.”

  Keeping one hand on the rock wall, she guided him along the path that slanted upward. That was the way to the entrance. That was the way to safety.

  The going was slow. Rocks hindered each step. Her foot struck something large and bulky, and she had to pull up to keep from falling. She bent and fumbled to discover what blocked their path. Her fingers pressed into something soft and unmoving. No breaths moved the chest. No heart beat thudded under her fingertips. Death had claimed another victim.

  “What…is it?” Anson choked out.

  “I think it’s the guard.” At Anson’s stiffening, she added. “It’s all right. He’s dead. Let’s keep going.”

  She helped him over the body. The farther they traveled through the shaft, the more he seemed to rely on her for support. He sagged against her. His breaths were coming in short shallow bursts. He was fading fast. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t let him die. He had saved her. In more ways than one.

  Faint light shimmered ahead. She gathered her last bit of strength and pushed forward. A few minutes later, they emerged into the sunlight. She paused a moment to catch her breath and to allow her vision to adjust. Anson coughed and slumped against her. It wouldn’t be long before his legs gave out completely.

  She managed to get him to the base of a nearby tree. He collapsed against the trunk with a grunt. His eyes were closed, his breaths coming in rattling draws. There was little coloring to his skin. Death was knocking on his door. She had to do something. Fast.

  She dropped to her knees and ripped open his jacket. Blood stained his shirt at the shoulder. But the ever-widening circle of red just below his ribs drew her attention. He was bleeding out. She had to stop it. Now. Since her healing gift had abandoned her, she would have to use her normal medical skills.

  She ripped off the bottom of her petticoat and rolled it into a ball. A hard compress pressed to a wound usually slowed, if not stopped, any bleed. This one had to work. Anson could not die. He was everything she had ever wanted in life. Everything she had denied herself. She would not lose it.

  She stuffed the cloth ball against the wound and pressed hard. Moist warmth seeped around her fingers. She leaned forward and put all her weight into stemming the flow of blood. Stop. Please stop.

  Anson groaned, and his eyelids flickered open. Bloodshot eyes focused on her. “Moira…?”

  She smoothed a rebellious lock off his forehead with her free hand. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Thacker was going to…couldn’t let him hurt…” His words trailed away on a raspy breath.

  “I’m safe, Anson. We both are.”

  “I couldn’t live…if anything happened to you—”

  A cough seized his words. Her heart heaved with every pain-wracked spasm. She wanted to help him, wanted to heal him. All she could do was hold onto him until his coughing fit eased.

  He lifted a trembling hand and settled it over hers on the bandage pressed to his side. “It’s not good…is it.”

  “You’re going to be fine. The bleeding will stop soon.”

  His grip loosened and fell to the ground. “Can feel…slipping away. Dying.”

  No. No. No. She would be lost without him.

  She pressed harder. “I won’t let you die.”

  “Love you, Moira…with all my heart.”

  “You’re not going to die. You can’t. I love you.” Tears burned in her eyes. She couldn’t lose what she’d only just found. “Please Anson, fight this. Be the strong man I know and adore. Don’t leave me.”

  “Don’t…want to. Can’t hold on any long…”

  His words trailed away on a breathless exhale. He was not going to die. He was not. “I won’t let you go. I will do anything to save you.”

  His lips tried to lift into a smile. “My death…not your fault. Nothing…you can do.”

  Oh yes there was. Her gift was not going to abandon her when she needed it the most. It had been an albatross around her neck for as long as she could remember. Giving life to others but sucking it from her. It was time she gleaned some reward for her sacrifice.

  “I’m going to try something, Anson. You’re not going understand what I’m about to do. You may even hate me for keeping it from you. But I have to try.”

  “Futile…just let me go.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “More than…anything.”

  “Then let me do this. Please.” At his nod, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Only his ragged breaths broke the eerie silence. Even the birds were quiet. Were they watching from the treetops, hoping, like her, for a miracle?

  She gathered herself with a deep breath. She could do this. She had to. For Anson’s sake. For hers.

  She rubbed her hands together. Nothing happened. No warmth. No coiling of energy. Her stomach roiled. Images rose up of a cold parlor and a dead hearth. Of silence so loud, it was deafening. That would be her life without Anson.

  No, it would not. She wouldn’t let that happen. Not while she drew breath.

  She scrubbed her hands together until they burned from the friction. Warmth crept into her palms and tingled in her fingers. Yes. Yes. That’s it. The heat thickened and intensified. Energy coiled in her core, throbbing to be released. Her heart shouted. Her gift had returned. Anson would not die.

  Resting both hands on his bared stomach, she let the pulsing energy flow into him. He gave a soft groan but didn’t move. She probed his ribs where the knife had invaded his body. Cold. Wet. Black. Vessels had been nicked. Wind whistled inside her head. The blade had grazed a lung. A lethal injury.

  She drew in another fortifying breath and concentrated on sending healing waves into the blackness. The cold warmed. The blackness lightened. The whistling slowed and then stopped. Relief coursed through her. One wound healed, one to go.

  She moved her probing to his shoulder and sent a pulse into the damaged area. The angriness abated. The weeping halted. She leaned back, drained. She had done as much as she could. He would require a week or so of recuperation, but he would live.

  She opened her eyes and looked straight into a face sagging with disbelief. Eyes of blue drilled into her.

  “What did you do?”

  His breathing was even and steady. His coloring had pinked up. He was stabilizing. He should be strong enough to handle the truth. It was time she came clean about her healing ability. Let the chips fall where they may. Besides, he wouldn’t give up until she answered his questions, no matter how poorly he felt.

  “I have a gift, Anson. A very powerful gift.” She lifted her hands and twisted them to and fro. Her wrists were smooth and no longer blemished by rope burns. “I can heal myself and others by my touch. Well, not fully heal others. I get the process started. It’s up to them to do the rest.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “I don’t know. I was born with the ability. My mother had it. So did my Granny Tate.”

  His brow crumpled. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I was afraid to. You were so rigid and skeptical of my potion-making skills. I couldn’t image how you would react to my healing gift.”

  “Did you use this gift on Thacker’s son?”

  He might be physically drained, but his mental faculties were brimming over. “I tried. But Jimmy was too far gone. Once the body gives up, there is nothing more I can do.”

  “What about the others? Little Charlie Gunderson?”

  He could put two and two together faster than a drunk downed a glass of whiskey. “Yes, I healed him, too. And the men from the lumber mill who were injured during the earthquake.”

  “Do your patients suffer any after-effects? Surely something that powerful and abnormal has repercussions. Are you able to revive the dead?”

  Her heart sank. He called her gift abnormal. He was heading down the path to rejection. She’d see
n it before. Many times.

  She forced lightness into her tone, even though all she felt was encroaching darkness. “My patients recover from the healing without consequence. I am the one who suffers from the aftereffects. My body’s ability to heal itself becomes weakened. I am vulnerable to attack. I have to take extra care with my health. As far as I know, I am unable to revive the dead. The few times I tried were unsuccessful.”

  “How long does this vulnerable period last?”

  “Anywhere from an hour to several days, depending on how much healing I employ.”

  No frown tipped his lips, but then neither did a smile. Even his eyes were shadowed. “This gift. This healing ability…it’s so, so…unnatural. In the wrong hands, it could be deadly.”

  Deadly. He might as well slice into her heart with a knife. He went silent, his quiet gaze running over her face as if searching for answers. The only thing she could offer was the truth.

  She reached out and covered his hand, more to anchor herself than to offer him comfort. “I’m still the same person I have always been, Anson. I care about people. I would never intentionally hurt anyone or use my gift for evil purposes.”

  His soundless skepticism pealed like a church bell. Loud and papal. How could she fight such disbelief? If he truly loved her, he should be accepting her without question. Perhaps they were not meant to be together.

  “I know this is a lot to take in, Anson. Tell me what you’re thinking.” Anything would be better than nothing.

  He pushed out a ragged exhale. “I don’t know what to think. I never imagined anything quite so…overwhelming. It’s like that voice I heard in my head telling me you were in danger.”

  “You heard a voice?”

  “It’s not important.” He pulled his hand away, retreating. “I need time to process all this. Alone.”

  He hadn’t denounced her outright. Perhaps she had a chance. A small one, but she would take it. His physical wounds would heal. The mental strain of wrestling with the knowledge of her gift that would be much more difficult to overcome. Hopefully he would remember the good in her, remember how much he loved her. The wait would be painful, but she would give him all the time he required, whatever the outcome.

  ****

  The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains covering the window. Muted voices and the clatter of wagons rose up from the street below. Anson shifted against the pillows piled at his back. He should be up and about. Not lounging abed like an invalid. It had only been a few days since he’d rescued Moira from Jack Thacker and Edeline Wentworth. Days since he’d been knifed. Days since he’d been healed by an unnatural ability.

  His memory after being knifed was wooly at best. He recalled the roar of the collapsing mine. The pain stabbing his side. The feeling of slipping away. Then her hands were on him. Heat and energy pulsed from her fingertips, piercing into him and healing him from within. He’d revisited that invasion over and over in his mind. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around what she could do.

  She had brought him back to the office and helped him upstairs to her bedroom. Except, it wasn’t her bedroom any more. She had packed her things. Said she was moving out. Was giving him the time he’d asked for to think things through.

  He still didn’t know what he wanted. She wasn’t a snake-oil salesman. Wasn’t a murderer. Yet, what she could do with her hands went well beyond the ordinary. If used incorrectly or with malice, it could be quite lethal.

  With a grunt, he tossed aside the bedsheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His ribs screamed in protest. Damned nuisance. He gently peeled back the bandage. The gash puckered and oozed, but not nearly as badly as it had days ago. He was on the mend. Good. He needed to get on with his life…whatever that entailed.

  He found his trousers at the foot of the bed and managed to pull them on with much effort and grunting. His shirt was another obstacle altogether. He got one sleeve on, but the other eluded him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dribbled down to sting his eyes. Why did everything in his life have to be so damned complicated?

  Footfalls sounded in the hall, and then the door swung open. Moira’s friend from the orphanage strode into the bedroom, toting a breakfast tray. Mrs. Reese caught sight of him, and her mouth turned down in a disapproving frown.

  “You shouldn’t be up, Dr. Locke. It’s too soon.”

  “It’s mid-morning. Not too soon at all.”

  “You know what I mean.” She set the tray on the bureau. “Let me help you with that shirt. And then back to bed with you.”

  He pushed to his feet, ignoring the swimming in his head. “It’s not healthy to be such a sluggard. It’s time for me to get up and move about. Surely there are patients to be seen.”

  “There are no patients here except for you.” She marched across the floor and stopped in front of him, hands hooked on her hips. “And you’re not a very cooperative one at that. Now sit and let me help you.”

  “I’m not a child. I can dress myself.” He tried to find the other sleeve, but it dodged his efforts. His breaths were coming in quick draws. His knees were turning to porridge. It wouldn’t be long before he made of fool of himself and collapsed.

  Mrs. Reese gave him a look that said he was every bit the child he was acting like. She snagged the shirt sleeve and pulled it over his arm. Her exaggerated clucking would make a peahen proud.

  “Moira left strict instructions that you are to stay in bed until your wound is healed enough that it won’t break open. I won’t have you relapsing on my watch. I promised to look after you, and I will, whether you like it or not.”

  The Seaton House orphans were certainly made of iron. Bull-headed came to mind. As did kind-hearted and full of life. Like Moira. Was she suffering with their separation? He didn’t want to cause her pain. But he had to draw his own conclusions. Without distractions.

  He sank to the bed. “Fine. But I will fasten my own buttons.” Even if it took all day.

  Her gruff expression softened. She reached behind him and fluffed the pillows. “There. Just a few more days of being abed, and you should be able get up. I made your favorite. Eggs scrambled hard and coated with pepper, just the way Moira said you liked them.”

  Buttons evaded him. His fingers cramped. He gave up and plopped back against the pillows, drained. “I’m not hungry.” He was being petulant. But this weakness of mind and body was maddening.

  Mrs. Reese gathered the tray and brought it to the bed. Was she deaf?

  “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Doctor. Or you’ll never regain your strength.”

  She set the tray on his lap. The aroma of coffee assailed him. Thoughts of Moira surfaced, of her sitting across from him at the table, of her pretty lips puckering as she blew across a steaming mug…of hands that could do wondrous things – in and out of the bed. She was definitely a distraction.

  “How do you deal with what Moira can do?”

  Mrs. Reese shook out a crisp napkin and set it across his chest. “She only does good with her gift.”

  “How do you know this? Something that powerful could just as easily be turned to evil.”

  “Moira wouldn’t do that. She’s good through and through. You’ve been around her for nearly a month. You’ve seen her at work. No one is more devoted to helping those in need than her. In your heart, you know this is true.”

  His heart, yes. His head? Not so much. It spun with warring thoughts. Part of him wanted a life with Moira. To love and be loved. The other part, the part that wouldn’t let him be, screeched that he’d botched one marriage. His life with Alice hadn’t been nearly as complicated as one with Moira would be. How could he expect everything to be sweet cakes and roses?

  “What if I am able to accept her gift? It may not be enough. I couldn’t save my first wife. What if the same happened to Moira? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  Mrs. Reese went to the bureau and poured water from a pitcher into a basin. “Your
wife doesn’t blame you. Alice says her death was not your fault, and she wants you to move on with your life.”

  “How do you know what Alice would want?”

  Mrs. Reese arranged soap and a razor beside the basin. “Because she’s standing right here telling me.”

  What the hell? He tossed a glance around the room. “Right where? Here? In this bedroom?”

  “Yes, beside your bed, hovering off the floor a bit, but still there.” She turned to face him, her expression resigned. “Moira and I are…special. She can heal with her hands. I can see and speak with those who have passed on.”

  God-almighty. “You talk with spirits?” At her nod, he leaned forward waved a hand through air. He felt nothing. “You say Alice is here? At my bedside?”

  “Not that side, the other. But yes, she’s wearing the pale blue dress you had her buried in. Her favorite. And the gold locket you secretly stowed into her palm before they nailed the coffin shut.”

  Mrs. Reese could not know such things. Was he still asleep and in the throes of a nightmare? He pinched his arm and winced at the pain. Nope. Wide awake.

  “Why is Alice here? What does she want?”

  “She came to tell you that it’s all right to love another woman. That it will not besmirch her memory. What the two of you had was wonderful, and she will always treasure your time together.”

  Sorrow tugged at his heart. He hadn’t loved her nearly as much as he should have. She was so young and beautiful. She deserved better than him. Better than death.

  “She says there are no regrets. She wants you to start looking to the future, to be happy. She believes you can have that with Moira. She says you can trust Moira. That she’s good and kind and will make a wonderful wife.”

  The weight sitting on his shoulders lifted. For the first time in days, he had hope. Hope for himself. Hope for Moira. “Tell Alice I will always hold a special place in my heart for her.”

  Mrs. Reese smiled. “She knows that. She feels the same for you.”

  “Tell her I appreciate her coming here to help me understand.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “To be with the rest of her departed family. She was waiting for this moment before moving on.”