Aiming for Love

by Mary Connealy

  Ilsa’s eyes slid past Jo. Jo turned to see Ursula in the door, angry, frightened, standing at her full height, and glaring at Jo to beat all.

  “Ilsa, someone’s hurt.”

  “Someone?” Ilsa blinked those huge, bright eyes. “Those men who were hunting all over up here came back?”

  “You knew they’d been up here?” Jo couldn’t believe she’d missed them.

  “Yes, they came a few times, but they never found the pass into the canyon where we live.”

  “Well, now there are a whole bunch of men, and a woman, in that big valley close to that steep trail down to the lowlands. One of them is bad hurt. He needs help, Ilsa. All I could think of was you, and your way with healing.”

  “Men?” Ilsa seemed frozen, and she rarely stood still. “And a woman? It’s not Mama and Papa come home is it?”

  Ma and Pa had ridden away near twenty years ago. It struck hard at Jo’s heart to think Ilsa might still believe they’d return someday.

  “No, but they seemed nice. And they need help. We’ve got to go.”

  A shy smile bloomed on Ilsa’s face, and she whirled and laughed her musical laughter. “I want to see them. I’ll come.”

  She flew in long, graceful strides toward a tree and vanished up into the high limbs.

  “No, Ilsa, come back.” Ursula rushed forward.

  Jo threw herself between Ilsa and Ursula. “We have to help. It’s like the ‘Prodigal Son,’ Ursula. We can’t be safe here while someone, even someone we don’t know or like, is hurt.”

  “That’s the ‘Good Samaritan,’ not the ‘Prodigal Son.’”

  Jo had to admit she got several of the stories mixed up, and it was even more confusing trying to apply them to her life, especially when she barely knew what a son was, let alone a prodigal one.

  “Come with us. Come and meet them.” Jo rested her right hand on her left wrist and could almost feel Dave hanging on to her. With a little shiver of excitement, she wondered if he’d take her prisoner again. That didn’t worry her. She could probably escape as easily as she had this time. And if Ilsa wanted to vanish, she could. It was surprising how hard that girl was to pin down.

  “I’ll go nowhere near them. They’re dangerous.” Ursula clamped her arms across her chest as if she were trying to hold herself together.

  “They are so interesting. You have to come and meet them. How can you resist?”

  Ursula snorted. “Easily enough.”

  “I’ve got to go. I can’t let Ilsa go in there without me.” Jo didn’t want to be scolded anymore. And she didn’t want to see the fear on Ursula’s face and feel it washing all over the cabin, soaking Jo in it.

  “We’ll be careful.” She dashed away, afraid Ursula might grab her and hang on. If she got taken prisoner for the second time in one day—God forgive her—she wanted it to be by Dave.

  “Will you look at that.” Ma’s whisper brought Dave’s head around.

  He saw another woman, this one nothing like Jo, come running out of the woods. She moved more gracefully than anything he’d ever seen. Running fast as a deer, so light on her feet she didn’t seem real, more like a magical creature. She was a little sprite of a thing, her black hair, curly and wild in the wind, flying behind her.

  She had a bag of some kind hung around her neck and under one arm. It was large and leather. Just like her clothes.

  She had eyes alight with concern, focused on Pa, who lay there awake only part of the time. Dave had a sudden chill of fear, as if some spell was being cast. He had a strong impulse to throw himself between this woman and his father.

  The woman reached Dave and halted, worry and a quiet, powerful sense of determination in her eyes.

  “I’ve come to help the man who was hurt.” She stood as if she’d wait forever, and impatiently because she wanted to help right now.

  Dave knew she could only be one person. “Are you Jo’s sister?”

  “Yes, she came for me and will be here soon. She knows I have healing hands.”

  Dave exchanged a worried look with his ma.

  Ma had her eyes pinned on the newcomer for long seconds before she nodded. “Come and see. He’s . . . he’s b-bleeding . . .” Ma’s voice broke.

  The fairy woman ignored Ma, dodged around Dave, and knelt beside Pa. She muttered words Dave couldn’t hear.

  “What?” Had she asked for something?

  “I pray as I work. God guides my hands as surely as He guided this man to me for healing.”

  Dave had some serious doubts about God letting Pa be shot just so he could give this woman a chance at doctoring, but maybe he’d been daydreaming when Ma read that part of the Bible to them at night.

  The woman eased the bandage aside, then slapped it back in place. She looked at Ma. “I’ve a potion to ease the pain and slow the bleeding. Get a cup of hot water. My potion needs to steep, and we want him to drink it warm. Now. Quickly.”

  For a fairy woman, she had a bit of the tyrant about her, and Ma obeyed right quick.

  “Tell me what you’re doing.” Dave didn’t know if he could stand by while a complete stranger . . . and he’d have to admit the emphasis there was on strange . . . poured who-knew-what down his pa’s throat.

  The woman knelt close to Pa’s head with Dave beside her near Pa’s knees. She turned to look Dave in the eye, and the gaze hit him right in the gut. Her eyes were so blue against the dark hair, and there was an untamed quality to her that reminded him of Jo, but there was no other resemblance.

  “Jo said she lives up here with her sisters. But I can hardly imagine women living alone up here. You’re not safe.”

  A sweet smile lit up the woman’s face. “Where is it safe? Didn’t you just come from the deadly outside world? The world that killed my parents? I think I am safe and you live where there is danger and death. And we’ve done it and survived for years. I’ve lived with my sisters ever since my Grandpa died.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “We talk of this while your father bleeds? Is that really your wish?”

  Shaking his head, Dave said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Ma came then with a tin cup nearly full of hot water. “What’s your name?”

  “Ilsa. Ilsa Nordegren.” Ilsa took the cup and pulled some crushed leaves and grass from her bag. She poured it into the water and covered the cup with her hand and shook for a long minute.

  Dave wondered how long it’d been since the wild woman had washed her hands.

  Ilsa quit shaking, handed the cup to Dave. “Hold this while it steeps. It’s hot. Have a care.”

  Then Ilsa removed the bandage and pulled a wickedly sharp knife from the waistband of her strange leather trousers. She rose from Pa’s side and took the knife to the blazing fire and held it to the flames until the blade glowed red.

  “My grandpa said this will stop the wound from suppurating,” Ilsa explained.

  There was a hole in Pa’s belly, off to the side, and no exit wound. Dave figured it was going to be up to him to cut that bullet out and hope nothing life-and-death happened during his ham-handed surgery. Ma’s hands were shaking too hard to be trusted with the chore.

  As Ilsa approached Pa and knelt again, she reached that hot blade right for him, and Dave’s hand whipped out and snatched her wrist away. He’d been holding her sister just like this not so long ago.

  Ilsa gave him a strange smile. Not annoyed, and Dave knew he’d be annoyed if he was doing something important and someone stopped him. Ilsa was given to smiling at everything, it seemed.

  In her eyes was something deep, as if she looked right inside him and willed him to be calm, to be strong.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You have a lot of people get shot up here?”

  “No. But they bleed from time to time. And Grandpa taught me the ways of healing.”

  Dave decided not to ask more questions. Pa was in a bad way. Every man in the West knew that when you were gutshot, you were done.
This wasn’t right in the middle of his belly, but it looked bad to Dave . . . and since he was scared to death and had no idea what to do, he decided to let Ilsa have a free hand . . . with him inches away, ready to grab her.

  Ilsa, razor-sharp knife in hand, leaned over Pa in such a way she blocked Dave’s view of what she was doing. Seconds passed as Dave shifted his position to watch. A metallic scratch set Dave’s teeth on edge. Quick as a wink, she handed him a blood-soaked bullet. Then she laid the flat side of the knife against the wound and a terrible burning smell and a hiss made Dave’s stomach twist. Ilsa sheathed her knife. Dave noticed it was very thin, so thin it was barely wider than the bullet wound. Next, she pulled something out of that bag, a green pad of something that looked like weeds, and pressed it to the wound.

  “It wasn’t deep. Leave this packing in place all day.” She thrust more of the green something into Dave’s hands. “Tonight, before he sleeps, take out the old packing and replace it. For the rest of the day, bind it tight and keep pressure on it to stop the bleeding, though the burn should seal it, and my healing herbs should soothe the pain and prevent suppuration.”

  Dave studied what he held in his hand. Healing herbs? He recognized moss, but there was more than that. Grass or weeds or leaves . . . who knew?

  “Strain the potion and make him drink the liquid.” She thrust a small leather pouch into Dave’s hands. “Give him this drink again in a few hours, then again at night, and in the morning. Get him to drink water. I’ll be back.”

  Ilsa was up with that same magical grace. Before Dave realized she wasn’t just getting off her knees, she ran straight for the woods, black curls dancing. He leapt up.

  “Dave, let her go,” Ma shouted. More quietly she said, “I believe her. She’ll be back.”

  Jo emerged from the woods. He was struck that there was a resemblance between them. Their coloring was so different he’d’ve never thought of them as sisters, but they were both slender and graceful. Ilsa was about an inch shorter, but they were both on the short side and cut along the same lithe, delicate lines.

  Both so beautiful it almost hurt to look at them, but Ilsa seemed young, almost childlike. Except, did a child operate on a man?

  She was nothing like Jo’s full-grown womanhood.

  The two seemed to be in their own little world, talking and smiling.

  Then Ilsa ran off, and Jo came toward him. He noticed she wore a quiver of arrows as well as a bow. The two crossed on her chest.

  “Dave, your father’s awake.”

  He didn’t want to look away from Jo, but at those words he twirled around to see Pa talking quietly with Ma. He rushed back and knelt at his father’s side again.

  Ma stood and said, “He seems stable. Weak, but if he doesn’t get that wound infected, he’ll heal. Ilsa said so and I believe her. Now I need to have a word with the men.”

  Ma strode to Pa’s horse. One of the hands had staked out the horse nearby and left it to graze still saddled and bridled. Ma, stout and of a goodly age, swung up on that horse without any effort. She kicked the horse into a gallop before Dave could ask her what she wanted with the men.

  Jo reached Dave’s side and dropped down beside Pa. “Ilsa said your papa is on the mend. She said he’d been shot. Grandpa had a gun, so I know what that is. Though I don’t use the gun ever. I didn’t even wait to see just what was wrong with him before I ran for her.”

  She’d run, but not away. She’d run for help.

  Something huge shifted in Dave’s gut, or maybe a bit higher, maybe in his heart.

  6

  Ilsa is the best healer. Grandpa passed down many things he’d learned from Native folks who knew plants with healing power. And she learned from Grandma, who was the finest at prayer. The combination has kept all of us healthy. We all learned, but Ilsa has a rare gift.”

  Jo pointed at Dave’s mother. “What is Ma doing?”

  Dave looked up from Jo and saw a general on the battlefield, only apparently it was a war she was fighting with building a shelter. Though men would still be standing guard over the trail with others minding the still-unsettled herd, a few went to chopping trees. Soon they were dragging in logs to a spot Ma pointed to.

  “I think she’s determined to get a roof over Pa’s head before nightfall.”

  “She and your men can build a cabin in a single day?”

  Dave shrugged. “Maybe a lean-to. In fact, look at her, she’s pointing this way. I think she might build a small cabin right here beside Pa. I hope she doesn’t try to build it right over our heads. We might be hit with a falling log.”

  “My cabin is too far to move him, or you could come there.”

  Dave looked away from his mother. “You’re ready now to tell me where you live? And let me meet your sisters?”

  “You just met one of them. The other, Ursula, is shy of people. She learned it at Grandma’s knee, and she’s taken it to heart. As nervous as a rabbit in a wolf’s den. If I bring you there, she might leave, hide until you’re gone. But if you’re planning to live up here, she’ll have to get used to you.” Jo frowned. “I hope she can do it.”

  A groan drew Jo’s attention to the wounded man. His eyes flickered open, but they seemed dazed. And why not?

  Dave asked, “Will you help me bandage the wound? Ilsa told me and Ma to do it, but she’s busy.”

  “Yes, where are your bandages?”

  “Stay here with him, and I’ll dig them out of the pack. Ma has the healing supplies out so I’ll just be a minute.” He left her, went straight for a large bag, and began searching.

  A hard hand gripped her wrist. She turned to see . . . well, she supposed his name was destined to be Pa, but she hesitated to say it. She most certainly had not been invited to, as she had with Ma.

  “You’ve been shot. We believe you’ll be all right, and we’re going to bandage the wound now.”

  Pa Warden held on to her in a way that reminded her of Dave. An iron grip might run in their family. Like Ursula being built like Grandma, and Ilsa having their ma’s dark hair.

  “Where have you come from? And . . . w-wasn’t there another strange woman here a bit ago? I woke up for a moment, or maybe not. Maybe I dreamed—”

  Something swept over her, like the washing at the edge of a pond. This older man with the strong grip. Ma taking charge, bringing order. Dave’s kind eyes and his worry for her and his father. It was a family. It all reminded her so much of how it’d been with Grandma and Grandpa. And later with only Grandpa. Well, he’d protected them and kept them fed, but there’d been no softness from that gruff old man. Grandma hadn’t been all that soft, either, but she’d brought out a gentler side of Grandpa. That side had been buried with Grandma.

  Talking to Dave’s pa, and earlier to his ma, seeing how they loved each other. The hope of it, the fullness of it, swept over her until she could barely speak for her throat choking up. But that was nonsense. She was used to this high mountain life. She loved the freedom, and though she wanted a new tin cup, beyond that she wanted no part of the outside world.

  She told herself that, but a part of her had to wonder if her thoughts carried truth. This family drew her like little else ever had. A ma and pa. What a wonderful thing that would be. She cleared her throat and brushed aside the strange urge to cry.

  Resting her hand over his—the one gripping her—wanting to feel the strength, Jo said, “Th-there was another woman.” She had to clear her throat again to go on. “You saw my sister. She has healing ways, and I brought her to help you. We call her our medicine woman. We live up here. You’ve brought your cattle to our backyard.”

  Dave’s head came up when he heard them talking, and he came back fast. “Pa, you’re awake.”

  There was such love and concern in Dave’s voice, Jo felt a burn in her eyes. Tears? She never cried. She suspected the last time had been when Grandma died. By the time Grandpa went to heaven, she’d learned to control all the nonsense of her tears.

  Crouching besid
e his father and across from Jo, Dave said, “We need to wrap that gunshot wound.”

  Pa’s teeth clenched as he nodded. “Tell me more, young lady. It takes my mind off the pain.”

  Pa struck Jo as a very tough man. He probably dealt well with pain. She wondered if he was just snooping around in her life like a wolf on the scent. But if it would please him to hear her talk, she’d talk.

  “Um . . . we have been living up here all our lives. My grandma especially had a fear of the outside world. She said the lowlands were dangerous with disease and evil men. Grandma told stories of those from the lowlands she’d lost to death, but I can’t remember who all. They were old stories. She quit telling them, but only reminded us of the danger. She might have—” Jo’s eyes narrowed as she tried to remember, then shrugged. “I haven’t heard those stories for years. Then she and Grandpa moved up here, where it was safe.”

  “There is danger all over, girl. I’m in your highlands right now and carrying a bullet.”

  Dave passed the strip of cloth under his pa’s back, caught it, and drew it over the wound. He repeated this, winding the cloth several times.

  Pa let a faint moan escape his lips, then clamped them shut. Jo leaned forward and brushed his hair back. It wasn’t solid gray like Grandpa’s. If this was Dave’s father, then this man would be more of an age with her own father, rather than Grandpa. She angled her head so she could look him in the eye and block his view of Dave’s doctoring.

  Then she smiled. “I’d as soon say that is proof of the lowland danger, since you brought the bullet with you.”

  Pa grunted, maybe in annoyance at her answer. Maybe in pain. “The point, girl, is that life can’t be lived with no risk. Say, what’s your name anyway? I shouldn’t keep calling you girl.”

  Her smile widened. “Call me Jo. And your name?”

  Dave shifted his pa again, working on the bandage.

  “I’m Quill Warden.” A short, hard gasp was quickly concealed. “I own the Circle Dash Ranch straight down this mountain a far piece. My brand is on every cow and horse in this meadow.”