The Touch of Sage

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

As he stitched his injuries, Reb glanced at Sage every few moments, ensuring she still breathed—still lived. He found he could hardly look at her without tears filling his eyes. He found himself wanting to plunge the needle he was using deep into his own flesh, causing himself more pain for her sake.

  “We shoulda tracked it,” he growled to himself. “Me and Dugger shoulda tracked that thing until we’d killed it.”

  It was his fault. All of it! Sage’s wounds, the danger she was in because of them. He’d been too busy with running the ranch, playing cards with old women, and daydreaming of Sage to track that cat—to keep the very object of his daydreams safe. He shook his head, remembering the thoughts he had been having only an hour before—thoughts of making Sage his own—of kissing her every day the way he had when he had stopped the wagon on the way to the ranch. He thought of how she’d looked in those moments—so wildly free and happy. Closing his eyes, he could remember the way she had smiled at him, the taste of her kiss, and he knew—he knew he did not deserve her. He did not deserve Sage Willows. What had he been thinking by pursuing her even in the very least? How could he have thought he might be the man to make her life full and happy? If such a thing as nearly getting mauled to death, torn to shreds by a mountain lion, could happen to her while in his care, what other atrocities would his existence rain upon her?

  Sage opened her eyes, grimacing and gasping at the pain her regained consciousness shot throughout her body. It felt as if searing flames were burning into her back and shoulder. Intense throbbing sensations emanated from both sources of injury and caused an ache in her head to keep time with them. She squeezed the tears from her eyes, blinking to clear her vision. The sight that met her only caused her to wish oblivion would find her once more. Reb sat cross-legged on the floor next to her—a needle and thread in hand. He ran his fingers over the roughly stitched wounds at his chest—wounds from which blood still oozed. Then stretching out his left leg, he tore open his pant leg, pouring whiskey onto the wound at his thigh and grimacing as he then pinched one of the lacerations together and began to stitch.

  “You…you need a doctor,” Sage breathed. Reb glanced to her, frowning, and she fancied there was excess moisture in his eyes. No doubt the fact he was sewing his own wounds caused an incredible insult to his already horrific injuries.

  “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, returning his attention to stitching his leg. “But we need to get ya home. Dugger and the others oughta be ridin’ in any minute, and they can take ya back. Aunt Eugenia and the others will do better for ya than I have.” Sage felt a tear travel over the bridge of her nose as Reb dropped the needle he’d been using and reached out to put a hand on her arm. “Let’s get ya to my bed where you’ll be more comfortable. This hard ol’ floor won’t do nothin’ to ease yer—”

  “No,” Sage told him as she stared at the needle and thread dangling from his half-stitched wound. “Please…please don’t make me move yet. Just…just let me lay here awhile until I feel a bit better.” He looked pale, and she knew she must recover enough to help him mend his injuries. “If…if you’ll just give me a minute…I can help you…I can help you to…”

  “Shh,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I’m just about finished. It’ll be fine. Maybe not the best stitchin’ job in town…but I’ll be fine.” His frown deepened, and again Sage saw moisture gathering in his eyes. “I did the best I could on ya. It ain’t a pretty job…but it’s the best I knew how.” Sage closed her eyes, several more tears escaping them. How long had she been unconscious? Long enough for Reb to tend to her before caring for himself.

  He forced a smile at her that told her he wasn’t certain either one of them was out of danger yet. Then he took hold of the needle and thread still dangling from one of the lacerations on his leg and with trembling hands began to stitch once more.

  “Reb!” Charlie hollered as he and three other men burst through the door and into the kitchen. “Ya all right, Reb? We seen the cat out there and…” Charlie was struck silent, his eyes widening as he looked first from Reb to Sage and back again. “Miss Sage!” he exclaimed.

  “You boys get the wagon hitched back up,” Reb ordered, pointing at the other hands. “We gotta get Miss Willows back to town.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the men said, motioning to the others to follow him as he left.

  “Looks like we need to be gettin’ both of ya back to town, Reb,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I ain’t never seen such a mess a blood!”

  “I’ll be fine,” Reb said. “But Sage is hurt bad. We need to get her back so them old ladies can look her over…make sure I done things right. She’s hurt worse than me.”

  “Um…Reb…I don’t think ya’ve quite got a handle on yer condition here,” Charlie said, walking over to Reb and bending down to further inspect the wounds on his chest.

  Sage winced as Reb suddenly reached up, taking hold of the front of Charlie’s shirt and growling, “I said…get her back to town and I’ll be fine!”

  “Reb!” Sage exclaimed as Reb began to sway back and forth.

  “I think…I think we best take Miss Sage back to town,” Charlie said, reaching out to steady his friend. “But I ain’t too all-fired certain you’d make the trip all right, Reb.”

  “Fine. Fine,” Reb mumbled. “Just…just get the girl…”

  Sage gasped, wracked with her own bodily pain and that of her fevered mind as Reb then completely collapsed in a bloody, unconscious heap on the floor. Sage tried to raise herself—tried to move toward him—to reassure herself he still lived. But the pain of her injuries was too great, and she felt her head hit the floor hard as she too succumbed to the reprieve of darkness.

  

  Eugenia Smarthing spent more than four days out at the ranch tending to Reb. His wounds were far more severe than Sage’s. When Eugenia had arrived at the ranch to find Reb unconscious, still bleeding and so terribly injured, the first thing she had to do was to attend to his awkward attempt to mend himself. She cleaned his wounds, stitched him properly, and waited. He had been taken with a terrible fever over the next several days but somehow survived and was healing slowly. Or so Mary, Rose, and Livie assured Sage daily.

  “Eugenia says that boy is strong as an ox. Even the pain of her wiping out his wounds with lye didn’t keep him unconscious. He kept wakin’ up and growling at her when she was workin’ on him,” Mary told Sage for the umpteenth time as she herself lay still weak and uncomfortable in healing from her own injuries. “He done a right good job on you, though…thank the Lord,” Mary added, helping Sage to sit up in bed and fluffing the pillows at her back. “No sign of infection. Ya’ve even got some pink back in yer cheeks this mornin’.” Mary smiled and brushed a strand of hair from Sage’s forehead.

  “Maybe I’ll come down to the kitchen for supper tonight,” Sage said. She smiled gratefully at Mary. The widows had been so wonderful—so helpful and nurturing since the mountain lion attack—cooking for themselves and waiting on Sage hand and foot. In truth, Sage enjoyed being cared for. It was the first time in years and years she could remember someone caring for her, instead of her doing all the caring for.

  Still, her anxieties over Reb were nearly overwhelming! No matter how often Rose, Livie, and Mary reassured her of Reb’s increasing good health, it took every bit of strength left to her to keep from bursting into tears at the mere thought of him—at the visions that leapt to her mind each time she closed her eyes—the visions of the mountain lion attacking him, tearing him.

  Charlie had been out to see Sage several times. He further assured her of Reb’s getting better. Likewise he told her he and the other hands had the ranch well in hand. Still, Sage sensed something distressing—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Charlie told Sage Reb blamed himself for the attack. Reb knew he should have hunted the cat down long before, instead of letting it roam about, an easy threat to cattle and anything else made of meat.

  A constant nagging, insecure, frigh
tened feeling had settled deep within Sage’s being. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on the glorious, impassioned moments she had shared with Reb on the way to the ranch that day, always it was darkened by some ominous, foreboding feeling. A sort of sickening sensation that whispered to her that the course she’d been set on with Reb before the attack was irrevocably altered.

  “Rose has chicken and dumplin’s and all the fixin’s set up for supper tonight,” Mary said, taking one of Sage’s hands between her own and patting it lovingly. “Tonight would be a good night to trot down for supper.”

  Sage forced a smile and said, “I’ll come down, Miss Mary…but I doubt I’ll be trottin’.”

  Mary laughed and shook her head, amused. “Now that’s our Sage!” The old woman seemed to study Sage for a moment—her smile fading slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Ya know I was attacked by a mountain lion once myself.”

  “What?” Sage asked, astonished. Mary nodded and looked upward as the memory seemed to wash over her.

  “I was twelve,” she began, “and Mama and I were out castratin’ pigs.” Sage bit her lip, stifling the urge to giggle. Mary’s face was suddenly so solemn, but as usual, her manner of starting a story was rather surprising. “It was awful hot that day,” Mary continued, “and I was mighty irritated at havin’ to help with the castratin’. Course, it had to be done. Them males is much easier to handle once they’ve been castrated. They feed out better most times too,” Mary explained. Sage nodded, still biting her lip, still trying not to giggle. “Anyhow,” Mary began again, “Mama and me was about our business, and all of a sudden…this big ol’ cat just comes outta nowhere! I mean, they’re rare in Oklahoma as it is. But here it come…right at me! Mama seen it comin’ and hollered for Pa, but he was too far away…and before I knew it, I was standin’ face-to-face with the biggest ol’ cat I ever did see!”

  Sage frowned, listening intently, trying to imagine a young Mary facing down a mountain lion. For a moment, she could see the scene in her mind’s eye and realized—knowing Mary as she did—it was not an unexpected story.

  “It sorta hissed at me once,” Mary continued, “showin’ its teeth. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. I was still holdin’ that pig down when that ol’ cat swiped at me with one of its front paws. For a second, the pain was so bad I thought that the thing had tore my arm clean off! Mama pulled me back, snatched up the pig I’d been holdin’, took hold of its hind legs, and threw it off to one side. The ol’ cat musta liked the smell of the pig’s blood more’n mine, ’cause it went after the pig and left me be. My daddy come a-runnin’ up ’bout then, leveled his ol’ Brown Bess, and blew a hole in that ol’ cat’s head the size of Texas!” Sage could only shake her head, once again awed to silence by one of Mary Farthen’s tender childhood stories. Sometimes Sage wondered how Mary lived long enough to get married and raise a family.

  “Look here,” Mary said, reaching around to unbutton her dress. Sage watched, astonished as Mary proceeded to slip her left shoulder and arm out of her dress. “See them scars?” the old woman asked. “That’s where that ol’ cat got me.” Sage frowned, her own wounds suddenly throbbing anew as she looked at the four long scars on Mary’s upper arm. “They healed up just fine. See?” Sage nodded but was speechless—horrified at the sight of the thick, purple scars. She knew the injuries on her back—the scars they would undoubtedly leave—would be at least as brutal and unsightly as Mary’s were.

  “Course, my mama didn’t stitch mine nearly as neat as Reb stitched yers,” Mary stammered, becoming suddenly aware of what Sage must be thinking. “I swear yers already look better than mine do.”

  “Mary?” Sage whispered then. “You know I haven’t had the gumption to…to look at my back yet.”

  Mary smiled and uncharacteristically cupped Sage’s cheek with an affectionate hand as she said, “Them wounds’ll heal just fine, Sage.”

  “Are you certain?” Sage asked.

  “Positively certain,” Mary said with an affirming nod.

  “And what about Reb’s?” Sage asked.

  “Reb’s a man!” Mary exclaimed, raising her eyebrows in a gesture of superior knowledge. “Men’re s’posed to be a bit banged up. Makes ’em more…more manly.”

  In truth, Sage was just as worried about Reb’s emotional scars as she was about his physical ones. The widows and even Charlie had told her very little about his frame of mind—just that he blamed himself for the attack. Sage realized she knew the man she had fallen in love with well enough to know it would permanently damage him. She thought of the woman who had scarred his heart—of Ivy Dalton and the mark she had left on Rebel Mitchell. Heartbreak and anger were the brands she’d left of his soul. Sage did not even want to imagine what kind of mark regret and guilt would leave.

  “I’m worried for him,” Sage stammered.

  “Well, we’ll just get him out here to see ya as soon as we can. Might be easier to take you to him though. He’s had a rougher time of it than you. Either way, once he sees you’re just fine, he can quit frettin’ over it.” Mary put her arm back in her dress sleeve. “He’s over the fever now. Maybe we can haul ya out there tomorrow.”

  

  However, as Sage lay in bed that night, gazing out her open window to the summer stars, the feeling of foreboding returned. Was there something the widows weren’t telling her? She was badly hurt, yes, but fit enough to travel. Why hadn’t they taken her to see Reb? Why had they kept telling her to wait, wait until his fever was over, wait until he was better mended? It seemed too intentional, as if everyone were trying to keep her from finding out something. Was he wounded far worse than they told her? Or had he been so angry over the attack—over being wounded because of her—that he’d decided her friendship and her kisses weren’t worth the trouble?

  Chapter Ten

  “He doesn’t want to see me, Ruthie,” Sage said. She tugged at a small weed invading Ruthie’s space of serenity. “Oh, they won’t tell me that…Eugenia, Livie, Rosie. Even Mary won’t tell me that, but I know it’s true. I was foolish to even imagine he could ever…” Sage let her words trail off into silence once more.

  Fighting the tears in her eyes begging for release, Sage reached out and caressed the soft petals of one of the beautiful red roses growing on Ruthie’s tombstone. The velvet of the petal usually served to soothe Sage, but this day it did nothing to cheer her.

  “At least your roses are bloomin’ beautiful this year,” she said. “But a little more rain would help.” She closed her eyes, trying to dispel the vision of Reb lingering in her mind. “A little rain would be a blessed thing just now.”

  Sage held her breath—swallowed hard—choked back her tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not on such a sunny day. She wouldn’t cry even for the pain and doubt in her heart.

  Reb did not want to see her. No matter what the widows said, she knew it was true. Reb was strong. Mountain lion having torn him up or not, he was too strong, too determined to stay away if he’d really wanted to see her—if he really cared for her.

  At first, she’d been willing to ride out to see him just as Mary had suggested. But when the widows had exchanged glances of uncertainty when Sage mentioned it, she knew something was wrong. To her it was inappropriate anyway—chasing after him like a saloon tramp. Still, she would’ve done it—if she’d had the courage. Yet doubt was as thick as potato soup in her now.

  Her mind concocted a million different reasons for the change she sensed in Reb where she was concerned. Perhaps he’d realized he didn’t want to lead Sage into believing he cared for her. Or, worse, perhaps his nearly getting killed by a mountain lion had turned his heart back toward the woman he had loved once before. Perhaps he was reconsidering staying on at Eugenia’s ranch—considering returning to that Ivy Dalton.

  “He can’t leave, Ruthie,” Sage said out loud at the thought. “He bet Eugenia, and he lost. He promised to stay as long as she wants him to.” Sage breathed a heavy sigh, however. She knew nothing—nobody could
hold Reb Mitchell if he didn’t want to be held. Raising her face to the sky, she closed her eyes, wishing once more for a few dark clouds—the hope of release.

  Looking about her, she saw three black cows leisurely making their way toward the little fenced area. They were slow, carefree-looking creatures, with Reb’s brand on their hindquarters. Sage envied them a moment—envied their careless meandering.

  She looked back to Ruthie’s tombstone and sighed once more.

  “Oh, Ruthie…as odd as it sounds, sometimes I feel as if…as if you’re my only true friend. I can talk to you, and you always have time to listen to me…to hear my silly ramblin’s and worries.” Sage frowned. “I wonder so often what you looked like. Was your hair light or dark? What dress did your mama put you in to lay you to rest? Did you have a favorite doll? Is it with you now?”

  Covering her mouth quickly with one hand, Sage held her breath to stop her tears. “I love him, Ruthie. I love him so much!” she whispered. “Why can’t he love me? I don’t even care that no other man ever has! I just want Reb to love me!”

  For the first time in nearly nine years, Sage cried without waiting for the rain. Suddenly, the aching in her heart—her desperate need to see Reb, to be held by him, to have him smile at her—was overwhelming. She collapsed in a heap of harsh sobbing and endless tears, careless of the flowers and sage growing over the little grave—careless of the three cows who stood watching her, jaws shifting from side to side as they chewed mouthfuls of sweet pasture grass. For the first time in nearly nine years, Sage could not keep the pain in her heart—the aching in her soul—silent and hidden. She wanted to cry out for Reb—scream his name—run all the way to the Smarthing ranch and beg him to love her. Instead, she simply sobbed—her tears of heartbreak moistening little Ruthie States’s soil blanket.

  

  “This is pure nonsense, Reb,” Eugenia scolded as she angrily folded a blanket and set it on the foot of the bed. “This…none of it was your fault. It wasn’t Sage’s fault either.”