by Peggy Webb
“I’m not crying.”
“Then allow me to stop all this water, for the Blue River has left its banks and is flooding your eyes.” He knelt beside her and tenderly wiped her cheeks.
With his hands finally upon her, the thing she remembered most was not making love with the stars overhead, but swimming in the river naked with the sun on her face and Eagle sitting on a big rock, singing to her in Muskogean.
She let her tears flow freely, and, kneeling, he wiped them all away. And when she gave one final sniffle, he backed off, severing the fragile tie that bound them.
“Is the buckeye really magic?” she whispered.
“Only to those who believe.”
She looked into his deep black eyes and saw only emptiness. Silently he folded the handkerchief and pressed it into her hands while the humming silence became a roar.
“In case you need it,” he said, then turned quickly and left the room. The door closed softly behind him.
Kate slumped in her chair. Neither of them believed in magic anymore.
Chapter 19
Fox squirrels and rabbits and deer were abundant in the mountains, hiding amid the fallen tree branches and the colored leaves, waiting for him to take his twenty-gauge shotgun and hunt them down.
But Clint had no heart for hunting. He had no heart for anything. His brother and sister were dreadfully sick, and he was well.
He felt guilty.
Home was not the same without Bucky and Mary Doe, and neither were his mother and father. Anna cried a lot and Cole was angry. They were in the kitchen now, fighting.
Clint tried not to hear. He pressed his hands over his ears, but the hateful words came to him anyhow. “Three are already dead, Anna.”
“I know...I know. Still, I think it would be wrong to get the medicine man.”
“Kate Malone’s medicine is not enough.”
“His ways are old-fashioned, Cole.”
“Hers aren’t working:”
“I will not have that dirty old shaman shaking gourd rattlers over my children!”
“Would you have them die? Would you, Anna?”
His mother ran from the kitchen crying, and Clint raced upstairs to his room. He turned the music on really loud, but it didn’t drown out the sound of his mother’s grief.
o0o
Mick wiped tears from his eyes. One of them dropped on the letter. He tried to wipe it off before it smeared the ink, but he was too late.
“Dammit all to hell,” he muttered. Now Martha would find out that he read Kate’s letters.
Not that she didn’t already know. Every time a letter came, she pussyfooted around the house, looking at him like a dying calf in a hailstorm, sighing and knitting. She’d knitted enough damned doilies to cover Texas. He hated the things, stuck on all the arms of the chairs, just waiting for him to knock them off on the floor or spill coffee or drop ashes on them.
When she’d run out of furniture arms, she framed the damned silly things and hung them all over the walls.
“Mick?”
He hastily stuffed the letter into his pocket. He’d take it to his office and pretend the maid threw it away.
“Are you ready, sweetheart? We don’t want to be late to the opera.”
Martha was dressed in a pink silk dress that made her skin look rosy and she’d had something nice done to her hair. Every now and then, when he saw her like that, he was reminded what a beautiful woman she used to be. Still was, sometimes.
“In a minute,” he said. He couldn’t go to the damned opera with Kate’s letter in his pocket. He unlocked his desk drawer and dropped it inside.
Her signature stared back at him.
Five years, and neither one of them had budged an inch. He’d started to give in and fly to New York the year before, when Martha went. On her little shopping spree, she’d said, as if he didn’t have sense enough to know that she was going up there to meet Kate. Every Thanksgiving they did the same thing, met in New York, while he stayed home and had pork and beans straight out of the can.
Not that he couldn’t afford to go out to a fancy restaurant and buy a good rib eye. He wanted to punish them both; so he ate all his meals alone with the cat. When Martha got back, he’d always have lost three pounds, and she’d feel sorry for him and spend the next six weeks trying to make up for being gone.
Sneaking behind his back.
He locked the desk and joined Martha in the hall. The opera was Madame Butterfly. Katie Elizabeth loved Puccini. She should be here with them instead of out there in that godforsaken land.
“Kate would have loved this,” Martha leaned over and whispered.
For a minute he started to ignore her, as he always did when she mentioned their daughter’s name. Then he thought of all those little Indian children dying, and no one being there to comfort his Katie Elizabeth.
“Yes, she would,” he said.
o0o
“Kate?” Hollow-eyed, Kate looked up from the medical records she was studying. Deborah set a cup of coffee on her desk, then slid into the chair opposite her.
“I’m staying tonight, Kate.”
“No. I will. The Mingo children are desperately ill.”
“You haven’t slept in three days. If you don’t get some rest, you won’t be any good to any of them.”
Kate’s hands shook as she shoved aside the records and reached for the coffee.
“You’re right. I have to get some rest.” Her stomach clenched as the coffee hit it. She had to get some food as well. Fasting wasn’t going to save her patients.
Nothing could save them. Four new cases, three dead already, and the Mingo children hanging on by a thread.
“What’s happening here, Deborah? The symptoms say hepatitis, but my patients are dying. What am I missing?” She reached for her records, but Deborah put out a hand to stop her.
“Kate ...leave it for tomorrow. Nurse’s orders.”
“Five years ago I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Neither did I. It feels good.” Deborah reached for Kate’s coat. “Wear this. There’s snow on the mountains, and the wind is cold enough to chill your blood.”
“Call me if anything happens, Deborah. Anything.”
“I will. Get a good night’s rest, Kate.”
Kate knew she wouldn’t. Something terrible was stalking the Chickasaw children, and she wouldn’t rest easy until she’d found the answer.
o0o
Cole lay rigid beside Anna, waiting for her breathing to become even. She tossed and turned, but he didn’t reach for her as he always had. Their children stood between them.
“Cole?” Anna whispered, but he pretended to be asleep.
Somewhere in the darkness his children lay in their hospital beds, their little faces pinched with pain and their little arms hooked to tubes. The indignity of their condition rushed through Cole like a storm-swollen river.
Anna rolled back to her side of the bed. The clock in the hallway tolled three times. Would she ever sleep?
He counted off the minutes, each one jarring his nerves. Finally, her breathing became even.
Cole had learned the art of stealth as a child. No one heard him dress; no one saw him leave the ranch; no one saw him arrive at the clinic. Not even the nurse, Deborah. She was bent over papers in the office, her cap askew and her brow puckered in concentration.
“Daddy?”
He could barely hear Bucky’s whisper as it rasped between the pitiful dry lips.
“Everything’s going to be all right, son. Daddy’s here now.”
He was careful unhooking the tubes, careful lifting his precious children from their beds.
“Hold on to Daddy, now. I’m going to make everything all right.”
They clung to him, his beloved Mary Doe and his stalwart little Bucky. Mary Doe whimpered and pressed her hot forehead into his chest.
“Daddy? Where are we going?” The wind caught Bucky’s question and carried it off toward the mountai
ns.
“Feel that, son? Feel the wind? See the stars and the moon?”
Bucky’s nod was weak, and Mary Doe’s arms were so frail. Fear gripped Cole. Was he doing the right thing? For a moment he stood poised between the clinic and the mountains, between the new ways and the old.
He could go either way. It was not too late to turn back. His feet were on the clinic path when Bucky spoke.
“I see the wishing star, Daddy ...I wish I could ride my pony.”
“We will ride and ride and ride, my son. We’ll ride all the way to the stars.”
Carrying his precious burdens, Cole mounted his horse and headed for the mountains.
o0o
Deborah filled her tray with medicine and made the predawn check of her patients. The minute she stepped through the doorway to the ward, she knew something was wrong. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she swept her gaze across the beds. Little Josh Traymore and his brother, Bert, were sleeping soundly, and in the bed next to them, Graham Black Elk dozed fitfully.
A dark cloud that had been threatening rain moved across the sky, and the moon came into view. Its rays illuminated the wrinkled sheets and the empty pillows on the two beds in the corner.
Horror clawed at Deborah’s throat. She raced toward the beds, calling their names.
“Bucky. Mary Doe.”
Calling and calling, knowing they wouldn’t answer.
Her medicine tray fell to the floor with a crash, and she lurched against furniture on her race to the telephone. Who to call? Who to tell?
One person came vividly to mind, one man whose strength and wisdom she valued above all others.
He answered on the first ring with no traces of sleep in his voice.
“Eagle? This is Deborah Lightfoot. The Mingo children are missing.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“What should I do?”
“Don’t alarm anyone. Don’t touch anything. Wait for me.”
The wait seemed to be an eternity rather than the fifteen minutes the clock registered. When he finally walked into the clinic, she fell to pieces.
“It’s all my fault.” She covered her face with her hands and wept. “Kate wanted to stay and I sent her home.”
“Stop it, Deborah.” He took her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “Do you hear me? Nobody is at fault. Cole took the children.”
“How do you know?”
“I read the signs outside.”
“Why?”
“There’s no time for questions now, Deborah. The important thing is to bring them back.”
“They’re so weak, Eagle. Hurry, please hurry before it’s too late.”
And Eagle, riding like the wind, tracking his brother toward a remote mountain cabin, had a vision of two tiny souls winging toward the stars.
Fear rode hard at his side.
o0o
Mary Doe was calling her name. Anna stirred in her sleep then suddenly sat straight up in bed.
“I’m here, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”
She reached out, but no little girl with dark pigtails and dirt smudges on her face raced into her arms.
And then she remembered.
Thunder roared in the hills and lightning flashed. Heavy with grief, Anna turned toward Cole’s side of the bed, only to find it empty.
“Cole?” she whispered. She stepped into her house slippers and padded softly to the bathroom. “Cole?” There was no answer.
The bathroom fixtures gleamed garishly in the harsh light. Anna leaned her head against the cool vanity mirror.
“Bucky,” she whispered. “Mary Doe.”
Nobody answered.
Chapter 20
Sacred fires burned away the wintery winds. Even so, Cole shivered.
Between the sacred fires stood a long pole capped with eagle feathers, and in the line marked by the pole, two smaller wands, their tips painted red. From the upper tips of the small wands fluttered red ribbons, and from the lower tips, black.
In the midst of the sacred circle lay two blankets the color of fire, and upon the blankets lay his children. Still and colorless as death.
The ancient shaman danced slowly around, singing his chants and shaking his gourd rattle. The moon glistened on his bear-claw necklace, and winds caught the eagle feather, flapping it against the pole. The Pishofa ceremony had begun.
Filled with fear and hope, Cole closed his eyes. Smoke from the fires circled his head and the rhythm of the chant invaded his body. As he swayed, he felt the wings of the eagle enfold him and the spirituality of that sacred bird protect him.
“Great Spirit,” he whispered. “I bring my children to You. I place them in Your loving arms and beg You to find them worthy.”
Suddenly the sound of the gourd rattle ceased and the stillness of death fell upon the land. Without opening his eyes, Cole saw the souls of his children ascend toward the stars. He opened his mouth to scream his agony to the heavens.
Lurching upright, he swayed and felt the arms of his brother close around him.
“Cole?” Braced in Eagle’s arms, Cole looked into his brother’s tragic eyes. “It’s over, Cole.”
Chapter 21
One figure stood apart on the windswept hill. The Mingo family gathered close, taking what comfort they could from one another; but Kate stood alone, her coat collar turned up against the chill and her hair whipping in the wind like the colored leaves that swirled around her feet.
Dark circles bruised the fair skin under her eyes and grief hollowed out her cheeks. Eagle ached for her; he ached for them all.
Anna swooned as the earth swallowed up the two tiny caskets. Cole, standing rigid at her side, would have let her fall if Eagle hadn’t caught her.
“Everything is going to be all right, Anna,” he said. Cole’s black, empty stare turned his heart to ice, and Eagle wondered if anything would ever be right in the Mingo family again.
Dovie and Winston came to bear Anna away to the car. Clint, flanked by Wolf and Star, followed. Cole stared down at the cold, raw earth.
“I killed them,” he whispered.
“No, you didn’t.” Eagle put a comforting hand on his brother’s arm. “You did what you thought was best.”
“Anna says I killed her children.”
“It’s her grief talking. She doesn’t mean that.”
“She hates me.”
“Anna loves you. Give her time, Cole. Give yourself time,”
“Time for what, Eagle? Do you think time is going to bring back my children?” Cole’s eyes were dry and hollow as he shook Eagle’s hand off.
A sudden gust of wind howled through the cemetery, whipping the leaves to a demonic frenzy and snatching Kate’s scarf. The bright blue silk landed at Cole’s feet like an exotic bird. Mesmerized, he stared at the scarf, then he jerked his head back and fixed his glittering gaze on Kate.
“It’s her.” His jaw tensed so hard, corded veins stood out on his neck. With quick, jerky movements he picked up the scarf and twisted it round and round in his hand, then he started toward Kate, holding it like a garrote.
Eagle sprang toward his brother, wrapping his arms around Cole’s chest.
“Let me go.”
“Cole . . .” Rage gave his brother the strength of a buffalo. Eagle could barely restrain him. “Cole ...get hold of yourself.”
Watching them, Kate clutched her throat, white-faced.
Suddenly Cole slumped against Eagle, sobbing. “Help me, Eagle. Help me.”
Supporting his brother’s weight, Eagle half walked, half carried him to the car. Turning, he looked back at the lonely hill.
Kate had vanished.
o0o
She sat huddled in her clinic, still wearing her coat. Clumps of red earth clung to her shoes, and her cheeks felt chapped from the wind. Beyond her, in the room where three small patients still fought for their lives, Deborah moved softly, dispensing medicine and soothing words with equal skill.
“Kate?
”
Eagle stood in the open doorway, and cold wind filled the room. In his hand was her silk scarf.
“I brought this back to you.”
He laid it on her desk, watching her. She made no move to touch the scarf. Her strength was gone. She thought she might never move again.
“Are you all right, Kate?”
“I should ask that of you.”
“The Mingos will survive.”
And what of you? Will you survive? she wanted to ask, but what good would it do? She’d given up all claims to him five years earlier.
She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the fatigue. Thinking was so hard.
“You did what you could, Kate. The Mingo family is grateful.”
“Cole?”
“He’s distraught with grief. He’ll come to his senses.”
Kate touched her scarf, touched it and felt the warmth from Eagle’s hand lingering among the silk folds. Clenching it tightly in her fist, she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a crusader’s zeal.
“I’m going to find out what killed them, Eagle. If it’s the last thing I ever do.”
A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw, and the look in his eyes set her skin aflame. Time stopped as they stared at each other, shattered by grief and hopeless passion.
“I hope your God is more generous than mine.”
He left quickly without saying good-bye, and the agony of watching him go was as fresh as it had been the first time.
Kate dropped her weary head to her desktop, wondering where she’d ever find the strength and the courage to survive.
Chapter 22
Mark Grant loved mysteries of all kinds. Murder mysteries were strewn around his office, and at least three of them sported bookmarks so he wouldn’t lose his place.
“How can you read three books at a time?” Grayson Tyler had asked him the day before.
“The same way you can date three nurses at one time. It takes skill.”
The mystery of the Bermuda triangle fascinated him, as well as the “big bang” and the various theories of creation. It was his love of puzzlement that led him to specialize in infectious diseases. Nothing in the field of medicine was more elusive and baffling than infectious diseases.
