This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [85]
The afternoon dragged on. To Summer and Sadie waiting beneath the cottonwood it seemed forever. This was the place, Summer thought, where Slater and I first . . . It would be the place where . . . She wished she had told him what she suspected. What she was almost sure of. He would have thrown back his head and laughed, picked her up, whirled her around and around and said this was the first of a dozen. Dear God, don’t let it be that he’ll never know.
When the horses were first sighted, Summer wanted to run to meet them, but Sadie held her back.
“Jack’s goin’, honey. Save your strength.”
When Summer first saw Slater it took all her willpower to keep from crying out. The man who lay there looked nothing like the one who had kissed her and smiled and said he would be back in a couple of days. His eyes were sunk back into his head, his lips were puffed and parched, and the week’s growth of beard on his face did nothing to keep the hollows in his cheeks from showing. He was tied to the travois with a blanket, and in his delirium waved his arms and rolled his head from side to side.
“We’d better take him to the Keep.” Jack spoke calmly and his unruffled voice had a soothing effect on Summer.
She glanced back toward the house. Ellen waited on the porch.
“Yes. Let’s take him home, Jack.”
Tom and one of his drovers came to take the ends of the travois.
“We’ll spell ya to the creek,” he said.
Summer walked alongside the strecher.
“I’ll do more good stayin’ with . . . her,” Sadie said.
“I know how you feel about Ellen. You can come with me.”
“No. Me and the kids will stay here. You go on and don’t be worryin’ ’bout a thing over here. And . . . Slater’ll be all right.” She squeezed Summer’s arm. “I just know it!”
Tears filled Summer’s eyes. She stumbled on the rough ground, but kept going.
When they reached the ranch house, Teresa came to meet them. The Mexican woman’s face showed her concern. This gringo was as dear to her as her own children. She had nursed him through childhood illnesses, and injuries she couldn’t even remember. Now he needed her again. She issued crisp orders to a girl, then sent for her son-in-law, who spoke the Apache language.
Slater was taken to his room and lifted gently onto the bed. When all had left the room but Summer and Jack, Teresa went to work. Summer stood helplessly by, until a girl came in with a basin of hot water followed by another with a stack of clean bandages. After that, she and Teresa worked together, first washing and bandaging the wounds after they had been smeared with a smelly salve, and then washing the rest of him.
Summer squeezed water from a cloth onto his dry lips and into his mouth. Hoarse sounds came from his throat as if he were reliving the cruelties that had been done to him.
Bermaga and Teresa’s son-in-law, Santi, came to stand at the foot of the bed.
“Bermaga say the señor’s hands are burned. Bad white man hold them over fire.” A cry came from Summer’s lips before she could stop it. “Pulp from healing cactus is under cloth. Say burns are mostly on back and sides. Bermaga say leave cloth until he can bring more cactus in two days.” Santi listened to something Bermaga was telling him. “He say hands will be good again.”
Teresa nodded her approval. “I have heard of the healing cactus. Tell him I would like to have a plant.”
Santi talked to the Indian. Bermaga listened, but didn’t take his eyes off the still form on the bed. When he spoke, it was slowly and in an even, dispassionate tone.
“He has named you Healing Woman, Madre Politica, and will bring plant. He says ribs are broke and he wrap tight.”
Teresa nodded knowingly. “He did right, we will do the same.”
“He brought powder to take away the pain and make fever go away.”
Teresa now looked at the Indian with more respect, and said something rapidly in Spanish to Santi, who translated to Bermaga. As they started to leave the room, Summer