Texas Healer Page 2

  Without further goodbye, she peered past Rafe. “Is there a problem?”

  Only that you’re wound tight as a spring ready to pop. “No, no problem. The cabin hasn’t been used in a couple of months, and the pipes have a lot of years on them. Just making sure everything is ready.”

  A brisk nod and she brushed past him. Inside the cabin, she glanced around the single room that was living room-dining room-kitchen.

  “Bedroom and bath are through there,” he said, trying to see the cabin through her eyes. Rustic might be the kindest word she’d use, but the place was clean and sound. People didn’t come out here for the Ritz.

  Although, he amended, maybe this one would wish for it.

  She raked the fingers of her left hand through her hair, but her right hand was wrapped in a brace, held close to her body.

  “You want some help with your luggage?” he asked.

  Absently, she nodded, then walked through the bedroom door.

  You’re welcome. He tossed the rag onto his toolbox. When he picked up her bags, one weighed a ton. Carrying them inside, he asked, “Where do you want them?”

  She emerged through the doorway. “That one—” she pointed to the heavy one “—stays in here. The other one in the bedroom.”

  He shrugged. “The weather’s not very cold yet, except at night. You got a whole winter wardrobe in here?”

  Her nostrils pinched. “Not that it’s any of your business, but those are books and magazines.”

  He glanced at the much lighter, smaller case. What kind of woman brought so few clothes and so much to read? And this one so thoroughly modern. “No tablet or ereader?”

  “I was told internet access is debatable out here in the sticks. I have important professional reading,” she said. “I have to keep up.” For a moment, something clouded her gaze.

  “What kind of profession?” he asked.

  Lost in thought, she took a moment to answer. “What? Oh—I’m a surgeon. Cardiac. That’s the heart.”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I do speak English. They thought it was important at my college.”

  She didn’t smile. “Then why are you—Never mind.”

  “Why am I taking care of a mountain cabin?” He shrugged. “Getting by. What are you doing here? Don’t cardiac surgeons prefer vacationing in places like Cozumel or Aspen?”

  Instead of the retort he expected, he saw her shoulders hunch slightly. Something broken darkened those remarkable eyes just for a moment, then her back went ramrod stiff. “I was in a riding accident and suffered nerve damage to my hand. I’ve been undergoing occupational therapy, but—” She looked away. “My therapist felt a break was necessary, someplace quiet.”

  But she didn’t think so; that much was obvious. Her look was a mixture of resignation and anger and—

  Fear. That was what he saw. She was afraid; that was why she was so brittle. This was a woman running scared.

  Compassion stirred. “Well, you’ve come to the right place for that. These mountains are easy on the mind.”

  “My mind is fine,” she snapped. Then she glanced at him. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m being rude.” Her voice wavered. “It wasn’t my choice. I’m needed there. I have patients who will die if I don’t—” She whirled away, waving behind her. “Just leave the bags where they are. I’ll get them later.” She fumbled through her purse, the movements of her left hand awkward.

  Susto, Abuelita would diagnose. A wounding of the spirit far greater than whatever had happened to her hand. This woman needed more than physical care, but someone like her would be the last one to accept it.

  Rafe had her mark. She, as he had three years earlier, faced losing the life she’d made for herself. Cardiac surgeons were jet jockeys, arrogant enough to take the organ that ruled life or death into their hands. A woman in their ranks would have to be driven. Getting there meant years of intense work and competition. If she was any good, she would have had to surmount many obstacles on her way.

  And for her, like him, in the space of a breath, all had changed.

  His medical knowledge told him that her odds weren’t good. The fine motor skills required for any surgery, much less heart surgery, had to be the best. His own months in physical therapy had shown him just how seldom people returned exactly to their original state.

  The healer in him sized up her battle and wanted to help.

  The hardened soldier knew that she would refuse it.

  So the owner of the cabin decided to let things go for now and simply keep an eye on her. He picked up her bags. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  When she pulled bills from her purse, though, and held them out, all of those men growled as one, “Forget it.”

  That night, after the fourth reading of the same sentence, Diana threw the magazine aside and leaped to her feet. Pacing from sofa to front door and back again, she scanned the bookshelves on which she’d arranged her reading list, but nothing beckoned.

  She turned in a circle, surveying the room, wanting to block out how foreign it all was, wishing she’d brought something, anything, of hers to make this place feel familiar.

  An impersonal hotel room might have been easier. This cabin was too homey, furnished with care if not a lot of money. The arms of the avocado plaid sofa were a little threadbare, the green-and-blue woven rugs on the floor faded with time. The small round maple kitchen table, with its four chairs, sported nicks and scratches. In the center of it sat a stunning clay pot fired in dramatic glazes of deep green and cobalt. She traced the curves at its base. Whoever had made this was an artisan of rare skill. It was both earthy and ethereal, sensual and grounded.

  In it someone had placed flowers and some kind of pungent greenery. The caretaker? He didn’t seem the type for flowers. Too big, too rugged. These weren’t from any florist, though—they’d been picked from someone’s garden, a garden perhaps like one she’d almost forgotten her mother having, back before her father left and cast their lives into chaos.

  Zinnias, that was what the flowers were. Bright round faces in reds and oranges. She had a quick memory of them, sprouting from her mother’s compost pile one year. You can’t kill these things, honey.

  If only her mother had been as hardy as a zinnia, instead of so damn weak she’d leave her daughter at the mercy of fate and a system that could crush her.

  She spied the ancient radio with relief. Desperate for respite from her thoughts and the endless silence, she switched it on. Guitars and a rich baritone sang a song of heartache, of love gone wrong.

  Country music. Diana snorted at the caretaker’s taste. Definitely not her cup of tea, especially not tonight. Jazz was her game, that and Broadway show tunes. She extended one hand to the dial, but before she could change it, something slow and sweet and sad reached down inside and grabbed her, crowding her throat.

  A man so in love with a woman he’d weather any storm, never leave her side. Were there really men like that? Did such love exist?

  Maybe for others, or maybe not at all. Certainly not for her, not that she’d seen. She’d loved her father with everything in her, had done her best to make him as proud as if she’d been that son he’d so wanted. When he’d walked away without a word, he’d broken the part of her that knew how to trust.

  But she’d survived. She’d thrived. Look how far she’d come; look who she’d been—

  Dread’s cold fist crushed her heart. It couldn’t be over. She had too much to do yet. If she couldn’t, if the worst happened—

  No. The worst wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it. She was strong, not weak like her mother.

  Her mother. The weak woman who let her be sent to foster care. Who hadn’t had the courage to live after being left by her husband. Diana sank to the sofa, remembering how scared she’d been. How determined not to show it. She’d marched to her foster home without emotion, already knowing that at the first opportunity, she’d be gone.

  And she had. Four months and two homes later, Diana
was on her own. She’d been smart and careful and avoided the streets. Worked lousy jobs, gone from community college to a full-fledged university, where she’d found her path. Studied hard and hocked herself up to her eyeballs all the way through medical school, to graduate first in her class.

  But accomplishing so much had meant no time to dwell on the past. She’d grown accustomed to being solitary, and seldom allowed herself a thought of how different her life could have been.

  If, on graduation day, she’d longed to have someone there, she hadn’t dwelled on it. And if, on this lonely dark night, Diana wished a little for the comfort of family, well…she had survived a lot of lonely nights.

  She would make it through this night. And the next.

  Until she had her life in order again.

  Chapter Two

  In the morning, hope grabbed a foothold again. She would beat this setback, just as she’d beaten all the others in her life. She’d be back in the surgical suite in no time.

  That settled, Diana walked out on the porch and began her prerun stretches. She’d finished Don’s routine—exercises with the therapeutic putty, such as squeezing the tacky clay with her hand; making it into a tight doughnut shape around her fingers, then spreading them wide. She’d fastened the wide yellow plastic therapy band to the doorknob and rowed to strengthen her shoulders. But she couldn’t let everything else get out of shape. She’d need her stamina more than ever after this extended layoff. Day-long surgical procedures were not for sissies.

  Motion across the pasture caught her eye—a beautiful bay mare and her foal. The baby danced around his mother, little kicks with his hind legs, butts against her side. Finally the mare relented, and the baby began to nurse.

  Within Diana, faint longing flickered. She’d never built her life around fantasies of family as some women did almost from birth, but she guessed she’d always assumed she’d get to that somewhere along the way. She was thirty-six and certainly not out of the game, but she had to admit that motherhood didn’t look likely. The last semiserious relationship she’d had was two years ago. Many men were intimidated by her success or couldn’t tolerate the demands of her career; so be it. She had what she wanted most: her work and her independence. If the rest of it came, fine. If not…

  Her only focus had to be resuming her practice. Not once in her life had she failed to achieve any goal she set; she would not start now.

  Shoving away maudlin thoughts, Diana finished her stretches and headed out for her run. Crisp, cool air stung her skin, a welcome change from the dense, suffocating heat she’d left behind her. Confidence gained new ground as waking muscles burned. For too long she hadn’t been allowed to run for fear of jarring her arm, of disturbing the outrigger splint keeping her fingers from curling into a claw. It had been one more loss to grieve, one more piece of her ordered life ripped out.

  Grief slid away on this bright morning, and in its place, optimism expanded a chest too long weighted with despair. Diana picked up her pace.

  Her head felt a little light, but she pushed herself, giddy and young once more, full of life and vigor. She calculated that she could reach the little house she saw up ahead in less than a minute, and she closed off all other thoughts to concentrate on meeting her goal, proud to be able to rely on her body again.

  The seconds counted down in her head, and she kicked up one more notch when she sensed she wouldn’t make it. A dark arrow speared through her vision, but she ignored it. Ten more yards to the gate—

  Her legs buckled without warning. Diana fell to her knees, throwing her left arm out and tucking in her vulnerable right hand, fighting to keep from toppling.

  Adrenaline shot through her system. Heart pounding, she closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing.

  “Are you hurt, child?”

  Diana jolted.

  “Sh-h…let me look at you.” The old woman’s voice eased something inside her. Serenity was there, deep and sure. And compassion.

  “My…hand,” she managed, still bent over, shaking. “If I hurt it—” Terror rolled over her in waves.

  Warm fingers stroked her forehead. “One deep breath, slow and steady,” the voice urged. “Let go of your fear. It has no place here.”

  For the life of her, Diana couldn’t explain why she believed the woman, but she did. She was the expert, the medical professional, but at this moment, the quaking child inside her heard certainty in this old woman’s voice. Terror released its stranglehold.

  “That’s right,” the woman soothed. “Will you let me touch your hand?”

  Diana opened her eyes and looked into a lined brown face that spoke of pain and deep knowing, of calm strength and peace. Sharp eyes that would never be fooled but did not lie, either, she thought. All the same, she kept her hand tucked close. “There’s no need. I’m fine,” she said, voice still shaky.

  “If you wish,” the old woman said, the soul of patience. She placed one hand on top of Diana’s head.

  Extraordinary warmth flowed over Diana. Without thinking, she allowed the breath she’d been holding to escape, and the sensation slid farther into her body.

  For a few seconds, nothing mattered but this stillness that suffused her. She wanted to draw it into her lungs, to fill her belly with it, to curl up in its shelter and hide away until—

  A dog barked, and Diana’s eyes snapped open. “Who are you?”

  The old woman frowned in concentration and shook her head once. She passed her hand over Diana’s face, hovering a bare inch from her skin, then moved down to scan her torso. Over the center of Diana’s chest, she paused, her frown deepening. “Susto,” Diana thought was the word she muttered.

  What the—

  Diana’s muscles bunched, readying to sit up, to move away from this odd woman.

  The old woman’s eyes popped open. Within their depths, something ancient peered back at Diana, and she shivered.

  The woman sat back on her heels. “You protect your hand as fiercely as you protect your heart.” She laid her hand on Diana’s shoulder. “But there are deep wounds that need healing or you will never reclaim your life.”

  “Who are you?” Diana persisted.

  “Only an old woman who has seen much in her years,” she smiled. “Would you care for a cup of tea on this bright morning?” She struggled to rise.

  Diana stood and extended her good hand to assist. As quickly as possible, she pulled away. “I don’t—thank you, but I should be going. I must—”

  “What is your hurry? Will the day not be long enough for many things?” In the dark eyes, Diana saw a twinkle.

  She stopped in her tracks. Exhaled. “Sorry. Force of habit, always racing to fight the next fire. If it’s not too much trouble, a cup of tea would be nice.”

  The tiny, ancient woman’s smile widened. “Good. We shall enjoy this lovely new morning and all its blessings.”

  Diana was not religious. Having given up on God long ago, she found that talk of spiritual matters made her uncomfortable; yet somehow, coming from this woman, the word blessings didn’t seem dogma but instead a simple acknowledgment that life could bring small joys.

  When was the last time she stopped to notice such joys? As she followed the woman through her gate, a tiny flare of gladness rose, a spark of well-being. She cradled it to her chest the way she protected her vulnerable hand.

  An ancient dog, fat and brown, gray at the muzzle, rose on unsteady legs to greet the woman, then peered past her to Diana.

  “A new friend, Dulcita.” The old woman looked at Diana. “Her name means a small sweet, a name my husband gave her when she was tiny enough to fit in his palm. As you can see from her figure, she is indulged perhaps a little more than is strictly necessary. My Rafael taught her to love treats early in her life, and she adores them still.”

  “Rafael?” Diana asked. “The caretaker?”

  “Is that what he told you?” the old woman smiled, shaking her head. “No, not the same Rafael. That one is my grandson, named
after my late husband.”

  What did the smile mean? But Diana clung to her manners even as she mused. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “As am I,” the woman said. “But he is still alive in me. He has been gone for fourteen years, but he comes to me in my dreams each night.”

  Her voice was soft and tender when she spoke of him, but Diana heard no defeat. She glanced around at the neat, small gray stucco house with its bright turquoise door and coral shutters. The vegetable garden brimmed with shiny red tomatoes and deep-green peppers. Tall lavender hollyhocks and yellow climbing roses lined the fence. This woman obviously missed her husband but wasn’t lost without him as her mother had been when her father left. Everywhere Diana looked, she saw life and abundance, hope and care.

  “You haven’t let his loss break you,” she said.

  The old woman’s eyes widened. “It will be a glorious moment when I can go to him, but I cannot leave yet. There is still one thing left for me to do.”

  Silence fell. The old woman did not explain herself, and Diana felt it wrong to pry. She glanced around for a change in topic. “You have so many plants. I don’t recognize most of them. I’m not much of a gardener,” she said. “I’m Diana Morgan, by the way.” She held out her left hand. Self-conscious, she started to withdraw it.

  The old woman clasped her hand and smiled. Again, Diana felt that odd warmth.

  “And I am Rosaria Sandoval. You are a doctor, are you not?”

  Diana nodded. “How did you know?”

  A small shrug. “Rafael mentioned it. I thought perhaps you might enjoy seeing my medicinal plantings.”

  “You’re into herbal medicine?” She stifled a frown. She didn’t want to offend Mrs. Sandoval, but she’d had her share of patients who’d compromised their health by self-diagnosing with herbal supplements for serious medical conditions.

  Rosaria continued. “It is a tradition of my people going back to the Aztecs. At a time when European medicine was little more than butchery, the Aztec culture had a sophisticated understanding of the weaving of body, soul, spirit and emotions necessary to maintain and heal the body. This medicine is called curanderismo. When the Spaniards came, influenced by the Moors, their traditions were incorporated, as were the healing practices of the Africans brought over as slaves. Over time, the Catholic faith, too, made its mark. Curanderismo is the medicine of the people, and it is still practiced today.”