Nicole Foster - Jake's Angel

“I noticed.”

“I’ll send Chessie along, then. Chessie don’t like it rough, though, and I don’t like the walls or the customers full of lead,” Elish added, starting on the glasses again. “You remember that.”

“You and Chessie don’t have to worry.” Jake threw his battered leather saddlebags over his shoulder as he dragged his bad leg up the uneven stairs. “Not tonight, anyway.”

He heard Elish holler into the curtained room next to the saloon for Chessie and the sound of it grated on him. He didn’t like having to depend on anyone for help, no matter how little. But he didn’t have much choice at the moment.

The room Elish allotted him had the familiar feel of old boots. Nothing fancy, but comfortable, and with the advantage of being secluded from most of the noise of the saloon. Someone had pulled the shades to ward off the sun so the edges of everything looked eroded by the diffused yellow light.

Putting down his bottle by the bed, Jake unbuckled his gun belt and draped it over a chair, tossed his hat and duster on top. He pulled up the shades, leaned against the sill and looked out over the main street of Whispering Creek.

In the valley, the heat warmed the shades of green and brown, softening the outlines of the log-and-rock buildings lining either side of the dirt street, muting the sounds of the town so in a moment of stillness the cicadas sang with the wind. Looking up to the jagged evergreen peaks on either side of town, Jake imagined he could smell the complex warm and sharp blend of ponderosa pine, blue spruce, fireweed, and red clay earth that belonged only to the rugged mountains of the northern New Mexico territory.

If there had been any poetry in him, the moment might have given him a sense of peace. But it only agitated his restlessness, and made him more aware of the ache in his thigh and the time he’d lost because he hadn’t been lucky enough this time to stay out of the way of a bullet.

Jake hated the idea of having to stay in Whispering Creek more than a day or two, but he reluctantly admitted it might be a week or longer before he’d be able to ride so that he could track Grey and finish his business.

Not that Jake had any particular place in Texas to go back to; he’d left San Antonio long ago, forced out by the ghosts of his past. This wild, beautiful country was in his blood though, and that made it easier to keep moving, fast and often enough so he’d never come close to putting down roots. So he’d never make the mistake of calling any place home again.

A tentative knock at the door turned him from the window. A girl with rusty curls the color of Indian paintbrush stuck her head into the room, looking him over as if she expected him to fall down dead at any minute.

“You’re not bleedin’ everywhere, are you?”

“Probably. Get in here,” Jake said, gesturing impatiently. “I need your help.”

Chessie edged into the room and stood with her back pressed to the door. She was a tall girl, plump, with a generous mouth and eager eyes. He imagined that usually, she wasted no time in coming to the men who enjoyed her company. This time, she hung back as if he had the plague.

“I don’t know anything about doctorin’ and I ain’t gonna touch anything that’s bleedin’. I don’t like anybody that much.”

Jake glanced at her white face and decided she meant it.

“Just get me the doctor,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand over his hair, suddenly feeling tired and heavy.

“Doctor?” Her disbelief echoed Elish’s. “A doctor that lives here?”

“Unless you’re going to volunteer to dig this bullet out.”

Chessie’s eyes bulged. “Not me. But there ain’t no doctor here and if there was, he wouldn’t do you no good.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Sure I do. I’ll get the witch for you.”

“You’ll get what?”

“Isabel. The witch. She don’t like bein’ called a witch, and I suppose Elish might be right when he says she ain’t really magic or nothin’, but she can fix ’bout anything and she’s a lot nicer than any doctor. Why, everyone tried to tell me the nettles and cedar Isabel gave me when I had the fever would more ’n likely kill me than cure me, but in just one day I was back workin’.”

“Woman—” Jake lay back on the bed and slung an arm over his eyes, shutting out the sunlight and Chessie’s jabbering about the so-called witch. “I don’t believe in magic or witches. Just get me someone who can cut out a bullet without killing me.”

Chessie looked at him a long moment, chewing on her lower lip. He’d tied a bandanna around midthigh, partly covering a jagged rip in his heavy pants, and she could see the dark patch staining both. Without saying anything, Chessie hurried out to find the witch.

The roadrunner lay quivering in the cradle of Isabel Bradshaw’s palm, one wing hanging limply. Kneeling on the rocky ground, her worn cotton skirts bunched up around her, the hot dry breeze scattering wisps of dark-gold hair around her face, Isabel gently stroked her fingers over the bird’s tiny body, soothing, judging its injuries with her touch.

“It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you,” she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. She ran her fingertips over the roadrunner’s wounded wing, her eyes never leaving the small bird.

“Don’t be afraid, little friend. I only want to help you.”

The roadrunner made a feeble attempt to flutter free and Isabel paused, practicing the way her grandmother had taught her so long ago of using the quiet rhythm of her own body and mind to reassure and calm frightened spirits.

“Mama? Is she all right?”

Turning her attention from the roadrunner, Isabel smiled at one of the two black-haired boys crouched at her side. Matthew looked up at her, his narrow face screwed up with concern, a tremble in his chin. He dragged the back of his hand against his nose, muffling a sniffle.

“Will it live? I knew you could help it so I brought it to you quick as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt it.”

“It’s only because you’re so clumsy with that slingshot, Matt,” the older boy said, giving his brother a push on the arm.

“I’m not clumsy!”

“You are! You couldn’t hit a whole barn if it was a foot in front of you!”

“Nate…” Isabel began, warning him off before a full-fledged battle could ensue.

“Oh, Matt, you’re such a baby,” Nate said, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “You just can’t aim, that’s all. But I knew you could heal it, Mama, so we ran all the way back home.”

“You did just the right thing, Nate. Now both of you, please be still while I finish or you’ll startle this little one. Here, Matt, you can help me. Gently now…”

Fixing her eyes on the bird, Isabel reached into the basket at her side, being careful not to make any quick movements that would startle the small creature. She sensed its pain and fear, and, even more strongly, Matt’s distress, and wanted to do something to quickly ease both.

In a worn leather pouch, she found a bit of lizard tail root. She spread it on a piece of cotton and added a dribble of water from a small bottle before folding the cloth into a square.

Then taking Matt’s small hand in hers, she guided him to caress the bird’s head and body while she bound the poultice to the bird’s wing with a strip of cloth.

“Speak quietly to her. There…that’s right…”

“You’ll soon be well, little bird, and running with your friends again,” Matt whispered. He began to hum softly to the roadrunner, one of his favorite bedtime lullabies.

Isabel smiled, watching him pet and soothe the bird. After a few minutes, she felt the timid creature settle easily into her hand, its heartbeat slowing, its eyes no longer frightened. Her greater reward, though, was seeing the beginning of hope on Matt’s face.