Enchanted Heart (25 page)

“I think so too,” Greta admitted, staring at the wedding ring that still adorned her hand. Not since losing her Gunnar had she felt the warm, overpowering sentiment of love in her broken heart. But now, she felt it. She felt it every time Buck looked at her, every time he touched her, no matter how slight and accidental the contact might have been. She felt the spark of attraction, the electrifying emotion that spread throughout her body as if his touch was a lightning bolt of passion sent from his heart to hers.

“And I think that I might love him,” she whispered, as if her words, if not her feelings for Buck, might forever eclipse her love for Gunnar.

Marty’s face lit up with joy at the news and she asked, “Are you sure? Are you finally ready to love someone again?”

Greta nodded and smiled, a distant expression on her pretty face, “Yes. Buck is so caring and so gentle with me.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Marty admitted, remembering all the times that she had caught him holding her hand and whispering into her sister’s ear while Greta slept. “I think that he would realize that you care for him if you take that wedding ring off.”

Greta looked again at her finger and then nodded, “I suppose you are right.”

She twirled it round and round her finger of love, reliving her time with Gunnar. The magnificent wedding, the wonderful pregnancy with her beautiful Seraphina, and finally the tragic demise of the husband who had, in her eyes, pushed aside all that they possessed together to fight a war that she felt was not his to fight. But, his actions had not lessened her love for Gunnar, only made her realize that she and Seraphina were not the only thing upon which her husband had been focused. Her love for him saw through that inane, inherent need that seemed to have overtaken him, that yearning to be a part of something that was larger than he, larger than his life with his family, and larger than life itself. Her love for him was so intense that when she received word that Gunnar had been killed by the Confederates, she had vowed to never let it fade away.

But, time has a way of changing one’s mind and one’s heart, she thought as she slipped the golden ring from her finger and handed it to her sister saying, “Here, take it and put it with the letters and poems. We’ll keep it all for Seraphina.”

“Sera Dear,” Marty corrected with a laugh as she took the ring and slid it onto her pointing finger.

Greta laughed with her sister, but the misery of missing her daughter was becoming harder to bear than the physical pain in her body.

“I’m sure she is well,” Marty said as if reading her sister’s mind. “Caid promised to get her to Fort Concho safely.”

“I know,” Greta replied with a nod. “But I miss her so. I wonder if she is crying for her mama.”

“Don’t think about things like that,” Marty told her with a pat on her shoulder.

“I can’t help it,” Greta argued with a pout. “I’m her mother.”

She stopped before she said that Marty wouldn’t understand. Knowing that the statement would upset her sister, she refrained from reminding Marty that she could not be a mother herself. She sighed instead and smiled, saying, “I know she is safe.”

Marty bent to kiss Greta’s forehead, mentally thanking her for not saying the words that she knew her sister was thinking. Then she pulled Mama’s quilt, which was freshly laundered by the Comanche maid, up to rest beneath Greta’s chin and smoothed it down with the palms of her hands.

“Now, you get some rest and maybe tomorrow you can sit in a chair in the sunshine.”

“I’d like that,” Greta mused with a sleepy smile. Then she closed her eyes and slept.

Marty picked up the stack of papers and left her to go downstairs to help in the kitchen and to introduce herself to the Comanche maid, for the elusive woman seemed to disappear into the shadows every time Marty wanted to meet her. She strolled past the examination room and peeked inside to see if Linda might be there, but she only saw the table and instruments that Buck used and a black bag that looked exactly like the one that he had left at the cabin. She closed the door and started to look for the Comanche woman again. But, when she passed the office door, she heard Buck call her into the room.

She sat where he had indicated and he took off his spectacles to look at her before he asked, “Marty, do you have prolonged bleeding during your monthly cycle?”

It would have been an embarrassing question if a doctor had not asked it of her, so she answered without mortification, “Yes, sometimes.”

“And Greta? Does this happen to her?”

“I think so,” she answered.

“What did your doctor prescribe for it?”

She shook her head, “I don’t remember—a powder that I steeped in boiling water. But I ran out of it months ago and I never asked him for more. Does it make a difference?”

“Not really,” Buck said with a shake of his head. “It was probably Cranesbill or Trillium. There are modern remedies but most doctors here in these parts rely on herbs and other preparations that have been used by the natives for centuries. I’ll give you a fresh supply if you would like it.”

“Thank you,” Marty said with a smile, for the tea really did help with her long menstrual cycles. Suddenly, she remembered being dosed with that same tea every time she had miscarried. The thought was chased away by Buck’s next question.

“You told me that your brother died of bleeding internally.”

“Yes, that is what my parents said,” Marty told him, now wondering where his questioning was leading.

“Have you ever heard of hemophilia?” he asked, staring at her intently.

“No,” she said flatly, yet her brow flew up in question.

“It is a hereditary disorder that is passed on by the mother,” he began to explain. “It is very rare that the daughter inherits it, and in your case, it must be that your father had it and either your mother has it or is a carrier. In most cases, the daughter will be a carrier if the mother was. It is very probable that both you and Greta are one of those rare cases where it is passed to the daughter. I’ll have to take some blood and inspect it in a microscope to be sure.”

“Will we die?” Marty asked with fear in her voice.

“It could be that yours is a mild case,” he explained. “You see, when Greta had her accident and the bleeding couldn’t be stopped, I suspected that she might have the disease. Even though the wound was repaired, the bleeding still seeped. It took another poultice of white oak bark to stop it.”

“The same powder that Caid had used,” Marty mused aloud.

“Yes, but since hers is a mild case, it was fairly easy to control,” Buck explained.

Marty thought for a moment before she queried, “Why didn’t we know about this before? Why did my parents not know about it?”

Buck shrugged. Then he said, “Well, with small cuts or bruises, the affliction is not really noticeable. And with larger wounds, you would not have bled faster or harder than others, just longer. Your blood is not thinner, it just lacks the clotting agent that most people have.”

He drew in a breath before he explained, “When the syndrome is more prevalent, that is in boys, it can be deadly. A person could bleed to death if it is not diagnosed quickly. An internal wound would be very hard to detect.”

“So my brother had it also,” Marty mused. “And my grandfather…”

“And very likely, your son,” Buck said gravely.

“My son,” she said after sucking in a breath of fear.

“It is possible that he would have been born and would have lived a normal life, but the trauma of traveling through the birth canal might have triggered the bleeding in his brain, and ultimately killing him.” Buck explained. He went on to say, “And it will be likely that any son that, either you or Greta will give birth to, will inherit the disease, and if they are not careful, they will die at an early age. Seraphina, too, might be a carrier and her sons will inherit the disease.”

“How awful!” Marty exclaimed. “Do you mean that if I ever have another child, a son, that he could die, just like…?”

It suddenly occurred to her that she had never named the child that she had buried in the family cemetery in the woods on her estate. The poor lifeless child had merely been prayed over in his miniature wooden casket and then covered with a blanket of hard, Texas soil. A simple wooden cross marked with the name “Ingram” announced that someone of the family had been placed under its care.

“Not all sons inherit the affliction,” he assured her. “Queen Victoria has four sons and only Leopold, inherited it. So, there is a chance that you will have healthy sons.”

“The Queen is a carrier?” Marty asked with surprise.

Buck nodded and added, “Two of her daughters, Beatrice and Alice are also carriers.”

Marty drew in a breath of relief before she said, “I suppose it is a chance that we will have to take.”

“I wouldn’t discourage you having more children in the future, or Greta, for that matter,” Buck said. “But, you will have to take to your bed the moment that you know that you are pregnant so that you won’t jostle the baby inside you, even if it is a girl. You seem to have a problem keeping the fetus implanted. That means no unnecessary walking or working.”

Then, he saw the ring that he had seen on Greta’s finger, which was now on Marty’s hand and he said, “I’m sure that Greta would want to remarry someday and have more children. She didn’t seem to have a problem with her daughter, but she will have to also take it easy, just in case. And as you have told me, you are headed in that direction.”

“Well, Caid did propose to me,” she said, looking at the ring that she had placed on the first finger of her right hand. “Greta wanted me to keep this for Seraphina.”

“I see,” Buck said, realizing the implications that Marty’s possession of the ring indicated. “So, you two have been talking.”

Marty smiled and nodded, saying, “She is ready to begin a new life.”

“Well, that’s damn good news,” he said, slapping his hands on the top of his desk. Then he stood up and walked around the desk to place a hand on her shoulder before he assured her, “Everything’s going to work out, for both of you.”

“I hope so,” she said, full of emotion.

“Things always seem to work out for the best,” Buck mused as if to himself.

Marty could tell that he was not speaking about her or her sister’s health situations, so she reached out to him and asked, “Something terrible happened to you to make you give up your profession, didn’t it?”

After a long pause while Buck decided if he was ready to talk about it, he finally sighed and nodded, “I lost my wife three years ago. I was off visiting the village where Sunny and Hunts-with-a-knife live and she took ill. Of course, there was no other doctor in town, so all Linda could do was to keep the fever at bay until it finally killed my Tess.”

“Linda?” Marty interrupted with a questioning expression.

“Linda Blue Sky, my house maid. The Comanche woman, remember? She came to live with me after her husband died,” he said, causing her to recall the elusive Indian woman who seemed too shy to speak to her and who vanished from sight and mind when she was not doing her job. Silently, Linda brought food to the dining room table or up to Marty’s sick bed. Quietly, she moved around the house, cleaning and dusting like a moth that flits toward the light, flutters about and then disappears into the blackness of the night again. Occasionally, she would raise her dark brown eyes to connect with Marty’s, but would instantly dart them away, turning around to hide the reluctant smile that creased her pudgy face. But for the most part, Linda was invisible as if, despite the house staying clean and the food being prepared, she never really existed, a figment of Marty’s imagination.

Marty’s mind returned to the conversation while Buck continued, “After that, I gave up doctoring. I asked for a replacement, but the only man brave enough to come here was called away a year ago on family business. He hasn’t been back since. Most folks around here have learned to take care of the minor medical problems and they only come to me when it is an absolute emergency. Unless I’m holed up in my cabin.”

“Will you return to work now that you’ve been forced into it?” Marty asked with a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I suppose I could give it a try,” he drawled. “And if it don’t work out, I can always head back up the mountain again!”

Marty laughed. She was glad that he had not stayed upset after he had explained to her the reason for leaving the medical profession and she was also relieved that he was not angry at her for making him tell her. Then she realized that his heart had recovered from his loss and that he had already fallen in love with her sister, a shining example that love can heal wounds that seemed too painful to mend.

Buck left her to her thoughts and he bounded up the stairs to the first room at the top of the landing and woke Greta up with his excited, booming voice.

Marty could not help but laugh at the gruff man who had saved her sister’s life and had been smitten by the woman who was her mirror image to a certain point, yet whose personality was completely different from her own. While she, herself, was bold and ready to take charge in any situation, Greta was meek and mild, soft and gentle. And even though they looked exactly alike, the traits that attracted the men in their lives to them seemed to be the deciding factor in who ultimately found each of them irresistible.