Homecoming

Earlier, when he set up the milking stool beside the cow and motioned for her to do Hattie’s usual morning task, she did so without hesitation. And she did as expert a job as his mother.

He thought of having her weed the garden while he worked in the barn, but didn’t want her wandering around alone with access to the horses. So he showed her how to muck out the stalls and she worked alongside him.

Her face remained expressionless as she mastered the heavy shovel and then spread fresh hay with a pitchfork.

It wasn’t until he looked over his shoulder and saw her wince that he remembered how she’d burned her palms earlier in the week.

He cursed himself even as he took away the pitchfork. Setting it aside, he turned his palms up, then signed for her to do the same. In the square of light streaming in from the small window over the stall, she looked young and vulnerable, but there was no fear in her eyes.

The shadowed confines of the barn seemed to shrink around them as he stared down into her unfathomable, sky-blue eyes. His heart stuttered and then found its rhythm again.

Thankfully, her lashes lowered as she looked down, cutting off the startling connection between them. She rotated her hands until they were palms up and he noticed that she’d reopened two blisters, one on each palm.

Hattie was not going to be pleased.

He motioned for her to follow him and led her out of the barn. Back in the house, he heated water and made her wash her hands with strong soap while he went after Hattie’s rag bag and bottle of linseed oil.

He had her sit on the edge of the settee. Although he’d tended many wounds—those of hired cowhands, Hattie’s, his own—he hesitated before taking Deborah’s hands in his.

He chose the softest rag to apply some of the oil to the palm of her hand. At first she flinched, but he held tight to her hand and she gradually relaxed as he spread the oil lightly over her palm. Even kneeling before her, he was still taller. He stared at the part in her hair.

With Hattie down, the girl had combed and braided her hair in the Comanche way—parted down the middle. She’d wrapped the ends with white twine.

He reckoned Comanche women were not unlike their white counterparts when it came to gewgaws. Even the precious Comanche clothing she’d tried to save had been adorned with fringe, shells and colorful beadwork.

Despite the fact that she’d been exposed to the sun and was no stranger to work, her small hands were feminine. As he held them gently and slowly wrapped them in strips of cloth, he found it wiser to think about the thick braids draped over her shoulders than the warmth of her flesh against his.

Though he had dispensed with the chore as quickly as possible, by the time he went to see to Hattie, half the day was gone.

A sensation of helplessness assailed him as he watched his mother shiver uncontrollably.

“Deborah?” Hattie asked after the girl through chattering teeth.

“She’s right here, Ma.”

He motioned Deborah forward and noticed she kept her bandaged hands behind her back. While the girl stepped up beside the bed, he hurried down the short hallway to his own room, ripped the top quilt off his bed and carried it back to drape over his mother.

Deborah was leaning over Hattie with her hand pressed to his mother’s forehead.

“She’s…opened her blisters? They were almost healed.” Hattie’s eyes were closed but she’d felt the rag bandages.

“I rewrapped ’em.”

“I see.”

Had his mother just smiled? He wondered if the fever was making her delirious.

“You want anything to eat?” he asked her. “I can make you some broth.” He glanced at the empty teacup on the spindle-legged table beside the bed. “How ’bout some more chamomile tea?”

Hattie bit her lips together and shook her head no.

“Just leave me be. I’ll be fine once this passes.”

He knew what to do for wounded stock. Knew how to mend fences and ride herd. He could add a room to the cabin, plow up her garden plot, even cook up a meal of beans and corn bread.

Right now, though, he was at a loss.

“I’ll be fine, Joe. Just let me sleep.”

With a sigh, he gave up. He was halfway out the back door and headed for the corral when he realized he’d forgotten all about the girl. He made a quick about-face and realized, too late, that she was still dogging his heels.

He ran smack into her, nearly knocking her to the floor. As she reeled backward, he lunged and managed to grab hold of her with both hands before she fell. Momentum drove her hands straight into his diaphragm and she knocked the air out of him.

Unable to let go, he gasped like a fish out of water but came up short for a couple of seconds. Deborah reared back and wriggled out of his hold. When he finally recovered, he noticed she was watching him with a new wariness in her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he told her, trying to allay the fear he saw on her face, even as he wondered why assuring her suddenly mattered. He was turned around, headed for the barn again when there was another tug on his sleeve.

“What?”

Mute, she silently stared up at him. He waited.

“Hattee-Hattee,” she said softly.

“It’s Hattie. Just Hattie. Not Hattee-Hattee.”

She nodded. “Hattee-Hattee.”

“She’s sick.” He mimed shivering, then puking.

The girl looked at him as if he suddenly had mind sickness himself. Finally, understanding dawned and she nodded. “Sick.”

He started toward the corral again. She tugged on his sleeve.

“What?”

She tapped her bodice where her heart was, just the way Hattie did when she taught the girl her name.

“I heelp.”

“No. You’re Deborah.”

“Deborah heelp.”

“You what?”

“Heelp.” She tried again. “Help.”

Then she pointed toward the open rangeland. “Go. Help.”