Jake's Angel. Nicole Foster

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      “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.

      “It looks better. Is it?”

      “Much. She’s only bruised. She just needs a little rest, that’s all.”

      “I think she likes me.”

      “She likes your touch,” Isabel said, watching Matt stroke the roadrunner’s sleek feathers. “And that’s one of the most important parts of healing. You are doing it exactly right. In a few days, I promise you, she’ll be running with the wind again.”

      “Can we take her home until then? Please, Mama?”

      “Matt, we have so many of your wounded animal friends at home we need another house just to keep them all.” Isabel relented at the pleading on Matt’s face, unable to deny him. “All right,” she agreed, smoothing back an unruly lock of his hair, smiling. “She can stay a few days, until she’s fully healed. Now, I should take this little one inside and you should get on to the meeting house before Aunt Katlyn misses you for lessons.”

      Making sure they had their books and lunch pails, Isabel hugged them both, then watched them scamper off in the direction of the rustic cabin that served as both community center and schoolhouse. She gathered up the roadrunner and rose to her feet, smiling a little at her boys’ energy and their faith in her healing skills.

      Matthew and Nathan were all she had left of her marriage—the best part, she’d decided.

      Douglas Bradshaw hadn’t left her much when he decided the promise of gold, whiskey and women in California appealed more than a series of failed prospecting ventures and raising a family in Whispering Creek. Isabel could admit now that her marriage to Douglas had been a farce from the beginning. He’d wanted someone to nurse him through a bad bout of influenza, to clean, cook and care for his stepsons after his wife died. And she’d longed for someone to love, to give her the complete family she’d never had.

      She had trusted him with her dreams and he had lied to her.

      But this past winter, with snow piled to the windows and the smokehouse and root cellar practically empty, when the high country was at its fiercest, the torn and smudged letter arrived telling her Douglas had died in a drunken fight with another miner.

      In that moment she remembered very little of the caring she once felt for him. Regret, yes, that Matthew and Nathan had not only lost both their parents but a man they thought would be a father, and a lingering ache at Douglas’s abandonment. But in her heart, Isabel had been a widow since the day just over a year ago when Douglas left suddenly after telling her he couldn’t stomach the prospect of a lifetime stuck in Whispering Creek with her, her grandmother, and his late wife’s children.

      But of all the regrets she had about her marriage, Isabel never rued Douglas’s leaving behind his two stepsons. She might not have birthed them, but in her heart Matt and Nate were no less her own. Along with her grandmother and her half sister Katlyn, they were part of her family now and she would СКАЧАТЬ