4

Teresa could feel Johnny's eyes on her as she stopped a little way from him and crouched down. She was determined not to give him eye contact and instead opened the bag by its large brass clasp and looked inside. She moved away some of the heavier objects, carefully, so they would not be revealed to those prying blue eyes, and pulled out a long gossamer piece of cream silky cloth. It floated behind her as she rose and crossed to the tree. Johnny's eyes were now fixed firmly on it; he looked entranced by its delicate softness. It was obvious that it had been sent from back east and was out of place in this wild land.

Teresa knelt by him and grasping the flimsy material in both hands and stretched it taut, calculating its length. She figured it was just long enough to go around his body twice and was soft enough not to chafe beneath his shirt. She grinned wryly at his uncharacteristic silence. Maybe he was too surprised at what her bag had revealed to make a comment or maybe it reminded him of something or someone. He sure seemed to have a faraway look in his eyes. One day, perhaps he would tell her some of the secrets from his past.

Johnny was clutching his ribs again; he really looked a pitiful sight. How was she going to get him to release his grip to get the cloth round him? Could he even raise his arms enough for her to bind him? If she were quick about it, she might be able to forestall any questions from him about the material. She decided on a direct approach hoping he would be too startled to argue.

"Raise your arms."

As soon as he obeyed her with some difficulty and a fair amount of grumbling, she pulled open the shirt and keeping it in place with her elbows, threaded fine cloth around his waist. Her eyes lingered over the bruising and she had to resist the temptation to brush the tips of her fingers over the swollen area on his side and chest beneath the wiry dark hair. The bruising seemed to extend past his gun belt; no wonder he was having difficulty climbing and bending. She wondered how she was going to get him back into the buckboard-was he resilient enough to put up with the discomfort such a movement would cause? She contemplated asking him to remove his gun belt so she could see how much further the bruising spread, but knew that he would tell her that a gunfighter never removes his gun belt outdoors. There was still a lot of Johnny Madrid firmly ingrained in his character. So instead, she apologised.

"I'm sorry I can't do more than bind you up; it looks very sore. You know you ought to have let that vet take a look. I am no nurse; I'll just do the best I can here. All right, brace yourself."

When she pulled tight to knot it in place he hissed in pain.

"Sorry – I'm sure you will start to feel better soon, now that your ribs are bound."

"Feels like a lasso round me." Johnny was gasping the words out through tightly clenched lips.

"I think maybe you need to relax a little." Teresa secured the knot and pulled down the shirt then leant back on her heels so that Johnny had room to breath more easily and so that he could work on fastening the buttons. "You should feel more comfortable," she stated with more conviction than she felt.

Gradually his breathing seemed to regulate till he was finally able to rest his head back against the tree trunk. He peered at her through strands of hair damp with sweat.

"Better?"

He nodded in response and Teresa felt he was holding something back. She wondered if it was another lot of questions about her friend and her bag.

"I'll get you some water, the other canteen is still full."

He nodded again and then shifted a little as if to make himself more comfortable. Taking the bag with her, Teresa retrieved the canteen from the buckboard, and returned to press it into Johnny's hands. She watched him drink, thirstily from it, gulping the cool liquid down like a horse at a trough. He didn't take his eyes from her as he drank, as if she was a puzzle he needed to work out.

He handed the canteen back for her to take a swallow and wriggled around some more, "Teresa, you done a good job. Feels a deal better now. I think maybe I'm ready to get back up there."

His voice sounded full of confidence but that was belied by the expression on his face as he tried to get his legs under him to rise. She dropped her bag in order to free her hands to support him by his armpits and with her help, he managed to stand without much effort.

"I need to get moving so's I don't stiffen up," he told her, brushing her away and testing his balance.

She stepped back to give him room, musing that sometimes he was so much like a wild animal it was a surprise he had remained living with them for so long. She kept herself poised ready to give him further support, all the while hoping he wouldn't need it.

Sure enough, he managed to get the balance to take a step towards her.

She hovered by his side till he reached the haven of the buckboard where he leant triumphantly and smiled at her in satisfaction.

Teresa picked up her bag and placed it carefully into the back. She looked over at the raised bench seat and sighed.

"Now all we have to do is get you up there."

Teresa hoped she would be strong enough to support Johnny's weight enough to get him up to the seat. If she wasn't, she would have to try getting him onto the back of the buckboard and she was sure he would not appreciate that. He looked quite small really, but she knew he was a lot sturdier and heavier than one would expect. Nevertheless, he had a sore arm and an injured leg and bruised ribs to contend with. Furthermore, she still had to locate the wound that had caused the bloodstain on his jacket. She was beginning to regret her earlier frivolous treatment of his injuries. If she had taken them seriously, she would have never allowed him to drive.

"Do you think you can do it?"

Johnny looked up at the seat and took in a deep breath to prepare himself for the effort of raising his leg and putting pressure on the one that hurt. He reached up to clasp the rail and tried to muffle the hiss that issued from his mouth.

Before she could react, he was a heap in a cloud of dust on the ground at her feet. The dust seemed to hover for a moment above him, before settling on his clothes and face, coating his long eyelashes.

He lay still for a second before moaning, a small defeated sound. She thought she could hear a stream of Mexican and American expletives; muffled on her account to be sure. The blue eyes revealed themselves in the smudge of his face as he turned his head to look at her, daring her to comment, to make a smart remark. Teresa clamped her mouth shut, bit her lip, and turned away to allow him to regain a more dignified position. When she next looked, he was upright once more and brushing the dust from his studded pants with his hat. Looking for the entire world like a saddle tramp, he straightened up, replaced his hat, wiped his face with the right sleeve of his dirty shirt and lifted a leg slowly up to the step.

She watched him grip the rail again and take a few deep breaths to combat the ensuing agony. She moved closer. However, before Teresa could help him, he had levered himself up on to the bench where he sprawled gasping for a few seconds, eyes clenched shut and knuckles white where he gripped the seat with his good hand.

She waited patiently and quietly till he calmed enough to pull himself upright, then she climbed up beside him.

"Do you want to wait a while before we start off?"

It was all he could do to nod and grunt in agreement, bent over as he was. She couldn't see his face, but she suspected it was pale and damp with effort and pain.

"Where is it hurting?"

"Everywhere. Specially my shoulder. And my ribs."

Teresa wished she had something she could give him, willow bark tea, arnica…but there was nothing so useful in her bag. When she left Lancer that morning, she hadn't planned on playing nursemaid to her adopted brother. She had only had one thing on her mind.

She waited patiently until he indicated his readiness to continue. She clicked at the horse, raised the lines, and tried to set up slow steady pace avoiding holes and bumps in the track. Johnny was a silent companion and time seemed to pass slowly. However, it was not long before Teresa noted the light beginning to fade in the east; there was no way they would reach Lancer before nightfall. Her heart sank. How would they manage through the night out here? She was not used to living rough though the prospect did not scare her, having spent time out doors with her father often enough. She was concerned about caring for Johnny and his injuries overnight. The sooner they were at Lancer, the happier she would be. When she pointed out to Johnny that it would soon be sundown, he looked carefully around to see exactly where they were. He reminded her that they were really not far from an old line shack, which would provide an adequate if not luxurious refuge for them for the night.

Reassured, Teresa urged the horse on towards their goal before it got too dark to see.

The line shack was a modest log and sod affair and had fallen into disuse. However, it was sturdy enough to provide protection against the elements, and curious wild animals. Teresa was sure there would be a pump, wood, a stove, and a hopefully pallets on the floor - or at least blankets. If they were lucky, there might even be a couple of beds.

They reached it just as the sky was reddening in the west casting a glow on the scrub land around, filtering through the cedars to cast streaks of light onto the woodwork. As Teresa dismounted she thought it looked almost romantic, a deserted hut in a rosy hue in an arboreal haven, lightened even more by the singing of a mockingbird. She brushed the road dust from her skirt and followed the mites as they were lit by the fading sunlight, and she stretched, lengthening her own shadow even further. She patted the horse, and looked around for a place to tether it.

As if he had read her mind, Johnny waved a hand and muttered, "Round back," then proceeded to manoeuvre himself around and into a position ready to get down and join her. Again, she was too late to get over to help, and before she could move to him, he had launched himself off the buckboard to the ground where he fell in an ungainly bundle of limbs. Teresa could not help but smile, Johnny was usually so graceful and athletic particularly when mounting or dismounting. He lay for a moment staring up at her, then sense of humor returning he chuckled, "This sure is getting old. Help me up." She grabbed his good arm and hauled him to his feet. He swayed for a moment then with determination, headed for the shack.

Teresa led the horse round the back where she unhitched it and removed the harness. The poor animal was sticky and dusty and in need of food and water. She realised then that she was hungry, and was sure Johnny was as well. She wondered where she would find food here. It was already getting too dark to fish or lay traps. Still, she knew how resourceful Johnny could be and was sure he would think of something. She rubbed the horse down with some long grass, combed it through and then led it to the trough which she pumped full of water so that it could drink. Then she tied it on a long rope, fetched her bag, the saddlebag and the canteens from the buckboard and went into the shack to find Johnny.

She opened the heavy door to find the interior comfortably lit by an oil lamp and Johnny by the rusted iron stove lighting the sticks of wood inside. He blew on the tiny flame, pushed the door shut, shook the match, let it drop to the floor then stood back gingerly. His leg was obviously giving him some trouble and he still held his left arm close against his ribs as if to give them extra support.

He turned as she let the door swing shut and told her to look on the shelves for coffee and a pot or pan, adding that line shacks normally had an emergency stock of victuals-dried stuff on the whole, maybe some cans of tomatoes or beans. She dropped the canteens and saddlebag onto the dirt-encrusted table and went to the back wall where there was a row of sturdy but well-worn shelves.

In amongst the tobacco and the whiskey bottles, she found a couple of small sacks, one containing coffee and the other some sort of hardtack. A further perusal revealed some rusty cans and a coffee pot, which she took to the pump to clean out. The pump itself was stiff but being loathe to ask Johnny to work it, she steeled her muscles and managed with effort to release a trickle of water. By the time she returned to Johnny at the other end of the shack's only room, she found him seated on a rickety old chair and bent over onto his knees. He had shrugged out of his jacket and had removed his hat so she was able to see a brown stain of blood on the collar of his pink shirt by the knot of his neck. He must have cut the back of his head when he fell.

There was no sound save for his deep breathing as his blew air out from between his lips, and the crackling of the fire licking the dry sticks in the stove.

"Seems this shack hasn't been much used lately."

Johnny grunted in resignation and raised his head stiffly to look up at her. He smiled.

"We'll manage. Should be able to find enough wood to keep the stove burning all night - could get a mite chilly up here."

Encouraged by his optimism, Teresa set about making coffee. It was nothing like the well-equipped kitchen she was accustomed to at Lancer where there was every new fangled device. Murdoch loved his food and required it to be well prepared, often urging her to experiment with recipes. Since the arrival of Scott and Johnny at the ranch, she had found more ways to cook beef than there were weeks in a year. She put the pot on the stove and cast around for cups. They were used to taking coffee from fine china, purchased by Scott's mother all those years ago. She could only find one old tin mug, which they would have to share. She rinsed the spiders and dust out of it and set it on the table with a sigh.

"You never been in a line shack before, Teresa?" Johnny was looking at her quizzically, a smirk playing about his lips.

"A couple of times, yes. But I will never get used to them. They are so uncomfortable."

"Yep, it can get a mite lonely, but then there are the stars to look at in the night, trees in the day. Breathing in the cool air and smelling the sweet cedars and eucalyptus. Sit out there, smoking tobacco in a clay pipe, strumming on a guitar-time to make up some tunes with no one to disturb you. Fine bottle of tequila by your side. Listen to the owl hooting. Sometimes it can calm a man's soul to be alone awhile. Got to keep your eyes open for the mice though."

His voice had softened and she looked at him, marvelling at how a man of so few words could come over so poetic at times. He kept so much of himself hidden from his family, that when he let something slip like this it was like a streak of sunlight revealed by a break in the clouds.

"What can we eat? There's a can of tomatoes I could heat that up, better than nothing I guess. I think the other can might be beans. The other stuff looks unappetising. I could go out and try shoot something if you'll let me have your gun."

He laughed. It was a feeble sound, but nevertheless raised her spirits enough for her to continue, "I'm sure I could hit something, a turkey or a rabbit-"

"Or a snake."

Was he making fun of her again? She could not tell, but knew she shouldn't have considered asking for his gun. She was beginning to realize lately that there was no such thing as an ex-gunfighter. There were some habits that Johnny would never break, and maybe that was a good thing. His instincts had saved the family more than once.

Despite the weariness his voice revealed, he offered to help, "I'll have some coffee then I'll go out and see what I can hit with my knife. Meantime there's some jerky in my saddlebag. And if you pass me the cans I'll get them open and we can heat them up."

Teresa watched him stab the cans with the knife he pulled out of his boot and then she put them on the potbellied stove with the coffee pot.

When she returned to the table, she saw him wince and favor his side again. He stretched his hurt leg out to the side and leant back, closing his eyes. The knife fell from his fingers to lie on the rough-hewn tabletop. Between one sibilant breath and another, he was asleep.

After two attempts to get them into her mouth by using the knife, Teresa gave up trying to eat the beans. They may have been warm but they were far from appetizing, the taste of metal was too persistent for her to continue. Instead, she chewed on some of the jerky from the saddlebag and sipped at the strong coffee all the while watching Johnny as he slept fitfully. He looked far from comfortable stretched on the old chair, his arms still tense around his middle, he'd be much better off lying down. She wondered whether waking him would be a good idea. She was well aware that you never woke a cowboy, and certainly not a gunfighter by touch unless you wanted a cocked pistol in your face. It was a better idea to call his name if you wanted to rouse him safely. Johnny always rested with his right hand too close to his gun as far as she was concerned, so although she would have liked to throw a blanket over him, she was wary of the consequences of disturbing him.

She thought about an article she had read in a journal recently about head wounds and how they could affect a person many hours after the bang that caused them. Should she wake him and clean the wound up? Or would it be better to just let him sleep it off? At least he was allowing his body to rest and mend itself. She was finding the quietness of the shack a little unnerving- the only sound was apart from the wind outside was Johnny's uneven breathing. She needed a distraction. She remembered then that in her bag was that poetry book she had been enjoying so much. She had purchased it mail order before Christmas and had only recently got the confidence to read it. Of course, she had kept it well hidden from Murdoch and his sons - it would embarrass her far too much if they caught her reading such poems. Johnny would certainly make fun of her about them.

Opening her bag, she pulled out the slim burgundy leather bound volume. With its gold leaf binding, it was a touch of culture in this frontier land and she treasured it for all that. Before opening it, she raised it to her nostrils and breathed in deeply the scent of Europe, a far off and exotic land of romance where folk had never even seen a buffalo or a cowboy.

She flicked through the pages to her favorite poem and after taking another sip of coffee, stood up and began to read in the way she had been taught.

" I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and wentand came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:"

She paused for a second in her rendition, as Johnny shifted position and thought she saw a glimmer of a smile on his lips. The furrows of his brow seemed to smooth a little also. She continued, pacing now and giving more passion to the language.

" And they did live by watchfiresand the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kingsthe huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;"

She stopped again as Johnny moaned in his sleep. Perhaps this poem was too gloomy. She had developed a fondness for dark poetry recently, since she had met the person who had taught her how to put feeling into her performance. She often read aloud to Murdoch in the evenings but had never really thought about making the content dramatic because he was happy enough with the way she always did it. It was a wonderful release to be able to put one's soul into a performance and she relished the euphoric feeling reading in this way gave her. She flicked through the book to find a happier poem and resumed:

."She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Stopping once again, Teresa sat back down in the old chair and looked at the book. She rubbed her finger over the fine words and mused. Then she opened her bag, pulled out a small notebook and a pencil, and began to write.

On finishing, she read the words aloud, "Oh wouldn't it be just glorious to have a man write such words for you? Byron's girlfriend was so lucky to have someone so talented think of her in that way, like she was the most beautiful thing on or above the earth. And to be able to put words together like that. The boys hereabouts think only of beef and horses and drinking and dime novels. They have no style, no finesse, not like-"

Her monologue was interrupted by a scuffling sound as Johnny, in the action of drawing his pistol, almost pitched out of the chair. She froze as his vision cleared, he steadied his hand and realised where he was. He rubbed the hand holding the gun through his hair, and then reholstered it casting an embarrassed smile her way. She closed the books and put them on her lap where they were hidden from his view; the pencil fell to the floor and rolled away.

"What was that?" he asked in confusion, "I heard talking, strange words."

"I think you were having a bad dream, Johnny. We are in a line shack, remember."

He frowned in concentration, " I was dreaming about a fire, the ranch was burning to the ground and I couldn't see to help. It was frightening. There was a king there too, don't know how he fitted in to it all, his palace was on fire. Then Mattie came to me out of the sky wearing a long cloak with stars on it. Never had a dream like that before."

"Do you still think about her, about Mattie? Do you miss her?"

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, for his reaction was to look down towards the floor, his shoulders hunched over.

"Yeah," he muttered, "from time to time. Still, never had a strange dream like that one about her till now."

He shook his head, puzzled then winced with the discomfort of the movement. He rubbed the back of his neck and when he brought his hand away, there was dried blood on it. He stared at it for a moment as if he didn't recognize what it was, before wiping it off on his pants' leg.

"You fell, remember? Hurt your head and your shoulder. I bandaged up your ribs."

He moved his hand to his side and let it lie there, against his shirt, "Yeah, I remember. Is it morning?"

Teresa told him he had only slept for less than an hour and that she hadn't slept at all, yet. She urged him to have a few cold beans but he refused. He had the last of the jerky however and offered to go out to find something she could cook for them both.

"You sure you feel strong enough? You look so pale. And before you could hardly walk properly."

"I'll be fine," he smiled reassuringly at her, the old Johnny she knew she could rely on showing through.

"All right, what have you got in mind?"

"I'll need my knife."

She picked it up off the floor and passed it to him, taking care to keep the books hidden in the folds of her skirt. She didn't know why she felt the need to do this; she suspected he might make fun of her if he found out about her new love of poetry.

He rubbed the blade on his pants and stood up slowly and stiffly. She watched him suppress a grimace as he arched his back like a cat. Then he limped carefully to the door, where he paused for a moment to lean on the doorframe and get his breath back before giving her the benefit of his most charming grin.

"Rattlesnake do for you?"

Before she could think of an adequate retort he had unhooked a lamp from the wall and slid noisily out of the door.

She prayed he would be all right.