During the days that followed the consummation of my marriage, the village women crowded around me and told me all the signs to look for, the signs that would mean I was carrying a child. I took note in my head of all the symptoms and waited. As the weeks went by, I didn't become nauseous in the mornings (quite the opposite, I was ravenous); my belly remained stubbornly flat. Chavez and I later packed up to move back to John Tunstall's ranch, the place we had called home for so long.
I was quite surprised at the house's appearance when we rode up. I had been expected to see it looking delapidated, but someone had obviously been taking care of it.
'But who?' I wondered as Chavez lifted me into his arms and carried me up the porch.
My eyes fell upon a set of initials carved into the white-washed adobe wall: W.H.B.
"William H. Bonney," Chavez and I said together, laughing.
We unpacked the few belongings we had and brought them into what had once been exclusively my bedroom. Now we would be sharing it.
Chavez and I spent many nights in that bed, trying to start a family, but it was in vain. I never developed any symptoms of pregnancy. I began to worry that something was terribly wrong with me. Lincoln didn't have a practicing doctor at the time, so I would have to ride two towns away to visit one. Chavez always worried very much about my health, even if it was only a slight head cold, so I told Chavez I was going to visit my father. No need to alarm him.
Before going into the office, I put on a dress and pinned up my hair to avoid the possibility of being recognized. The doctor was a kindly-looking old fellow named Robbins. He closed the door to his office and instructed me to sit on the table. I needed a leg up, but managed to do so.
"What's the matter with you, m'dear?" he asked.
It was embarrassing to have to tell this to a man, but his demeanor put me at ease. "My husband and I are trying to have children," I explained. "We've been trying for quite some time and I haven't gotten pregnant yet. I was just wondering what might be wrong."
Doc Robbins nodded and began to check me over: my temperature, my pulse, my heartbeat. Then he asked me to lie down and he gently prodded my stomach with his hands. He expressed some concern about being able to feel my ribs, inquiring if my husband and I were poor and unable to afford food.
"Well, we're not exactly rich, but we always manage," I said.
"Have you always been this thin?" Doc Robbins wanted to know.
I nodded. Doc Robbins sighed. "It's nearly impossible for a woman your size to bear children, at least children that will survive. I'm sorry, but there is no cure for it."
I thanked Doc Robbins, then rode out to Warm Springs to see Father. It never hurt to get a second opinion. Father examined me and sadly agreed with the white doctor's findings. He warned me not to tell Chavez about it; a woman being unable to have children was grounds for divorce in our culture. I knew Chavez would never leave me because of that, but I still agreed not to speak of it.
Over the next few days, the weight of the secret began almost as heavy a burden as if I actually had a child in my womb. I spent increasing amounts of time in the study with John's old books, speaking to Chavez only if necessary. It didn't take him long to figure out something was bothering me.
One night, while I was staring at the pages of King Arthur (not really reading, just trying to occupy myself), I heard a knock on the wall. Chavez was leaning against the doorjamb. His clothes were dusty, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, and his chest shiny with sweat.
"Reading again?" he asked me.
"Yes," I answered evasively, not looking up.
"Is supper ready?"
I slapped myself in the forehead. I knew I'd forgotten something! "No, and I apologize," I said. "I'm just a bit tired today and it somehow slipped my mind." I started to put down my book. "I can start on it now and we might be able to eat before midnight."
"Don't trouble yourself if you're tired," said Chavez. "I'll just have an apple or a leftover biscuit. Querida, are you all right?"
"I haven't been feeling well," I lied.
"Do you need to go to bed?" Chavez inquired.
My lip trembled at the word "bed." I closed my eyes and let out a breath. "It's not easy for me to tell you this, so please listen." I said, following him into the kitchen.
"I'm listening," Chavez replied, popping a cold biscuit in his mouth.
"I went to a doctor, then I went to see my father." I said. "They both said...I can't have children. Father didn't want me to tell you because he was afraid you'd leave me."
"You know I wouldn't do that," he said, pulling me close. "I know it's not your fault."