recovery. Afraid I’ll jinx my chances.”
“That’s too superstitious for me. Oh, I know some people think holistic medicine is mumbo jumbo. But so little is really known about the human mind. Did you know that two of the doctors who examined you said your subconscious could be suppressing your vision?”
“That’s like saying I don’t want to see. What a load of crap.”
Alexa flinched. “A psychosomatic illness can manifest itself in powerful ways.”
“I’m not wasting my time seeing the VA shrinks if that’s what you’re suggesting, and that’s final.” Rafe stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.
“Is that what someone recommended? That you see a psychiatrist?”
“Colonel Baker, the officer who signed my discharge, said it was the next step. I told him, I told Sierra, and I’ll tell you. It’s off the table. Nobody’s poking around inside my head.”
“I poked needles in your head, Rafe.”
“That’s different. You don’t dig in my past. Don’t ask what kind of thrill I got out of riding bucking horses, or how I felt shooting at enemies. If you had, I’d have been out of here before you could snap your fingers.”
Alexa had nothing to say to that. She wasn’t a psychiatrist. And she’d been lousy at psychoanalyzing herself.
Getting up, she put another log on the fire. “I wonder how long this cold snap will last.”
“Depends on the jet streams. If memory serves, they’re erratic as hell this time of year. How’s your wood supply?”
“I have plenty. My grandfather ordered five cord every year from a local man who split and stacked the wood in the shed. Now his son runs the business.”
“Good, because I’m not sure I can see well enough to split wood.”
Alexa eyed him over the pair of reading glasses she’d put on. “I have a feeling you can do anything you set your mind to, Rafe.”
Compadre turned and set a paw on Rafe’s knee, making a guttural sound.
“See, Compadre agrees,” Alexa said, laughing.
Rafe smiled and let his head loll back. For a time the house was silent except for an occasional crackle and thump when a log dropped. Or when the wind rattled the windows.
“What are you reading?” Rafe inquired sleepily.
“A collection of short stories by Mark Twain,” Alexa told him.
“Huh. I remember Sierra reading Huckleberry Finn to me ages ago.”
“These are some of his lesser-known works, but they’re all entertaining as only Twain can be. Would you like me to read out loud, Rafe?”
“I’m not a child, Alexa,” he said sharply. “Don’t try to treat me like one.”
The man certainly could be prickly, Alexa thought. “No, you’re definitely not a child. But…I’m trying to picture you as a little boy.” She set her book aside and removed her glasses to study him. “Were you rough and tumble? I can see you climbing trees and chasing little girls with tarantulas.”
His short laugh was little more than a rumble in his chest. “Childhood was so long ago it almost feels as if I never was a kid. I definitely recall chasing girls, but not with tarantulas.” This time his laugh was that of a man who had no trouble catching the women he chased.
“I get your drift. You were a young Casanova. Did you live in Terlingua? In the town, I mean?”
“Calling Terlingua a town is a stretch. It’s the back of beyond. Its biggest claim to fame is that once a year chili-heads descend in droves for a national chili cook-off. Any permanent population to speak of live on outlying ranches and farms. Apache and Comanche had all that land to themselves until Mexican shepherds moved in and settled. The two cultures learned to coexist, which explains my mixed lineage.”
“That’s a rich history, Rafe. So, was your father Apache or Comanche?”
“The Eaglefeathers are Comanche. According to Dad that’s why we’re good with horses. He could never afford to raise them, with the cost of feed, so he had a sheep farm. But he kept one horse that he hand-trained
“That’s too superstitious for me. Oh, I know some people think holistic medicine is mumbo jumbo. But so little is really known about the human mind. Did you know that two of the doctors who examined you said your subconscious could be suppressing your vision?”
“That’s like saying I don’t want to see. What a load of crap.”
Alexa flinched. “A psychosomatic illness can manifest itself in powerful ways.”
“I’m not wasting my time seeing the VA shrinks if that’s what you’re suggesting, and that’s final.” Rafe stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.
“Is that what someone recommended? That you see a psychiatrist?”
“Colonel Baker, the officer who signed my discharge, said it was the next step. I told him, I told Sierra, and I’ll tell you. It’s off the table. Nobody’s poking around inside my head.”
“I poked needles in your head, Rafe.”
“That’s different. You don’t dig in my past. Don’t ask what kind of thrill I got out of riding bucking horses, or how I felt shooting at enemies. If you had, I’d have been out of here before you could snap your fingers.”
Alexa had nothing to say to that. She wasn’t a psychiatrist. And she’d been lousy at psychoanalyzing herself.
Getting up, she put another log on the fire. “I wonder how long this cold snap will last.”
“Depends on the jet streams. If memory serves, they’re erratic as hell this time of year. How’s your wood supply?”
“I have plenty. My grandfather ordered five cord every year from a local man who split and stacked the wood in the shed. Now his son runs the business.”
“Good, because I’m not sure I can see well enough to split wood.”
Alexa eyed him over the pair of reading glasses she’d put on. “I have a feeling you can do anything you set your mind to, Rafe.”
Compadre turned and set a paw on Rafe’s knee, making a guttural sound.
“See, Compadre agrees,” Alexa said, laughing.
Rafe smiled and let his head loll back. For a time the house was silent except for an occasional crackle and thump when a log dropped. Or when the wind rattled the windows.
“What are you reading?” Rafe inquired sleepily.
“A collection of short stories by Mark Twain,” Alexa told him.
“Huh. I remember Sierra reading Huckleberry Finn to me ages ago.”
“These are some of his lesser-known works, but they’re all entertaining as only Twain can be. Would you like me to read out loud, Rafe?”
“I’m not a child, Alexa,” he said sharply. “Don’t try to treat me like one.”
The man certainly could be prickly, Alexa thought. “No, you’re definitely not a child. But…I’m trying to picture you as a little boy.” She set her book aside and removed her glasses to study him. “Were you rough and tumble? I can see you climbing trees and chasing little girls with tarantulas.”
His short laugh was little more than a rumble in his chest. “Childhood was so long ago it almost feels as if I never was a kid. I definitely recall chasing girls, but not with tarantulas.” This time his laugh was that of a man who had no trouble catching the women he chased.
“I get your drift. You were a young Casanova. Did you live in Terlingua? In the town, I mean?”
“Calling Terlingua a town is a stretch. It’s the back of beyond. Its biggest claim to fame is that once a year chili-heads descend in droves for a national chili cook-off. Any permanent population to speak of live on outlying ranches and farms. Apache and Comanche had all that land to themselves until Mexican shepherds moved in and settled. The two cultures learned to coexist, which explains my mixed lineage.”
“That’s a rich history, Rafe. So, was your father Apache or Comanche?”
“The Eaglefeathers are Comanche. According to Dad that’s why we’re good with horses. He could never afford to raise them, with the cost of feed, so he had a sheep farm. But he kept one horse that he hand-trained
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