If
It Were Not So
Part Two
-by
Jo Anzalone and Sharon Ferguson
Cort felt comfortable. He'd found a nice
mound of green grass in his meadow and curled up close to it. It was a bit wet,
though, probably from the spring rains, but that was ok. It was still
comfortable and felt soft beneath his bruised cheek. He drifted off, dreamless
and peaceful. Then the mound moved! Why was it moving? He didn't want it to move
and he grasped his arms around it more tightly. Maybe if he held on it would
stop and be still? But, no. It moved absolutely relentlessly and when he pried
his
Horace
was there, then, looming over him, saying something. What? Something
about...about... long johns? The face disappeared and he felt his pants being
pulled down. Now wait a minute! Things were going too far here! First they skin
him, then they drown him, and now they want to steal his clothes? He
remembered watching the crowds in the street, stripping the corpse of the losing
gunslinger. NO! He would NOT appear before his Maker without his pants! Using
mostly his shoulder muscles, he heaved himself to a sitting position and glared
fiercely at Horace. The barkeep had Cort's pants down to his ankles by this
time, but even though sick, Cort's expression scared the bejeezuz out of him.
“DON'T
DO THAT!" Cort ordered, his voice level, deadly.
Horace
dropped Cort's feet, letting his heels bang sharply on the planking.
"Ahhhhh!"
Cort cried, his whole body jarred.
Horace
called, "MISS! MISS!" loudly, but the door remained firmly closed.
Cort glared again. "You did not miss! You...you....what the hell are you DOING, anyway?"
Horace backed up, scrabbling on his knees,
trying to put more space between him and Cort.
"You're WHAT?" Cort bellowed. The effort of sitting up and hollering was beginning to get to him. Bright spots of light appeared in front of his eyes. He put his left hand to his forehead, then slid it down, covering his eyes. His upper torso swayed. Horace watched carefully from a safe distance. He could tell Cort wasn't going to be able to maintain his sitting position much longer. All he had to do was...wait. Then it would be safe. He hoped it would be safe.
Cort wobbled some more, trying to brace
himself with his left hand. It
wasn't working all that well and he knew he had to get his head down flat.
Slowly, he slid his hand, letting his body lower.
Once prone, he closed his eyes, lying there, aware, but with no strength
to move. Horace pounced on him like
a puma, jerked his pants off, replaced his long johns with the dry pair in a
rather haphazard, twisted fashion, then raced to the door, flinging it open.
"I did it!" he cried, sounding like he'd just climbed Everest
or something.
By the
time Rachel had fled downstairs and into the kitchen Horace and Katie used for
their own meals, the temper had died to an irritation.
Her skirts were soaked, but she would have to wait to change if she was
to have any further progress this evening.
And if Horace was successful at all at getting the sick man returned to
his bed, she could sit down with Cort and try to get some liquids into him and
rebandage the wrists before collapsing on her own pallet.
Katie circuitously brought up the subject of the expectant townspeople,
and it took a certain perceptible pause for her to keep the irritation flaring
once more into a shout. Whatever
the townspeople were expecting, they would just have to wait until the morning
to get redress, because at this point in time Rachel herself felt like she was
going to collapse or break into a thousand pieces from stress.
When
she returned to the room with a new bowl of food, she found Horace standing at
the door, beaming with pride.
"He's
all in there now. Not too happy
with me, but he's in there. But I can't help anymore, you know. Got restless cowboys to tend to down there."
Rachel
nodded and thanked him, watching Horace and Katie briefly as they trotted
downstairs where the voices of patrons were growing increasingly insistent.
Business was booming since Herod died...poor Horace!
So much has changed for him and Katie...
She
hadn't noticed the sun had completely disappeared until she re-entered the room,
where a kerosene sconce blazed away in the corner, casting shadows upon the
figure in the bed, bundled as he was now under blanket and sheet.
He appeared to be asleep, although his breathing was still and he did not
snore as he usually did. She set
her tray on the (cleared) bureau and took out the bandages and oils of her first
treatment of him. Then, sitting at
his left side as cautiously as she could muster, she began undoing the bandages
of the wrist of the still-whole hand. Even
though some of the rougher spots had seeped some blood, the raw skin looked much
healthier than it had, faint signs of new skin forming where before had been
abrasions and scuffs.
With a sigh that suggested fatigue and
relief, she began smearing more of the healing oil she had used, hoping the
camphor smell and sting of antiseptic didn't disturb his sleep.
She must have been so absorbed by her task that she literally jumped when
Cort spoke, almost as if he wasn't sure if he was dreaming again.
His voice came low, soft, almost as though
from some far place, some place where memories lay gentle and sweet. Not like
this place.
"For
except we had lingered, surely now we had returned this second time. And their
father Israel said unto them, If it must be so now, do this; take of the best
fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a little
balm, " he smiled slightly, looking down to where she was ministering to
his wrist, "and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts and almonds."
Then he
closed his eyes again. "Thank you."
It was
a few minutes before Rachel realized her cheek had somehow sprung a leak, struck
by the music of the words he recited, which must have had some kind of magic,
for she felt drawn in by the imagery, sustaining the thread that had been
connected before. But those words,
which she recognized from Genesis, did not strike fully until he pronounced the
last two, "thank you;" and she was bending over his wrist like before,
eyes hot with feeling.
She had to wipe away the tear before she had the
courage to speak herself.
"Don't
thank me just yet, Padre. I still have to do your other hand. And it's not as easy as this one," she responded, her
own voice low, not expecting a reply, trying not to sniff too loudly.
She emphasized this point by taping off the bandage and laying his hand
back by his side, standing to travel to the other side of bed to follow through
with her threat.
"I know," he murmured. "It's broken, isn't it?" He tried to move the fingers just a bit, but couldn't, not without great pain. And the whole center of the top of his hand, where a direct blow from the butt of Ratsy's gun had landed with full force, felt like a railroad spike had been driven clear through it.
His mind wandered
briefly to the crucifix that had hung above the altar in the mission. Ratsy and
Foy had burned even that. Somehow
it was almost...appropriate...that his hand hurt in such a fashion now.
"Don't worry," he said, trying to comfort his comforter, "I know you're trying to help. Just do what you have to do." He closed his eyes as she gently lifted his right hand off the covers, his lips moving soundlessly as he repeated a low prayer. The words were the same he'd whispered just before he'd faced Foy. "I give myself unto Thee, O Lord. Forgive me for my sins."
The
words seemed stuck in that place where his prayers found their source and none
besides them could make their way past. They were the last he'd prayed...the
last...before. Now he found he had nothing else to say to God, only those words.
And so, as the cleansing and rebandaging of his hand and wrist continued, he lay
there quietly, those words coming without sound from his lips, over and over
and...over.
Rachel
worked in silence, noting Cort's wordless chant was the one thing giving him
solace while she gingerly checked her previous handiwork.
She had been very worried about what his activity had done for the
integrity of the bones and she needed to know if it were not as bad as it had
seemed at first. Even though the
two broken fingers appeared to have been properly set, the palm where the longer
carpal bones were appeared to have been smashed flat.
She was certain at least one carpal had been shattered; she wasn't so sure
about the others, as his hand was still so swollen she could only press softly
before Cort interrupted his meditation with a sharp intake of breath.
She then finished applying the salve to his wrist, which was healing as
well as the other one now, and firmly reattached the splint, risking more pain
to the man to be sure that the splint did not give way.
There would have to be surgery then, she
thought, feeling more intensely the need to contact Terry, plead for assistance,
anything. She couldn't linger any
more, she was sure, before things got really out of hand.
But she hadn't been able to slip away as she had planned, to the
abandoned house down the road, beyond the cemetery. She needed to get away and soon.
She
remained at the bedside for the moment though, lost in thought, looking out the
window at stars beginning to wink in the night sky.
It had been risky trying to find a way out there in the day time.
How dangerous was it in the dark? No
telling what creature or rogue lurked there now and the night had its double
edge sword of secrecy. Her thoughts
led her to the only weapon she had brought along, a rapier custom made for her
small height, to her specifications. Terry
didn't know this, of course. He had
argued that because she was not fully trained in firearms, it would be best to
not carry any at all. No one would
expect a woman to carry a gun anyway, he reasoned.
Rachel scowled at that thought. Typical
man, typical Aussie. How could
someone from a frontier country like Australia say something like that to her?
So she
had snuck her rapier through the Warp. *That*
she knew she excelled at, having won numerous competitions and played endlessly
with techniques learned from those master who studied the ancient fencing arts.
She could be just as lethal as Cort, she berated Terry in her private
musings. She only needed a small
amount of surprise.
Well,
that would have to be it then, she decided, having forgotten the man in the bed
at her side. She'd go get her sword
from its hiding place and sneak out when no one was looking....
He lay
there watching her when she had finished her ministrations. Obviously, she was
lost in thought. He wondered what occupied her mind to such a degree.
She even seemed a bit worried about something.
He found he wanted to soothe her as she had soothed him.
Opening
his mouth to say something, it dawned on him fully that he didn't know her name.
She'd said it, maybe, there on the steps...but he'd been so out of it he
couldn't remember.
"Miss?"
he said to get her attention, hoping she wasn't really a 'Ma'am.'
"Can I help?"
Her
reverie broken, Rachel turned and smiled at him, fully back to the task at hand.
"Yes,
you can," she replied, standing to face him.
"Eat. One of the
reasons why you're so weak is you've not had much to eat.
Can you sit up?"
"I'm
not sure," he said, meaning it. "Maybe
if you help me slide up against the headboard and prop me with pillows?"
He tried lifting his head alone, actually managing it a bit, but it was a
great effort. He felt drained still from the fever, the beatings, the lack of
food and water. "You've got food? I could sure use some."
She
couldn't help the little rueful laugh that escaped her lips as she recalled the
earlier events of the day.
"I'm
shocked you'd want me to come near you after all the bumbling I did today,"
she said, as she slid the pillow out from under his head and slipped her hands
under his arms. "Here, put
your injured hand up on my shoulder and push with the other one."
Somehow, they both managed to have him sitting upright with his back
against the headboard, cushioned by the pillow.
Shyness prevented the both of them from really looking at each other
until Cort indicated he was in a position comfortable for him and then their
eyes met, faces close together because his one arm was still around her
shoulder.
Clearing
her throat, Rachel pulled away to turn for the soup bowl on the bureau, arguing
with slight thrill she had experienced in that moment; and Cort had done nothing
to hide his own emotions.
"And
the name is Rachel," she added, when she thought she was certain her voice
wouldn't break. "Rachel Keirs."
“Rachel,"
he repeated softly, drawing out the first syllable just a bit as though he were
tasting the flavor of it. His head was tipped down slightly, but he looked at
her with upturned eyes, his hair swinging down about both cheeks.
"You've been most kind to a stranger. Not sure just why you would go
to the bother, but you have my thanks." He studied her a moment. "Cort.
Cortland Wells."
A
sudden sharp pang went completely through him as the face of Father Michael
replaced Rachel's. Father Michael
had been the last person to go out of his way to take care of him when he'd been
so shot up and sick. Now...here he was again...completely in the debt of someone
else he'd just met. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, shuddering violently as
he remembered how the last had ended.
She
couldn't help herself; that is, couldn't help but study the way the shadows from
the lamplight highlighted his face as he looked up at her, giving her his full
name, which not even the film-makers had bothered to specify.
But before that thought was allowed to generate others, Cort's face
twitched with pain and his expression folded inward, as if he were
recalling...remembering....
Rachel
sat back down on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on his arm, a spark of
intuition causing her to speak before thinking.
"You're thinking about what happened
the last time...?" She breathed, unable to finish the sentence.
He opened his eyes, looking at her. How did she know? Ellen? Ellen must have told her. Or...Herod. It had been Herod's little joke...the naming of this town he'd founded. As they sat there on the steps of the big house, Cort chained to the leg of Herod's chair like a pet dog, the older man had enjoyed telling him about it. John Herod had not let Cort go all that easily, not without keeping himself well aware of where his former protégé was, what he was doing with himself. So when he'd built his huge house and the town sprang up around it, it had pleased his perverted sense of humor to call the town "Redemption" in honor of Cort's attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of God for having killed Father Michael. Herod had gotten a good laugh out of that.
Cort's
brow furrowed, remembering. It was how Herod had known right where to send Foy and Ratsy
to find him, to bring him back for the gunfight.
"You've
talked to someone?" he asked, a bit of suspicion rising, unwelcome, in his
look. He'd hoped she was...different. Not
connected with all this in any way. But
it was obvious she knew.
"Why,
then," he continued, "would you take care of me at all?
There's no real point. In
the end, you know, no real point. I'm not worth the trouble."
He turned away from her, burying his cheek in the pillows she'd piled
behind him so he could eat.
Inwardly,
Rachel cursed herself for her lack of caution when broaching this subject.
All this planning and careful subterfuge and here you go ruining it with
a stupid question!
"Only
with you," she stammered slightly, her thoughts churning furiously over
what she could say to sidestep his suspicion.
"I thought you were remembering the last time I tried to talk to
you. You were feverish, not right in the head...and...you
were...reliving...the mission...I'm sorry." She ended, her voice very small.
She felt about two nano-meters high.
Embarrassed, she rose from the bed to get the bowl, telling herself to keep
her conversation to those things pertaining to his health.
Explanations and revelations had to come later.
"Besides,"
she added, while her back was turned to him, "you're wrong.
You are very much worth the trouble.
Anyone who can't see that is blind.
I'm many things, Cortland Wells, but I'm not blind."
He
raised his left hand to his face, covering his eyes, blowing out a long breath.
So...it had been his own ravings...and now he'd made her uncomfortable.
"I'm
sorry," he said, letting the hand drop to his lap, waiting for her to turn
back and face him again. "It's just that I've...I've...well, I've been off-kilter
for the last few days. No excuse, I
know. Things've been happening a bit fast for me to handle, but, truly, I meant
no offense. You've been only kind
to me." He shook his head, muttering something under his breath about her
deserving better. He chose not to
comment on her last statement. She had no idea of what he'd done, the choices
he'd made, damnation upon damnation he'd heaped on his own head.
By his own actions. As he'd said to Ellen when she'd commented, "He
made you do it"..."I was the only one who pulled the trigger."
He'd
kept saying, over and over he'd said it. "I won't fight." But Herod,
damn him, had been right. Herod knew the truth of him when he, himself, had
fooled himself...thinking he was somehow better than he was. What a laugh!
Renounced violence? Him? He
was a killer. He knew that now. He
had proven it once and for all. Herod's
stamp of ownership upon him was stronger than God's. His jaw trembled with the
thought and he blinked rapidly, determined not to let the tears show.
She
nearly forgot the bowl of soup in her hands, the tepid soup that probably
wouldn't taste very good now that it had lost most of its healing heat, watching
Cort manfully fight off an outbreak of emotion in front of a woman he didn't
know. She wanted to fling the soup
aside and embrace him, tell him that she knew all about his past, and didn't
care, didn't believe he was damned, if only he would remember...
"Well,"
she said, trying to act as if she hadn't noticed the hint of tears brimming.
She took her seat on the edge of his bed once more, trying to keep the
soup from sloshing from its bowl. "I'll
forgive everything if you just tell me the soup I allowed to get cold is
actually piping hot and the best you've ever had. And if you really insist on feeling guilty, then a more
fitting punishment for you is to make you eat some of my own cooking.
The last time I cooked, they could see the smoke for miles," she
added, with a mischievous grin.
"Now
comes the hard part: can you manage to eat on your own?"
He let
himself be distracted from his thoughts. It was a relief. He looked at the bowl
in her hand. Right now he was so hungry she could've had to break a layer of ice
off its surface and still he would want it.
He
looked at the spoon in her other hand. "On my own?" he repeated,
lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. "Um, well...," he held out his left
hand, "I suppose I could hold the bowl with this one and just drink out of
it." He nodded toward his useless right.
"This one is not ready to hold a spoon for a while, I think."
He smiled, the last of his unshed tears still glistening in the lamplight until
one final blink erased them. "You need to go somewhere?"
"Hmmm?
Oh, well, yes, eventually. There's,
ummm....an errand I have to run, but," she said, "for now I want to
make sure you don't end up with soup all in your lap.
Your idea is a good one, or..." and she hesitated, not sure how he
was going to take her suggestion, "I could spoon feed you.
I won't go until I know you're sleeping soundly again.”
"Please,"
he said. "I'm like as not to spill it all over the bed."
His tummy rumbled then with great timing, and he laughed. "Better
hurry!" He was glad she agreed to stay. Not just because he didn't think he
could feed himself all that well, but because he was getting to like her being
there. Liking the way the lamp highlighted her hair. The curve of her cheek.
As he
waited for her to get situated with the bowl, he wondered about her, why she was
in Redemption, why she was taking care of him.
"You
been in town long?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Didn't see you before the explosions.
Were you...around?"
Rachel
paused with spoon in mid-air, head tilted in thought.
Around...was she around...
"You
know, where I come from that could be a loaded question.
Get it? Loaded?
Explosions? Sorry.
Was never good at making jokes," she apologized as he grinned at her
"A friend of mine would appreciate the pun. I was in the neighborhood, yes," she concluded.
She was finding it easy to talk with him as she fed him spoon by spoon.
"No. I haven't been in
town long. You might say, I am only
passing through."
She
waited a couple of more spoonfuls before she found the words to ask her next
question.
"I
guess Herod was quite the tyrant to make people want to blow up buildings?"
He held the spoonful of cool soup in his mouth, not swallowing, when her question came. She said things, asked things he did not expect. He felt again Herod's hand on his left shoulder, heard again his, "Bravo!" after Spotted Horse had finally died. He winced, recalling the sensation of his collar being ripped away as Herod snapped, "Welcome back...killer."
Again
he saw his collar lying in the dust between their feet, godliness in the dirt.
He had picked it up... later...when he'd found his chain could reach that far. It
was still in the pocket of his pants. Why had he saved it? It's meaning was
gone. But he could not seem to let
it go, not entirely. Leaving it in
the dirt was unthinkable. It had
meant something...once.
His
mind, then, strayed further, hearing the sound of children laughing in the
mission yard, the ringing of the church bell, his own voice at prayer.
Gone. All of it. Just
a strip of dirty cloth now.
Had it
ever been white? Had HE? He
thought, for a time, he had. Hadn't he? Hadn't he thought that? He wasn't sure
any more. He'd told Ellen he was already damned. Was that because he'd taken the
gun, used the gun, or was that because nothing he did could ever make up for
killing Father Michael? Was he
stupid enough to think that in becoming a priest, in his effort to give a priest
back to God because he had taken one from Him...did he really ever think
that...counted?
He
rolled the soup around on his tongue, finally swallowing, finally looking at
Rachel.
"Yes," he replied to her question. "He was quite a tyrant." His eyes went all distant again. "In so many ways." So many memories.
"He
was like my father once," he spoke quietly.
"A long time ago. Took me in, taught me how to survive, to be like
him. Treated me like I was his son" He smiled ruefully. "Until he put
a gun to my head." He closed
his eyes. "Until I...." He leaned back into the pillows, opening his
lids slowly, studying her silently for a while. "After...that...we were no
longer together. I...left. He
started this town...had himself a real son." He shook his head, remembering
how Herod had killed the boy there in the street.
"Not particularly good, you know, having him for a father."
A deep sigh escaped him. "Kid was too young to know he couldn't take
him in a fight."
It
wasn't that son Herod wanted to fight anyway, it had been him. The Kid didn't
make Herod 'itch'...not like Cort did. The
whole blasted contest was nothing more than Herod getting to do what he'd always
wanted...face down Cort. Cort knew that, from the beginning he had known it.
Even in the old days, even when they were robbing banks together, he'd catch
John looking at him, a peculiar glint in his eye, that need already there to
find out that one last thing, to experience that single thing that made Herod
nervous.
"It
was Ellen's idea...blowing up the town, I mean. It worked, but it sure messed up
the place. Don't know what the folks who live here are going to do now."
His eyes found the marshal's badge on the bedside table. "Don't know what
I'm going to do." He turned his eyes away from the badge resolutely.
"Don't want that. Not what I want at all."
He
pressed his lips together tightly. He didn't know what he wanted, where to go.
The Marshall's badge. Somehow it had gone from his pocket to the bedside table, probably picked up from the floor after the day's trial by water and placed there to make sure it wasn't lost in the scuffle. Its old silver gleamed dully in lamplight, the lettering smoothed away by time and memory. But it wasn't Cort's memory; it was Ellen's and she had branded him with it, probably to grant him some sort of new life after Death trashed his one hope; a parting gesture, a boon to give him solace in the desert of the soul.
The one
thing he didn't want, and Ellen tossed it to him as though she were his savior.
There was more than enough bitterness in Cort's voice when he stated his
rejection of it. It was Ellen's
idea....
She
picked it up and rubbed it thoughtfully. Cort
had finished the soup and now rested with his head back against the pillow, lost
in thoughts of his own. The night
was full on now, and there was piano music rising up from below, a flurry of
voices passing by outside. Redemption
was more alive than it had ever been before, and the two of them were quiet as
they listened. She should probably
wait until the crowd had petered off some, before slipping out.
It really didn't matter what time it was that she contacted Terry.
The signal between her virtual reality and his actual time would not be
affected. It was getting there that
always caused the problem.
"There's
a lot of people in this town who've heard you're the new Marshall," she
finally ventured, thoughts returning to the metal star in her hand.
"I hate to bring that up right now, just when you're starting to
feel normal again, but come morning, there's going to be people knocking at that
door wanting to talk to you. They're
not happy that I've prevented anyone coming sooner," she told him, when he
turned his attention back to her.
"And there's already been another murder since...well, since all the
chaos. No one is sure who's going
to be the leader now, and there are some who are already trying to replace
Herod. This badge is going to be
challenged before you've had a chance to figure things out."
He
looked at her silently, then pulled in a breath that seemed to fill him
completely. He held it for a long, long time, then let it slowly out, almost
lingeringly, as if it were pulling something with it. Then nothing. It was
almost as though he were no longer breathing. He just sat there on the bed, his
chest not moving, nothing coming in or out.
His
eyes closed and every muscle in his face relaxed. The night sounds came sharp
and clear, but he didn't hear them. He had made himself an island unto himself
and he sat, surrounded, encased by the space he had created. He tried to still
his mind to match his body, almost succeeding for a brief moment.
He did
not want to be in this town. It had no part in him, of him. He had come to it in
chains, had been literally hurled into it against every bit of personal will. He
wanted to leave, to forget it ever existed.
His lips curved into the slightest of smiles at the thought he would be
able to forget what had happened here. This
place was his Rubicon. He had
crossed his river here and there was no going back. There was no where to go
back to. But there was also nowhere to go forward to.
He
began to breathe then, so shallowly that his chest barely rose with the tiny
intakes of air. Why was he still here? He
served no useful purpose to anybody. Not any more. Opening
his eyes half-way, he studied the badge in her hand. A star.
Once he had tried to follow a star, tried to find his own stable where he
could be reborn. But the star had
fallen, had burned, was gone. And all he had left was the knowledge of what he
had done, what he was. He had let everyone down, Father Michael, all the people
who relied on his mission, God,...himself.
He could not, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he willed
it, he could not...be...what he wanted. He was what Herod had made him. He had
learned he always would be. He was a robber, a killer. He had no right to be a
lawman. Not even if that was what he wanted. Which
it wasn't. All the years of trying
to be something he wasn't...all the effort to please God, to make God forget
what he had done...all that was over.
He turned his attention back to Rachel's face. How lovely she was. If only he were a lawman...a decent man of any sort...she would be a woman to make a life with. He hadn't thought about that scenario for a long time.
But he
wasn't a lawman. Nor even decent. When he was able, he would simply ride away.
Ellen had ridden away. He could do that, too.
Just drift from place to place. See
what happened. But the light was dancing on Rachel's hair again. He wanted
to touch it, to wrap a curl about his finger and feel the silkiness of it slide
over his skin. He wanted....
"There's
no challenge on my part," he said a bit hoarsely. "The badge is not
mine."
He was
so still Rachel was afraid he had fallen asleep, or worse yet, stopped
breathing. A fleeting smile, then
grim resolve hardened his features, his chest began to rise in short takes.
He opened his green eyes, and Rachel was taken aback by the cold fire
lighting their expression. She had
the image of a dying soul preparing to leap into a canyon, forsaking every
passage across that surrounded him.
*He's giving up, he's leaving...*
"Cort, what...?" She choked, wondering how on earth she was going to reach him. He was retreating and she hadn't even had a chance to explain... "what do you think you will do, then?" She finished lamely. She didn't know what his thoughts were, but she began to worry that he was planning subterfuge of his own. "I can understand very well if you don't want to be Marshal, but...." she floundered, tossing the metal star onto the bedside table again. She was sick of looking at it, too. What was more, she was fast losing her ability to think clearly, the exertions of the day beginning to make themselves known in her shoulders, her eyes, her head. She had seen to it that Cort was taken care of, and now the day was done. She was tired and worn out, and the pallet on the floor looking more and more inviting...
"Would
you do me a favor, then? Whatever it is you decide, Marshal or not, please don't make
it until you've talked with me. I
may be able to offer a few suggestions to think about," she said, matching
his gaze with her own.
Something in him was amazed at her
response. She seemed to...care.
He had no idea why. She didn't know him, know who he was or what he'd
done. She was just taking care of a
stranger who was in need. Why did she care? What
could possibly make her care? But what was written on her face was
genuine. Suggestions? What did she mean by that?
He felt a little line, no larger than a cobweb strand, reaching between
them. It was
tenuous...fragile...slender, but it was the only line in the entire world that
connected him to anybody.
Looking
at her, he could easily see she was tired. Probably hadn't slept the entire time
she had been caring for him. He
hadn't thought about that.
"Rachel,"
he said softly, still not used to the sound of her name on his lips, "will
you rest now?" He smiled at
her a little. "I promise. I
won't make any decisions. Not tonight." He lifted his right hand slightly. "Not really in shape to do much decidin' anyway."
Most of the soup had made its way to his belly already and he, too, was feeling tired again. Tired, yes, but something about her, what she said, the way she looked at him when she said it, something about that...it made him feel just a little less alone. His lids were feeling heavy. He had sat up about as long as his strength allowed. The world was getting soft and fuzzy again as his need for sleep took control. He felt her sliding some of the pillows away from his back, helping him ease down so he could lie comfortably. She was so...nice. He closed his eyes.
"Rachel?" he murmured, lifting
his left hand as though searching for something to hold on to, something to keep
him from fading away entirely. His fingers encountered hers and as he fell
asleep, curled around her smaller ones just enough to say, 'Don't let go.'
"Rachel,"
he said once again...so quietly it was no more than a whisper.