Death Takes a Holliday

Death Takes a Holliday

S.M. Ballard

Published by Susan M. Ballard at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Susan M. Ballard

Discover other titles by S.M. Ballard at Smashwords.com

Borrowed Time

Holliday in Tombstone

Kate

The Raider

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER 1

From his seat on the sweat-stained limping buckskin Archbold Fayette checked his surroundings. One hand shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare while the other dragged on the reins, forcing the mount around in a tight circle.

Although dressed as a soldier in dusty cavalry blue and having sworn an oath, so help me God, he was far from soldierly in morals or conduct. He was a deserter. If caught, he would hang.

Fayette took unauthorized leave from Fort Huachuca in the dead cold of a winter’s night. He compounded the thievery of mount, saddle, rifle and supplies by fracturing the skull of the young private who had the misfortune of catching him in the act. The boy died.

In stealing his mount, Fayette chose poorly; the gelding was recovering from a bad tendon sprain. Every mile was slow and hard won, the soldier unrelenting in his use of spurs, forcing the tiring mount onward. Less than twenty miles from the fort the horse, played out and exhausted, caught the ailing foreleg in a chuckhole, throwing the rider hard to the ground.

The animal lay where it fell, eyes wide and rolling, showing mostly whites in its pain and fear, the leg fractured. Not wanting to waste ammunition he might need later, Fayette drew a long bladed Bowie knife and slit the animal’s throat. Blood gushed from the severed artery across the man’s boots.

Snorting in disgust, he skirted the dying horse and took the rifle from the scabbard and the canteen from the pommel. Saddle, saddlebags and heavy army greatcoat were left behind, pinned beneath the horse’s body.

To Fayette, the new day offered neither beauty nor joy, rather the fear he might be spotted by pursuers. Trudging south, he was glad it was winter and the day was cold. Walking was easier without the withering heat other seasons offered while consumption of water was minimal, a good thing since the canteen he carried was half full.

Cresting a slight rise he stopped to check his position. Below and still some ways off rode a man on horseback, and a fine horse it was, long well muscled lines and a coat showing red in the sun. Fayette figured it was an animal able to go days without foundering. Dropping to his belly he crept toward the edge for a better look.

The object of the deserter’s curiosity was a cowboy checking a fence line. As far as Fayette could tell the fence ran all the way to Mexico. He watched the worker’s deliberate progress, hoping he would continue to ride closer to his position. Hope became reality and circumstances better yet when the cowboy reined in, dismounting. Checking a post and finding it dry-rotted away, the cowboy got busy making the necessary repairs.

After some time spent unloading a shovel, pickaxe and whatnot, including several posts fashioned from mesquite and trimmed to size, he dug out a new hole. The ground wasn’t deeply frozen, but rocky. Using the pickaxe first, followed by the shovel, the hole was readied. Warming in the pale winter sun the worker shrugged out of a heavy sheepskin jacket, draping it across a large rock.

Better and better, Fayette murmured. He was a poor shot. Even a marksman would have difficulty hitting a man at that distance on a moving horse. But on foot, movements slow and calculated, the cowboy provided an easier target. Without the heavy coat obscuring the outline of the body, a shot could be more accurately placed.

Dragging his rifle forward Fayette lifted the sights on the Springfield, fiddling with them to get the right distance. Even in the cool air, with a chill breeze cutting across the slight elevation, he felt the tingle of sweat itch through his scalp. He had never shot a man before. There was a mixture of fear, nerves and excitement. As he followed the cowboy’s movements, waiting for the opportune moment to fire, the emotion became more excitement than anything, almost an ecstasy of anticipation. Sweat ran into his eyes and he wiped it off across one sleeve, quickly getting the target back into his sights.

The lean cowboy provided little target area. It was a twist of fate when he stood stock still, surveying his handiwork for a moment before repacking the tools to move on. Reaching up to remove his wide-brimmed Stetson, the cowboy wiped perspiration from his face and neck with a kerchief pulled from a back pocket.

Squeezing the trigger, Archbold Fayette fired. The gunshot echoed across the valley. White smoke spiraled from the rifle barrel, disappearing into an endless sky. Fayette gloated as the bullet found its mark in the cowboy’s back.

The impact was likened to being hit with a sledgehammer and it twisted the victim’s torso sidewise before slamming him against the adobe, hat and kerchief still clutched in either hand.

From his vantage point Fayette watched his victim. There was no sign of life. Having little time to squander, he gathered his belongings and trotted down the rocky incline to the level valley floor.

Fayette’s interest was in the horse and the nearer he got the better an animal it looked to be. A thoroughbred, no doubt about it. For once fate dealt him a decent hand. He smiled. In fact, so lighthearted was he, Archbold Fayette began whistling, a bawdy raw tune learned from a fellow trooper. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he felt no premonition of danger.

The impact of the .45-.70 bullet at a hundred yards and dead center dropped the deserter in his tracks. Archbold Fayette felt no pain and that surprised him. Neither did his life pass before his eyes though he knew his wound to be mortal; his limbs went numb and his strength failed him.

Overhead a smattering of clouds floated by in the backdrop of a perfect blue sky. Odd how the beauty he never appreciated in life did not escape him in death. Fayette took one last breath, ah.

The wounded cowboy, his energy spent, rested his cheek against the stock of the rifle he gripped. He knew his shot had found its mark. His life, and the life of his little son, depended on his accuracy. Henry, he whispered. Henry.

****

At seven years of age Henry McKey was a dawdler and a dreamer, his short life taken up by the endless curiosity of a keen intelligence. Even when his mind should have been occupied with the task at hand, bringing lunch to his father mending fence on their sprawling ranch, the child found everything he saw and everything he heard fascinating and worthy of his rapt attention.

A rifle shot tore Henry’s interest away from the treasure at hand, the sun-bleached lower jaw of some animal half buried beneath a small mesquite tree. Rising, he turned a full circle in an attempt to pinpoint the shot’s origin. His breath came fast and his heart raced. Cold, colder than the weather allowed, his chill was within. The only person that far out on the range was his father. Though the shot could have been directed at a varmint, he felt a deep sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. He felt it. He knew it.

Papa, he whispered, then again, louder, insistent, as if his father might hear and answer, Papa!

Wasting no time, Henry clambered up onto the back of his mount, a black and white pinto. He dug in his spurs. Surprised at the unusual roughness accorded him by his master, Dynamite broke into a choppy run. Moments later a second shot rang clear, louder and closer and Henry rode toward the fading thunder.

Never did he think to find what he did. Father lay on his stomach on the cold hard ground, a hole punched into the back of his waistcoat and the blood. So much blood.

He stared, open-mouthed, a mute statue. Everything showed red. Red against the tan waistcoat. Red soaking into the yellow adobe beneath his father’s body and streaked through the long pale hair where he must have brushed it back from his face. Red on the rifle he still held in his right hand, on the Marlin’s stock, lever and trigger.

Finding his senses, Henry dismounted, running to the fallen figure. He could not tell if Father was breathing. He knelt in the dirt and called softly, but there was no answer.

Fright became terror and terror escalated into panic. Henry shook the still form, gently at first, then with as much strength as he could summon.

When there was no response, no movement, he screamed, Why won’t you answer me? Are you angry at me? Are you angry because I’m late? Please Papa, answer me. I don’t know what to do. Help me!

In all his seven years, in all the time he remembered, his father had been there for him, always with the answers to his questions, childish or not. Now there were no answers and he was alone and terrified. Once more he shook his father hard by the shoulders, screaming in fear and frustration when Father remained still and silent. Voice cracking and tears flowing, the child shrieked the one sentence that must provoke a parental response. I hate you! he shrilled. I hate you! Silence.

Sobbing, breath coming in short hard gasps, one coherent thought came to him. Ride for help. Up onto his pony’s back and the child kicked the animal hard in the ribs. Never had he ridden with such deliberate speed or with such single-minded purpose.

By the time the two rounded the gates into the ranch, horse and boy were exhausted and sweating never mind it was December and the middle of a cold snap.

Henry brought the pony to a skidding stop in front of the first man he saw, the ranch foreman, a middle-aged former cowpuncher named Graham.

Whoa, son. Ain’t your Pa told you a hundred times not to run a horse thata way? Why… Graham got no further. Henry collapsed out of the saddle, falling into the man’s arms. Blood covered the entire front of his heavy corduroy jacket.

Cradling Henry against his chest, Graham ran to the main house and up the wide stairs to the porch, hollering for help the whole way. Clementine McKey, with Mrs. Graham close on her heels, came at a run. Half a dozen ranch hands torn from their various jobs by the urgency in the foreman’s voice, followed.

What happened? Henry? Clementine tore open her son’s coat searching for a wound that was not there. Where’s your father? Is this his blood?

Seeing the color drain from his mother’s face, her green eyes wide, the familiar countenance twisted into that of a frightened stranger’s, Henry wanted nothing more than to answer. Words caught in his throat, trapped there by his panic.

Trying desperately for a breath, Henry gasped, forcing himself up and out of Graham’s arms to reach for his mother. When he felt her arms around him, he sobbed out, Papa’s hurt. Three miles out by the fence line. So much blood, Mama. He pressed his hot face into her shoulder. I said I hated him. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it!

Clementine passed Henry into Mrs. Graham’s arms, and swept from the room. Crushed against Mrs. Graham’s ample bosom, he struggled for a moment, wanting his mother, her gentle voice petting and soothing, her arms about him, but his struggles proved useless. Cocooned and helpless, he retained a bit of control by not allowing himself to be comforted by Mrs. Graham.

Clementine issued orders to the foreman. Have my horse saddled. Get the buckboard ready. You drive. Take Huw. Bring five or six hands and make certain they’re armed. Follow me as soon as you can and hurry.

Graham nodded, Yes, missus.

Pushing the mare almost beyond endurance, Clementine McKey rode hard and fast. Cold wind whipping through her hair tore the pins loose and the thick auburn braid dropped free past her waist. Her jacket blew out around her and she rode low against the horse’s back.

She saw her husband’s horse as she climbed the last low rise, but no sign of him until she reined in her mount, slipping from the saddle. She found him sprawled out on the ground, a rifle inches from his fingers. Henry had not exaggerated. The amount of blood was copious.

Grabbing saddlebags and canteen Clementine ran to her husband’s side. Pulling a clean white towel from one of the saddlebags, she pressed it against the wound, leaning into it with the heel of her hand and the weight of her body. Bending down close to his head, she heard his quick uneven respirations.

John, I’m here. I’m here. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

Longing to reach out and touch his cheek, she refrained from doing so. Both hands were needed to keep pressure on the wound and get the bleeding stopped.

The men appeared, mounts winded, and the wagon not far behind.

Mr. McKey’s been shot! She called out.

That was all they needed to hear. Three men dismounted, rifles in hand, taking up defensive positions around their wounded boss and his wife. The other three ranged out searching for the shooter.

In a cloud of dust, brakes squealing, Graham ground the wagon to a halt. On the seat beside him sat Huw, the elderly ranch healer. Helped off the high wagon seat by Graham, the old man moved as quick as his arthritic joints would allow to where Clementine knelt by her husband. Crouching, he felt for a pulse at the throat then moved the toweling to check the injury.

Keep pressure steady, he instructed Clementine. Don’t let up.

Searching through the canvas bag Graham handed him, Huw retrieved a stethoscope which he placed over the back, listening to the heart. Won’t lie to you, missus. It’s bad.

He’ll fight this. He’s no quitter, Clementine replied.

John McKey’s wound was bandaged and he was lifted up and placed into the wagon, his head pillowed on his wife’s lap. Clementine cradled her husband close, feeling the breath and life in him. He shivered against her in the biting wind and she tucked the heavy wool blanket about him.

Before Graham had a chance to start the team for home one of the ranch hands, Levi Cook, ran up breathless and agitated. Found the sonofabitch. Uh, beggin’ your pardon, missus. Blushing, the young cowboy touched a free hand to the brim of his battered hat in apology.

Bursting at the seams in his need to be heard, he waved his rifle for emphasis while forgetting his use of the expletive seconds before, and his initial shame. I found the bastard. Dead as a doornail he is. One a them Buffalo Soldiers outta Fort Huachuca, a black fella. Me and the boys figure him for a deserter. No horse. Reckon he wanted Mr. McKey’s mare, wanted her bad enough to kill for.

Clementine’s complexion paled. Young as he was Cook would have been a fool not to notice and a worse fool not to know his words were the cause. His demeanor changed in an instant. Excitement drained from his body and he wilted, suddenly shorter than his usual five and a half feet. He looked about to cry.

Gawd almighty, Levi, Graham scolded, shaking his head at the boy’s utter lack of tact.

When Cook spoke again, his voice was soft. He did not look at the missus nor at Graham, but down at his own feet. Mr. McKey killed him. One shot and dead center. Was his shot for certain. No mistakin’ a hole made by a.45-.70.

There was a moment of awkward silence, but a moment only. Graham was not about to keep his wounded boss out in the cold any longer than need be. Put the body up on your horse, Levi. You and Warren take it back to the fort. Tell the commanding officer what happened then get back to the ranch fast as you can. You ride Mr. McKey’s mare.

Graham clucked to the team and the buckboard edged forward, wheels slipping on rocks as momentum was gained. Going would be slow. Trail had to be broken as there was no road to speak of and the land was a maze of mesquite trees and sagebrush littered with stones and pocked with holes and animal burrows. Care needed taking to prevent the wounded man from being jostled. Three cowboys fanned out around the lurching wagon keeping alert company.

Watching her husband for any signs of returning consciousness, Clementine was heartened when his breathing altered and he attempted to shift position. His eyelids fluttered open and for an instant it seemed he saw her, recognized her, but there was no focus in the blue-gray eyes and her smile went unanswered. Wiping tears across her jacket sleeve, she leaned down, moved the hair back from his forehead and kissed him.

****

Waking with a violent start, a scream lodged in his throat, John McKey did not realize he was in his own home, in his own room and in his own bed. For all he knew he was still out on the range, crawling toward the rifle propped against the rocks where he’d left it. Hand over hand he dragged his body inches at a time. Sweat ran into his eyes blurring his vision. Pain came on wave after nauseating wave, hampering his ability to think, to move, let alone do both at the same time. What drove him, forced him onward when all he wanted to do was rest had little to do with fear for his own life. Though there was much he had to live for, it was fear for the life of his young son that kept him going. Henry, he murmured and then, prayer like, Henry, of all days to be late, please be late this time.

Mustering what remained of his strength John reached out, extending his arm as far as possible without lifting his upper body, keeping his profile low to the ground. His fingers brushed the Marlin’s stock. Just a bit more and the heavy rifle was in his hands.

John heard the shooter coming; the crunch of his booted feet on rocky ground and the sound of off key whistling. So much for the sanctity of human life.

Lifting his head high enough to see over the small outcropping of stones between him and the would-be assassin, John took careful aim. The target, a black soldier, swayed dizzily and then appeared to float above the landscape as if caught in the undulating heat waves of summer. John wiped sweat from his eyes across the cuff of his shirt and tried to steady his breathing. The single soldier then split in two, melding back into one as John squinted them into focus. He fired.

However, he was home and in his own bed where hands held him against the mattress, belly down, while Huw probed for the bullet lodged in the right side of his back. The pain was white hot and more than a man should have to bear.

The agony abruptly ended. The pain throbbed, endured with each heartbeat. He wanted to fight the hands, to struggle out from beneath them, but could not. They lifted and he was free again, free to move, but all he had strength to do was bury his burning face into the cool softness of the pillow beneath his head. Hands that did not hurt but rather comforted touched his cheek and shoulder and drew the warm blankets up to cover him.

****

Huw felt disgusted with himself. Were his hands deft as they once were, had his eyesight retained the sharpness of youth, the damned bullet would be out. Instead he realized how deep it was imbedded in John’s body and how out of reach for the present.

What good is a degree in medicine from Oxford? What use fifteen years spent with the Apache, learning from Loco, their esteemed medicine man, of herbs and natural healing if the man he thought of as a son could not benefit from the knowledge? What the hell good is any of it? he murmured, expecting no answer from the woman who watched, concerned and attentive, at his elbow.

I thought I could get the bullet out while he was unconscious. He couldn’t stand the pain if I went back in now, and I can’t sedate him. He’s too weak. Lost too much blood. It would kill him sure.

We wait then. Clementine said. We wait until he’s stronger, until his body makes more blood. That’s what happens, didn’t you say such before? A body makes blood to replace what’s lost?

That’s what happens, Huw agreed, but he’s lost more blood than he can replace. We can’t get enough fluids into him to help matters. If we could get him to drink water, some broth, anything.

You can give up if you want, but don’t expect the same from me. Clementine rose from her seat on the edge of the bed, signaling Graham to follow.

Huw watched them walk together down the long hallway their heels marking each step against the polished wood floorboards. Hushed words followed as the foreman received his instructions. Huw walked to the nearest window and peered out. He did not see Clementine, but Graham was leading a horse from the corral. He stepped up into the saddle and kicked the big roan into a run. Rider and mount flew through the ranch gates raising a cloud of dust. They headed northeast, toward Tombstone.

Huw sat at the side of the sickbed. He wasn’t used to failure. It was a word not found in his vocabulary, but as he watched the younger man struggle to live, struggle to draw breath, he despaired.

****

Graham returned near dark and with him rode a man from the old days in Tombstone. Four years had passed since John McKey last set foot on the dynamic, fascinating and dangerous streets of his former home.

When Doctor George Goodfellow walked into the handsomely appointed bedroom with its high beamed ceilings and massive four poster bed, all he knew of his patient, rancher John McKey, was that he had been shot in the back from ambush. McKey was weak and growing weaker, the bullet lodged deep within the body.

Get more lamps in here and turn them up all the way. I need more light. Goodfellow shrugged out of his heavy wool overcoat, handing it and his hat to Clementine who whisked both out of the room. Upon her return she carried a deep basin of steaming water and across her arm a supply of clean linens, which she arranged on the table next to the bed.

Opening out his black leather satchel, Goodfellow removed a stethoscope. Settling the earpieces into place he leaned over, pulled back the blankets and listened to the patient’s heart. The beat was weak, the breathing labored and unsteady and the patient restless with a rising fever. When the physician checked the wound he found it to be deep and oozing blood. Several more lamps were brought in and the patient turned onto his back.

I’ll be back in a moment, Doctor. Mrs. McKey stepped out of the room, Huw and Graham following. The heavy oak door closed with a well-oiled click.

Peering closely at his patient, George Goodfellow realized something about the man seemed familiar. Perhaps he knew him or had known him. Alone with his patient for the moment, the physician satisfied his curiosity with a more intense visual examination.

Flaxen hair grew past the shoulders in thick waves, yet if Goodfellow remembered, the hair used to be worn quite short. A heavy mustache, pale gold and drooping, was familiar, but now a trimmed beard disguised high cheekbones and a square jaw.

Goodfellow picked up his patient’s hand. It was that of a working man with its calloused palm, a black crescent moon bruise at the base of the thumb and a jagged long healed scar meandering across the back. It was not the hand he thought to see. On the third finger gleamed a narrow gold wedding band scuffed and dinged from everyday wear.

A deep breath triggered a bout of coughing in the wounded man. It lasted just seconds, but long enough for George Goodfellow to fit the final piece into the puzzle of old memories.

He swept the stethoscope back and forth between the left and right lungs. The left lobe was clear, the breath sounds healthy. However, the right was damaged with limited breath sounds and those were moist and clogged. Goodfellow had his answer.

Doc Holliday, he whispered so softly he doubted the words got past his lips.

A sudden sound caused him to look up and across the wide bed, into another face from the old days. Texas Jack Vermillion, a former frontiersman turned lawman, friend to Doc Holliday and crony of the Earps, stared back at him. He must have been sitting in the shadows, silent and observant, since before Goodfellow arrived.

Preoccupied with the patient, Goodfellow hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room. One of the last people he expected to see was Texas Jack. He figured Vermillion long gone from Arizona after the vendetta ride with Earp and Holliday to avenge the murder of Morgan Earp and the crippling of Virgil. But then Goodfellow also figured John Holliday to have headed for safer climes. It was obvious he was wrong on both counts.

Unlike Holliday, Vermillion had changed little. Perhaps the long brown hair was grayer, the mustache more salt than pepper, but the eyes, they remained as always – ice blue and cold to any but his friends. The weathered face, a crosshatch of lines earned from years in sun and saddle, wore a scowl like it was the only expression the man ever entertained.

George Goodfellow was no fool and it would have taken a big fool indeed to miss the not so veiled threat in Vermillion’s face and stance, fists clenched, all too ready to make a move. Who he is don’t leave this room, Goodfellow.

I am a physician. I took an oath to protect my patients. His identity is secure. I swear it. The doctor was not afraid of Vermillion, though for some there would have been cause. Goodfellow stood firmly behind his word. It was common knowledge to anyone having dealt with the former army surgeon. Holliday had known it, those years back. Vermillion knew it now. Turning away, Jack faded into the shadows, to wait and watch.

Goodfellow relaxed. A few moments later the physician was joined by Clementine McKey and Huw, moments he used to regain his composure.

Mrs. McKey, unless I attempt something radical, your husband doesn’t stand a chance. He’s too weak to remove the bullet yet the bullet must come out. I want to try and transfuse him.

When the woman’s expression registered confusion, he explained. John needs blood. Without it his organs will fail. Since he can’t make blood fast enough, I want to take it from someone else, a volunteer. Using a syringe I would inject the donor blood into your husband. It’s been done before and with success. However, it’s risky. If there was any other way to save him….

"There is no other way. You just said as much." Clementine swayed on her feet, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the bedpost, exhaustion taking its toll. Strength of will did not always coincide with strength of body. When she offered herself as the donor, Goodfellow turned her down flat.

There’s nothing to say being his wife makes your blood any more acceptable than a stranger’s. Blood has differences we know little about. If he had a blood relation here abouts, I’d use that person, but…

Clementine interrupted. There is a relation. We have a son. He’s seven. There was hope in her voice.

Seven. Goodfellow thought a moment and then shook his head. That’s too young. A child doesn’t have enough blood to spare.

Before Huw could speak, Goodfellow stopped him. Much as I hate to admit this, you’re past the age when you can afford to donate.

From the back of the room came the detached voice of Texas Jack Vermillion. I’ll do it.

Huw readied Jack for the procedure, getting him to lie down on the other bed in the room. Rolling up Jack’s right shirtsleeve the healer swabbed the area of the inner elbow with disinfectant and tied a tourniquet above the joint. The vein bulged. Huw inserted the needle, siphoning the lifesaving fluid into the syringe.

Doctor Goodfellow was not having as easy a time with his patient. Delirious and restless, John thrashed about, calling for Henry, begging the child to answer and not accepting assurances that the boy slept safe in the next room.

No. No! Leave me alone. Just let me be.

Had he more strength the struggle could have gone on, but as things stood the short outburst left him panting and exhausted.

Blood loss collapsed John’s veins and it took several attempts before the physician found one he could use. Goodfellow depressed the plunger forcing blood into the wounded man. Time would tell if it healed or killed.

The needle was removed, a piece of disinfectant soaked cotton pressed to the puncture and the arm bent across the chest, and already the patient’s breathing was less labored.

Huw, attentive to the heartbeat through the stethoscope, slowly allowed a smile to creep across his wrinkled face. Steadying, slowing down, stronger.

Goodfellow nodded, feeling a flush of relief. The fates or providence or just a good guess proved him right, this time. The donor blood was compatible.

When an hour passed and the patient’s condition did not deteriorate and in fact improved, Goodfellow made the decision to continue. Vermillion was agreeable.

Another syringe of Jack’s blood was sent into John. At that point even the restlessness he experienced leveled off and he fell into a heavy sleep and sleep it was, not loss of consciousness.

Soon as it’s full daylight we’ll go in for that bullet. That gives John time to rest and build strength. Goodfellow’s words were directed at Huw and the old healer appeared happy to be included.

****

Henry cried himself to sleep in the arms of Mrs. Graham after refusing to be put into his own bed. Late into the evening the woman rocked the child in the large upholstered chair before the fireplace in the great room. Certain this time his father would die, he would not allow himself to be comforted. Pure exhaustion wore down his defenses until he could no longer keep heavy-lidded eyes open.

Even asleep Henry murmured and tossed. He had seen his father ill before. Several times a year the tuberculosis John carried since young adulthood overcame his body. He could no longer fight off a common cold. Work he usually thrived on exhausted him. Fighting the disease was no option, fighting to live was.

It always began the same, with a lingering, moist cough that was worse in the mornings. Soon he came to the breakfast table with the smell of whiskey about him, whiskey used to stifle the spasms in his chest.

Then the pain struck. At first John could handle it, hiding it from those around him. Ultimately there could be no hiding when pain came in great crippling waves and the cough doubled him over, staining his kerchiefs with blood.

A week would pass or perhaps two with John confined to bed, either soaking with sweat or freezing from chills. With the worst over he would be carried by Jobe, the huge man-child who lived his life out in comfort and acceptance on the ranch, out to the chaise on the front porch, no matter the weather, there to rest and regain his strength.

From the lounge he oversaw the workings of the ranch, issued orders and remained in control, the boss of the spread. Breakfast and lunch were served out-of-doors and the entire family rejoiced in his company and the knowledge he would soon be back on his feet, his old self again.

The boy relished those days his father spent on the chaise. There and only there was he so accessible to the child who craved his attentions and was doted on in return.

On the porch there was always time for Henry and his incessant curiosity about all things, enough time to be read to and listened to, to be taught and to learn. Enough time for a boy to be hugged and held against his father’s chest to hear the reassuring beat of his heart and know his father would soon be well.

This was different. There had never been so much blood before and everyone was terribly worried and a stranger had come, the other doctor with his black bag and the smell of things Henry did not know, but did not like. Though he desperately wanted to see his father, Henry was not allowed into the room. Something was very wrong.

Father was dying. That was it. It had to be. Perhaps it was even Henry’s fault. When he told Papa he hated him maybe his father had given up the will to live. If only Henry might be allowed in for a moment, just long enough to tell Papa he hadn’t meant it, not at all.

Henry awoke still cradled on Mrs. Graham’s lap. The woman slept, her breathing deep and relaxed. Without disturbing her, the child slipped off. Padding barefoot down the long hallway leading from the great room to the master bedroom, he heard no voices.

Peeking around the doorjamb he saw Uncle Jack asleep on the bed he himself had occupied as a very young child. Vermillion was not really his uncle. The term was used out of respect for a loved friend. In the too short bed the grown man’s legs hung down either side of the narrow mattress.

In a chair at the far side of the big bed sat his mother. Her head was bent so that her chin rested upon her chest and her hands lay folded in her lap. The new doctor was nowhere to be seen and Huw was asleep at the table by the windows, head resting on folded arms. Papa, too, seemed to be sleeping, eyes closed, breathing through parted lips.

Henry crept up onto the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress or move the covers. Blankets were pulled up to his father’s chest, but both arms were out. One was tight against his right side, but the left arm was opened wide, wide enough for a scared little boy with something to say to cuddle into. He inched his body against his father’s until he was resting his head on John’s shoulder, lips close to his father’s ear.

Henry whispered so only Papa could hear. I’m sorry for what I said back at the fence, Papa. I love you more than anyone in the world besides Mother. He wiped a sleeve back across his eyes. Please, Papa, will you forgive me? Please?

John’s arm came up around the boy and he turned his face into his son’s hair. Henry drifted off content in the knowledge Papa knew and forgave him.

Clementine noticed her son