Two nights ago
"They should have told me. You should have told me you were unwell."
"Ah do not believe withholding mah condition from you was wrong. Ah hardly felt ill enough to not do mah duty."
Inez Rocios sighed as she lay beside her lover, Ezra Standish. They were ensconced comfortably in the gambler's comfortable feather bed, naked, laying on their sides, facing one another. Ezra ran his hands through her long, soft hair. He loved the feel of it, and she loved the anticipation of what was to come when he finished combing his fingers through her beautiful locks, his hand working its way over her neck and then smoothing over her skin to another favored part of her anatomy. Her breasts were magnificent, she knew it, and Ezra showed his appreciation of them, massaging his hand over one perfect globe, rubbing hard and leaning in to suckle it, his tongue, his mouth normally so proficient in achieving the reaction he sought. Ezra had to work a little longer than usual to bring Inez's nipple to attention. The beautiful Mexican woman was overly distracted this night, the normal end of all of this foreplay not a possibility tonight as it had not been for the past two nights, and would not be for some time to come.
"You should tell me when you are ill, even just a little," she said. "And I should have heard from you about this," she added, indicating his still-healing stomach.
Whereas Ezra would prefer that Inez run her own fingers through the waves of his hair, or take her tongue to his own chest, the saloon proprietress was single-mindedly fixated on the bruises shining a kaleidoscope of color across his abdomen.
"This will all heal."
"I do not like it," Inez said as she took her hand, fingers splayed out, and felt her way along the bruises, his perfect body marred. She began her exploration high on his belly and made her way gently to the bruises lower down. She knew that he still hurt, badly, as this was his third night home from the Chama excursion, and what they were doing right now was all that they had done in bed since Ezra's return. The former con man told his lover that they could do more, but her private visit with Nathan Jackson the previous day contradicted that. Nathan described to her the encounter with the Gordon family, the injuries he had suffered. It sounded frightening, especially as she was told how much her man had suffered on this trip from the food poisoning. Nathan's suggestion that they wait to have sex for a week, if they could, was advice she planned to heed. These nights with Ezra by her side, naked, the warmth of his touch, the way he could make her feel as he caressed her breast, their kisses … it was wonderful. It was everything. He was alive.
"Inez."
Her eyes filled with tears once more, as they had frequently over the course of the last few days, as she viewed the changed colors on Ezra's stomach. She understood that the new shades, the different hues represented healing, but it still pained her to see the evidence of what he had gone through.
"Inez, darlin'."
She raised her eyes from the evidence of what that man had done and gazed into Ezra's eyes. Several teardrops fell; the handsome southerner took his thumb and gently removed them from her cheeks, his hand moving from the right side of her face and then doing the same thing affectionately on the left.
"Sí," she said, offering a tepid smile.
"Ah know that you are … upset by all of this." The Mexican beauty snorted a bitter laugh. The card sharp turned his face away but held her tighter in his arms, forcing her head down to his chest.
"That is an understatement," she replied with a sniffle.
Ezra squeezed her tight and said, "It has always been that Ah could take the assignments, mah heart and mind clear in the necessity, the righteousness of the undertaking," despite all complaints he made to Chris upon receiving said assignments.
Inez moved away from his hold and lay on her back. "I do not wish to discuss this."
"Mah darling, we must … "
"No." The fiery Mexican jumped from the bed and gathered her nightgown from the floor. When she stepped around the foot of the bed, Ezra grabbed for her, but grunted in pain, his reach abbreviated by the continued aches and sharp pains in his gut caused by the sudden movement. He hated it when Nathan Jackson was right.
"Inez," he called as he moved his legs to the floor. The door to his room shut softly as the woman he loved left him alone before he'd even been able to get one foot to the rug beside the bed. His chin sagged to his chest as he sighed at what seemed to be slipping through his fingers.
Early this morning
"It's your own damn fault, Ezra."
Ezra wondered sometimes why he remained with these six men, one of the members of the famous Magnificent Seven. And he'd had quite the last few days; he really wasn't up to figuring out whatever it was that Vin Tanner was talking about. The gambler dropped his fork to his plate, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and asked in a tone that reflected perfectly his unhappiness at being awake, more walking in his sleep than alert after a less than sound sleep, and attempting to eat breakfast at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning.
"Pray tell, Mistah Tanner, how is that?"
"Hell, Ezra, everyone knows it's your fault now that no one can sleep much past seven-thirty," the handsome ladies' man Buck Wilmington said in between shovels of beans and scoops of eggs.
"Perhaps, Mistah Wilmington, you could refrain from speaking while you are chewing your food and allow Vin to answer the question." It was evidence of how not with it the fancily-dressed man was at this hour of the day that his wide yawn at the end of his statement included no gentlemanly apology.
The batwing doors banged open as Chris Larabee, the leader of the town's peacekeepers, stormed over to their regular table, stopped and stood, towering over the seated gambler.
"Uh-oh," Buck mumbled through a bite of ham.
"God damn it, Ezra!" the tall blond yelled as he removed his coat and, irritated, took his customary seat between the card sharp and the tracker. Vin and Ezra both noticed the obvious white smears on Chris' black jacket. Chris, seeing that there was no room to place his hat, plopped it back on his head.
Ezra had been readying to take a bite from the food piled high on his breakfast plate, but set the half-loaded utensil down at the roar from his fellow lawman. He'd eaten very little of the food. Inez would have known better than to present him with such a plate, but she was, once again and definitely last minute, visiting with family in Las Cruces. He shook his head faintly and wondered what could have possessed him to even bother ordering; eight a.m. was a ridiculous time of day to even think to consume food. Luckily, with at least two of the men sitting with him at the table, he was sure none of it would go to waste.
"Mistah Larabee, Ah have, as much as Ah loathe the fact, been awake a mere thirty minutes." Not exactly the truth. Ezra had been awake much of the night, including from four o'clock until finally getting out of bed, any hope for more sleep not likely to happen. "Ah have not been outside the four walls of this building today. What could Ah possibly have done to rile you so this early in the morning?"
J.D. Dunne came bounding in from the rear of the building.
"Mornin', fellas," he greeted with far too much energy for anyone at the table.
As everyone at the table greeted the youngest member of their team with varying lesser degrees of enthusiasm, Ezra contemplated the direction from which the young easterner had joined them. The rear of the building. Outside of which was the location of the saloon's outhouse. From whence J.D. had clearly just come as he finished doing up the last button on his pants before heading to take a seat next to Buck.
Without washing his hands.
Now, Ezra would prefer to believe at that moment that his compatriot had at least made an attempt to wipe his hands on something: his pants, his vest or jacket, one could hope … a handkerchief? But as he watched Chris' face devolve into an expression of disgust as the town's sheriff patted his hand on the tall blond's shoulder, he knew that Chris was thinking the exact same thing. Maybe the southerner was off the hook. Maybe J.D.'s transgression usurped whatever their leader thought Ezra had done in the Larabee scale of things that irritated the man. The scale seemed to encompass nearly any single thing that a man could do, depending on the former gunslinger's mood, or depending on how many others pissed him off on any given day.
"I don't know what the hell you were thinkin'," Chris said to the man seated beside him.
Ezra really was at a loss as to what it was he was being faulted for by Vin and Buck, or what he'd done to earn Chris Larabee's ire … this time. He wasn't at his best this early in the morning; he firmly believed that his body needed that extra time abed. And last night wasn't exactly a restful one after so many sleepless hours. He opened his mouth to challenge each of his friends when the doors to the saloon clattered once more, announcing the entrance of both Nathan Jackson and Josiah Sanchez just before the preacher's voice did the same thing.
"Ezra, I wanna thank you for what ya done," the big man said as he landed his large hands heavily on the former con man's shoulders. It felt just like what a bear attack from behind must feel like. It's a good thing he was prepared for the action or he would have fought back. He withheld a grunt as the manhandling reverberated up and, with particular emphasis on his healing stomach, down his body.
"Josiah," Ezra started to reply, but the healer interrupted with his own surprisingly kind words.
"I never thought it would amount to much, but I have to admit, Ezra, I was wrong. I ain't never been more happy to admit it, either. It was a good thing you did," the former slave said, earnestly and affectionately, to the man who, in the past, reminded Nathan so much of a history he wished to forget. These two men had come a long way in three years.
Ezra looked first to Chris. Their leader's face had run the gamut of emotions, from irate to disgusted and now, a little dazed and a whole lot confused as he listened to Josiah and Nathan praise the former con man for the exact thing for which the former gunslinger was preparing to admonish him. Buck, too, seemed perplexed, though disinterested as he pulled Ezra's plate over in front of him, sending a wink of thanks to the gambling man, diving into the food before it got much colder. Ezra turned to Vin, who seemed to understand exactly what was going on, but appeared happy to keep silent and just sit back and watch how everything played out. Ezra turned to J.D. and opened his mouth to ask the young sheriff a question, but he was unexpectedly stopped by the man speaking first. Unexpectedly because J.D. spoke despite chewing on a mouthful of biscuit.
"Don' ask me, Ez. I got no idea wha's goin' on," he mumbled as he took a swig of milk to wash down his food.
Ezra rubbed his head. This round table discussion made him ache in a place other than his stomach.
"You all right, Ezra?" Nathan asked.
"This conversation, not surprisingly, has caused me to somehow develop a headache," he admitted. He stood and added, "Ah believe Ah will go lie down."
Chris grabbed Ezra's wrist. "Ya just woke up. Sit down." Ezra sighed and sat back down.
"Yes?"
"All those trees and bushes and shit you and the ladies and the kids have planted these last couple o' years?"
"Yes, and some that others requested to be planted as well," Ezra said, sending an accusatory glare back to the man who asked to plant some rose bushes, his late wife Sarah's favorite flower, near the boarding house. The climate was a good one for the beautiful and aromatic flower, so they were planted throughout the town. "Ah smelled some blossoms wafting in mah window last evenin'."
"It's wonderful, isn't it, Nate?" Josiah asked. The healer nodded his head as he enjoyed his eggs and beans and spicy red chili.
"That's a matter of opinion," Buck said. Vin nodded his head in agreement, except it was clear by the smirk on his face that he didn't care one way or the other.
"It ain't wonderful, Josiah," Chris said angrily. "Not when this happens," he added as he removed his hat and set it in front of the southerner. The crown of the wide-brimmed black hat held what would best be described as a congealing pile of bird poop. That explained the smear on the man's jacket. One area of the hat's brim had more of it, though white was definitely not the primary color there. No, not white. Not at all.
Ezra paled slightly, but he couldn't help himself. He chuckled, but then the chuckle bubbled into a full blown burst of laughter. He stopped the laugh short because it really hurt to do that.
"Mis … Mistah Larabee, ah fail to see how you can blame me for your very bad luck."
Chris looked about ready to punch the gambler, but Vin interrupted with a mild poke to the seething gunman's arm, which would at least delay that violent action. For how long was yet to be determined.
"Ez, the birds've been in town this spring," Buck explained.
Ezra frowned and said, "Do ah look like Mother Earth to you? Am Ah now Four Corners' official ornithologist?"
"Depends on the day," Buck said under his breath. Ezra scowled at the ladies' man, especially in light of the fact that he could place a bet in the amount of money that would fill the bank that Buck had no idea what an ornithologist was.
"I ain't got no problem with it," J.D. said. "I think it was only bad luck," he continued. "Just like Ezra said. Besides, it's nice hearin' 'em sing. Wakes up the day."
"You are a wise man, J.D.," Ezra encouraged.
"Ezra, did you hear what J.D. jest said?" Vin asked.
"Did Ah not acknowledge Mistah Dunne's comments, Vin?"
The tracker smiled, shook his head and said, "Maybe it's my ears, Ezra, but could you tell us what J.D. said?"
"Ah might suggest havin' Mistah Jackson check your hearin'. But certainly, Ah can oblige your request." Ezra yawned again, this time apologizing profusely. He continued, "Our young friend here implied that he has no problem with birds flying, as they are wont to do," he noted, looking to Buck. "He said that he agrees with me that the bird excrement on your hat was bad luck indeed, Mistah Larabee," he added, looking at the angry blond, his eyebrow raised. He finished with, "Mistah Dunne also enjoys the lovely birdsong." He sat back, put his elbow on the arm of the chair, and rubbed his forehead above his right eye. His amusement was waning quickly the worse he felt.
Everyone at the table watched as Ezra Standish, tired and slow on the uptake this day, not at all the enigmatic man they were all used to seeing, came to the terrible realization of exactly what he had wrought these last years. The number of trees planted in town had doubled these last two years. The shrubs and perennials tripled. Ezra worked with Ben and Dottie Pike to help bring health back to the overgrown fruit trees behind the former Bucklin's Grocery, now Pike's Grocery and General Store. Before all of this planting and nurturing, the birds spent much of their time in the trees at the edge of town. No longer. Now, almost exclusively because of one Ezra P. Standish, the birds had other places to gather, to feed, to nest.
And to sing. At six o'clock in the morning. And sing they had this morning, loud and long and happy. Loud enough to wake the dead, and one morning-hating professional poker player and peacekeeper who spent much of the previous night attempting several times to remain asleep.
"Good lord! What have ah done?" Ezra asked quietly as he stood once more.
"Where are you going?" Chris asked. "What are you going to do about these damn birds?"
"Leave 'im alone," Josiah suggested, quiet but threatening.
"I want to know what he's gonna do to stop these damn birds from droppin' shit all over this town!" Chris roared.
"Chris," Vin said softly in an attempt to calm the situation. Once he got his friend's attention, he nodded his head to the former conman. Ezra stood beside his chair, his eyes closed, breathing deeply and cautiously, his fingers turning white from his hold on the chair.
"Ezra?" the healer asked, ready to move as he watched his friend.
"Nathan, Dr. Wharton." It was all he needed to say for the black man to understand and take action.
"I'll get it. Go on up to your room."
Ezra opened his eyes, but his face presented nothing if not an obvious attempt to hide a grimace of pain. "Gentlemen," he barely whispered as he headed toward the staircase and took the steps far more slowly and carefully than he might normally do, to the second floor of the saloon.
"What the hell?" Chris asked.
Nathan stood. "I've got a mixture of herbs that I brought back from Chama. Doc Wharton said we should try it next time Ezra's got one of his sick headaches coming on."
"I don't think that's what's going on here," Chris said.
"I might have to side with you on this one, old pard," Buck said. "He's just tryin' to avoid facing up to the trouble he caused."
"I don't think so, Buck. Besides, it ain't like the birds weren't in town before. They all spent time in the livery, the grain exchange. Hell, I've more than once had to wipe bird poop off my saddle when I've got Milagro at the jail. Had to do it my first day as sheriff."
"I'm goin'," Nathan interrupted. "Josiah, can you get a bucket of ice?"
"Sure thing." The two friends went in separate directions to gather their supplies.
"Yer wrong," Vin said. "Both o' ya." He rose from his seat. "You should be ashamed o' yourselves because ya know better. Ya know him better." The tracker looked from Buck to Chris, shook his head in disgust, and followed Ezra to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time to go check on the gambler.
J.D. stared at his boss. In fact, he glared at him.
"J.D.," Buck warned.
"No. Let him say what he wants to say," Chris said.
"I will. First, birds have been shittin' on us since we got here. Buck's hat, Vin's wagon. Hell, we have to clean it once a month. We even put a different cover on top that cleans up easier. And what about Nathan's porch? Oh, that's right. You wouldn't know about how often we got to clean that 'cause you don't get your hands dirty with that sort of thing."
"J.D.," Buck warned once more as he saw Chris grind his teeth and watched the vein in his neck, and the one on his forehead twitch as his anger grew. But J.D. kept at it, oblivious to the potential danger within arm's reach.
"All of that happened within the first couple of months we were here. Mrs. Travis got poop in her hair, but I don't remember her whinin' about it. Pony's rump when ya left him out in front of the saloon for hours when, well, you know when."
Yes, Chris Larabee remembered, at least he remembered Buck telling him about the binge he went on their second year in Four Corners on the anniversary of Sarah and Adam's deaths. Ezra and the ladies, after a successful first year of planting, were just beginning to plan what additional trees and bushes would go where. Josiah worked in the church that entire day, Vin was at the reservation. Buck was in bed with one of his regular ladies. Mrs. Hughes was in labor, so Nathan wasn't around. J.D. came back from patrol to find Pony at the hitching post in front of the saloon. Chris was supposed to have been at his cabin; no one noticed he'd returned to town to sit at a table and drink until he was loaded and acting ugly.
"Yeah," Chris said.
"And remember the side of Watson's and the post office and the laundry always looked like someone started painting it white but never got around to finishing it? It was disgusting. Remember, all those fruit trees that weren't being taken care of, kept the birds back and forth. 'Course, Ez and Dottie fixed that."
"Yeah," Chris said. "Damned pain in the ass. 'Sizeable specimen'," he said. Chris and J.D. smiled at each other.
"Ezra don't like manual labor, but he worked hard to get those big trees back to town."
"He didn't say 'manual labor', J.D. He gets kidded 'bout being lazy because of that comment. But what he said was 'menial' labor. There's a difference."
"There is?"
"Yeah, there is. You should ask him about it sometime," Chris suggested.
"Well, after that day, we know he'll work hard if he thinks it's something worth doing." Chris smiled at his young friend. J.D. didn't know it, but he really didn't need to talk to Ezra about the difference between what Ezra said back then at Nettie Wells' ranch and how what he said was remembered by everyone. Buck caught Chris' eye and smiled, a silent thank you for how the conversation had progressed.
"Those trees … " Chris said, letting the thought go. What a couple of days that was.
"Yeah, those trees are a great windbreak, too," J.D. said.
"Ezra said that was one of the reasons they planted there. We said he was full of crap, at the time," Buck recalled.
J.D continued. "You know, Chris, I just think you're mad because bird shit is hard to get off."
"Yeah," Chris interrupted, "and Ezra's an easy target on this one."
"You'd think he'd get shit on," J.D. said, "but he never does."
"No, J.D. He does," Buck replied sadly, "just not by the birds."
The three members of The Magnificent Seven who had remained at the table dispersed, each quietly contemplating the truth of what Buck just said.
That evening
Chris opened the door to the gambler's room and found Ezra sitting up against his pillows, resting, a book open, face down, up against his chest. The card sharp set his gun by his side; Chris had only barely seen it pointed his way.
"I hear you're feeling better."
"Ah am." Ezra took his hand and wiped it down his face. "It is … " he said, pausing to choose the right word, "annoying, though, how little it takes to seem like Ah am heading right over the edge to one of these migraine headaches."
"Migraine? Is that what it's called?"
Both men were speaking softly in the dimly lit room. It was approaching suppertime. It seemed that the room might have been light enough for a while for the former con man and current and forever avid reader to pull out one of his favorite tomes.
"Indeed. Migraine, from the French, which by some serpentine path originated from the Latin hemicrania. It seems Dr. Wharton and Mistah Jackson spoke of mah occasional malady while in Chama while Ah was indisposed. It is a far better moniker than 'sick headache'."
"Nathan said that he and the doc were hopeful that tea with the feverfew might keep the headache from happening," Chris said. "And the ice?" He saw that a new bucket of ice sat nearby, a wet cloth tossed over its rim. He also noted the damp bangs hanging limp on Ezra's forehead, proof that the gambler had used the compress fairly recently.
"A very cold compress in a very dark, quiet room. Ah believe it has done the trick," the southerner said. Chris would be more convinced if Ezra spoke over a whisper, turned the light from his lamp up higher – he had clearly lowered it if he'd made any attempt to read the large volume now resting on his chest – and didn't look like he'd been awake for two days.
Chris sniffed the air. "That's not the feverfew, is it?"
"No. That is a steaming kettle of boiled water with dried orange rind and rosemary, another concoction from the good doctor. Its essence is alleged to have a soothing effect."
"You seem pretty relaxed." Ezra shrugged, which Chris took as silent confirmation that the man was. He nodded toward the book. "You felt well enough to do some reading?"
"Ah did. And then Ah read a page and knew that such an action so soon was asking for trouble. Ah actually prefer feeling bettah to reading."
Chris observed his friend. This was better than the full blown sick headache, by quite a bit. But Ezra was not in any shape to go out on patrol, hadn't been since the morning. But he seemed like he might be all right for tomorrow, and that was way better than any of them could have hoped for during his previous migraines. But something was niggling at Chris, so he asked, "Did this migraine start in Chama, or on our ride back?"
Ezra looked at his boss. It would seem at first an accusation, but he knew that his fellow lawman was simply looking to understand.
"No."
"My yellin' at you this morning?"
"No, Chris. Ah began to feel …." Ezra didn't finish the description of how he felt. He pointed his hand to his head and said, "Ah had moments where Ah thought it might be comin' on yesterday when … "
"After Inez got on the stage." The two men shared a look, and Ezra nodded.
"She was unhappy with what she heard about our adventure with the Gordons."
"Someone told her you knocked Andy Gordon from his horse." It was the one part of the entire affair that Inez Rocios would be most unhappy with. Ezra had concentrated so much on staying on his horse on the long ride home that he forgot to ask his companions to refrain from discussing that part of the trip.
Chris' face changed from serious and worried to guilty. "It might have been Mary she heard it from."
"It does not mattah."
"You two gonna be all right?"
Ezra snorted a bitter laugh. "Much like you and Ah on occasion, Inez and Ah seem to take one step forward just to be tripped up by two steps back. Actually, you and Ah seem to be the reciprocal of that progress." The man comfortably in repose on his bed smiled, happy with that evolution, at least. Ezra placed his hand on his book, though Chris suspected that he was subconsciously aiming for his heart. "Inez and Ah will continue this dance until one of us no longer finds it enjoyable. Ah c … care for her deeply, but Ah do not know that she is willin' to abide mah role here and the dangers of it. Ah am not convinced that Ah should continue to ask her to."
"Ezra … "
"No, Chris," the former con man said as he closed his cherished leather-bound copy of the Cervantes classic. Ezra owned this copy of Don Quixote – in Spanish – as well as a separate volume that he'd more than once read to the children, and to some of the adults, of Four Corners. Chris knew the English version was on loan to Mary Travis. He knew this because reading it out loud to each other was their other favorite way of spending time before going to sleep.
"No, Ezra. Listen to me." Chris took the book and set it on the dresser, grabbed the man's nice rocking chair and sat so that he could assure that his friend was watching and listening. "You love her and she loves you. None of that 'caring' horseshit. And from what I was told, you forced that jackass from his horse so that his brothers would stop firing at you and J.D. and Buck. That was a brave and decent thing you did." Ezra closed his eyes and listened. "But maybe it's time for you and me, even J.D., to re-think our roles. Things are different now."
"No, they are not," Ezra said as he opened his eyes and somehow seemed to be reaching deep into Chris' soul. "We are not the kind of men who would allow our associates to endanger themselves so that we might avoid similar peril. Ah know that is true of you. Perhaps Ah have given you reason to not believe the same of me."
Chris grasped the gambler's leg, then rose and placed the rocking chair back in its proper place.
"No, I know it's true of you, too. J.D. would give me more shit than all of you combined if we forced him to accept any changes. We're all the same way about this."
"Precisely," the southerner said, sounding resigned to the breakup of his relationship with the beautiful, intriguing, fiery, sexy and challenging Inez Rocios.
"We'll figure something out."
"We'll … what? No, we will not. Ah will work it out with Inez, one way or the other."
"We'll figure it out." Chris headed for the door. "I'll have some food sent up."
"Chris," the card sharp pleaded.
"Get some more rest. And don't worry. And I have you down for patrol for tomorrow night."
"That is fine, but … "
"Relax. Don't worry. I'll send Nathan up," the leader of The Seven said with a wry smile as he shut the door.
Ezra plopped his head, gently, onto his feather pillows. "He's sending Nathan Jackson up and tells me not to worry," the professional poker player grumbled to himself. He paused, and then added, "Ass."
The End.