Scene 1
"Get him a doctor! Get him a doctor!"
The words echoed off the blue-flowered wall paper, the worn chest of drawers, the closed door. Cal Wayne sat bolt upright, eyes wide, hands clutching at the air, trying to stop those Yankees from taking Dave. It took several seconds for his surroundings to register. Yellow curtains. A four-poster bed. White sheets. No trees, no Yankees. No Dave.
"Cal?" Amy sat up beside him, put a hand on his right arm.
"I'm all right." He tried to slow his breathing, stop his heart's erratic galloping.
"What's wrong?"
Cal pulled his arm away from her hand. "I said I'm all right."
"Cal-"
He swung his legs out from under the white sheets and walked to the window, moving carefully still. The wound in his left shoulder didn't pain him all the time anymore, but a sudden move would still start it shooting sparks. The way it felt right then, he must have been thrashing around a while before he woke.
Cal stared out the window at the faint outline of outbuildings and fences in the bright moonlight. He'd hoped once he confessed to Grant Evers and Amy about how Dave had died, that the nightmares would end. When they didn't, he'd hoped instead that they'd end when he and Amy married. Clearly, that hadn't changed anything either. Funny, how the nightmares hadn't started until he'd returned to Abilene. In that Yankee prison, he'd slept like a child. It was other guys who'd muttered or called out in the night, not him.
Now they came almost every night. Sometimes it was a cavalry charge, or a lot of artillery fire coming down everywhere. But usually it was Dave. The look on Dave's face when Cal fired, his last words, the feel of him dead in Cal's arms. The Yankees taking his body. Over and over, night after night.
He could hear Amy getting out of bed too. He expected her to come try to comfort him again, and flinched in anticipation of her touch. Instead, he heard the door creak open. Surprised, he turned and watched her slip out of the room, her simple white nightgown looking almost angel-like in the near dark. As she left, he felt something inside himself crumble. What was wrong with him? Why was it that, whenever he woke like this, sweating and trembling in the dark, he couldn't bear the touch of this woman he loved. How long would it take before she'd tire of this and leave for good? Was she even coming back now? Or would she spend the night in the parlor, in her mother's old rocking chair maybe?
Cal turned back to the window, hands clenched. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When you survived a war, when you came home and married the girl you'd dreamed of for so long, why, weren't you supposed to be happy about all that? When would he lose this numb feeling, this cloud of uncertainty that seemed to linger over his whole world? He and Amy had been married for over a week now. Shouldn't he feel happier about that?
The door creaked again, and Cal whirled, hand reaching instinctively for the holster hanging over the back of the chair in the corner.
Amy said, "I thought you might like a drink of water." She held out a glass.
"Oh. Thank you." He took it from her, drank it off slowly. Now that the water was here, he realized how thirsty he'd been. "Thank you," he said again when he'd finished it.
Amy sat down on her side of their bed. "I'm glad I could help somehow, anyway."
Cal put the glass down on her dresser. He lowered himself to his side, half-turned away from her. "I'm sorry. Amy, I can't seem to…"
"I know."
Cal felt the bed move as she lay back down, and waited until she'd pulled the sheets up before he lay back down himself. He tried to get comfortable on his back, find the right way to lie so his shoulder wouldn't throb after only a few minutes. He'd always slept on his side before, but the bullet hole wouldn't let him do that comfortably yet.
Amy turned toward him, and this time instead of pulling away, he drew her close with his good arm. Who could have guessed that the sweetest part of being married would be the way her head felt on his chest, her forehead against his cheek, her arm across him, his arm around her shoulders. It was the closest he got to truly happy, those moments of quiet companionship before they drifted off to sleep.
At least the nightmares usually came only once in a night. Maybe when the unrest in town was settled, once Cal could officially turn over his sheriff's badge again, they'd end for good.
Scene 2
Ward Kent stood at the doorway to the sheriff's office, looking out into the night. The town was quiet. No trouble. Two rather ridiculous figures went by. One was short and ball-shaped, and in his long light-brown coat he reminded Ward of a potato in a nightgown. The other was about Ward's size and probably even thinner. He looked like an upright length of twine. They were trying to keep one another on their feet. They never seemed to know night from day, and they never knew when they'd had enough. But they didn't make any trouble.
Ward had spent the evening playing cards in the saloon, and he'd won a little. He usually did. Nobody ever noticed that he was quite good at remembering cards and reading people. But he always saw to it that the stakes remained small. For one thing, he didn't want to lose any money on cards, no more than what he spent on liquor or food. He'd started putting some aside for a piece of land. One day. Also, it was the best way to prevent trouble. Men who lost nickels didn't cause trouble. Men who lost dollars did. It was one of the reasons why he played cards: to keep the stakes small. The other was that he heard a lot more playing cards then staying in the office or patrolling, since the men trusted a poker buddy. It was his contribution, small as it was, to keeping the town as peaceful as possible.
And now he was looking out into the quiet night. It wasn't what his father had had in mind when he christened him 'Ward'. He had hoped that Ward would follow in his footsteps and the ones of his grandfather. Well, he hadn't. Ward – a warden. A watchman. His father'd had something different in mind with the name, but Ward figured at least law enforcement was something decent. Necessary. Trying to keep a town quiet. To protect the weak against the bullies. Maybe his father would have agreed after all.
Ward knew that Cal wanted to step down as sheriff. But he also knew that he could not do the job without him. Before Cal, there had been Slade, and Grant behind him to provide the authority. Now there was Cal, who was strong enough all alone. Ward knew that he couldn't do the job. That he was a coward. He couldn't have taken on Loop like Cal had done. He was afraid. He just tried to hide it behind a façade of clownery. Surely Cal knew that.
Ward was glad that everything was real quiet outside – but he didn't like that it was quiet inside the office too. Not like before, when Cal had still been there, quiet and companionable. Cal, who used to cry out in his sleep. Was he still having nightmares, now that he was married? Hopefully not, or he would scare the daylights out of Amy. Poor guy. Poor Amy, too.
One would have thought that Ward was glad not to have his sleep interrupted by Cal's shouting, but he wasn't. He missed Cal. He'd become the closest thing to a big brother he'd ever had. Well, not that big physically, but still a big brother.
Thinking of Cal getting married, he couldn't help dreaming of the one woman he wanted to be with... Annie. He had fallen in love with her at first sight, or so it felt now. Annie Decker - a slender, beautiful girl. Then he had learned that she was married and had a little son. Now Cord Decker was dead, and she was a widow. He might have tried to court her. But - had Cord told her what he had done? Or rather, what he hadn't done. Ward had wanted to intervene when Loop and company had confronted Cord and Cal the day they had come back from the war, but Slade had kept him back, and Ward had just accepted it. Hadn't fought for what was right. Had drawn in his horns, as always. He was a coward. Had always been one. A runaway kid. And worse… he didn't even want to think of that. O Lord, why couldn't I have more guts?
Angrily Ward shook his head. Why was he still talking to HIM? He disowned the Lord. Real men didn't want to be involved with HIM. Ward sure didn't, not anymore, not unless HE would prove to Ward that HE cared, that HE hadn't just forgotten about him.
Ward sighed. There wasn't much left of this night. If he wanted to be fit the next morning, he would have to hurry to the rendezvous with the fleas on his mattress.