He fought the grogginess of his head and slowly opened his eyes. The room was unfamiliar, with paisley wallpaper and solid pine furniture that seemed quite worn, but there was a stream of sunlight coming in through a nearby window which cast a warm glow across the floor, streaking shadows over the paisley walls. He tried to turn his head to continue his observance of the room, and he realized he was extremely weak, the small movement making him slightly nauseous. His eyes landed on the petite woman sitting in the chair by the bed, sewing a button on a white shirt. His shirt. It unsettled him. He studied her attractive face, but was certain he did not know who she was, though he guessed she was in her mid-forties, and judging by her hands she was used to hard work.
Elsie felt the stare and glanced over at her patient. She smiled at him. "Well, you're awake. I've been wondering what color your eyes were, it's nice to finally see them." She followed his gaze to the shirt she was fixing. "Yes, this is yours, it needed a new button, so I thought I'd fix it for you. I brushed and pressed your suit too; figured I might as well since you weren't wearin' it."
She saw the slight alarm rise in his light blue eyes, and had to cover her own smile as he realized he was in a nightshirt, in her bed, and he didn't even know her name.
He swallowed hard, but his throat remained dry and raspy. "Where am I?"
She picked up a glass of water from the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, lifting his head.
"Here, sip some of this."
The water felt good as it slid down his throat. "Obliged."
She gently lowered his head and set the glass back on the table, but she remained perched on the bed. "You're in Cimarron crossing, and you've been awful sick."
"How long?"
"A week. Jerry Concannon, the stage driver, and Asa Potter who runs the stage stop, brought you to me. You had a blisterin' fever and a bellyache that made you terrible ill. Jerry and Asa didn't know your name though, and there wasn't anythin' in your bag with it either. My name's Elsie Tucker, I'm the midwife in these parts. Care to tell me who ya are?"
"I'm D--" he stopped himself; he was no longer a doctor. "Adams. My name's Galen Adams, ma'am."
"Well Mr. Adams, I'm glad to see you awake, for awhile there, I wasn't any too sure you were gonna make it."
Doc then remembered the soothing hands and the soft voice; they hadn't been a dream. But that realization made him uncomfortable, for he was used to being the caregiver and not the patient. He cleared his throat slightly.
Sensing that her close proximity was making him uneasy, Elsie stood. "I've got some broth warmin' on the stove for ya. You feel like you could eat some?"
His stomach hurt like hell, but he nodded. "I'll try."
She smiled and pat the top of his hand. "You just relax, and I'll bring some to ya."
He closed his eyes, but his mind was busy with pieces of memory floating disjointedly through his consciousness. He remembered drinking some coffee at the stage stop, but that was the last thing he could really recall. And then it struck him: Coffee? What had he been thinking? He ran a hand over his belly, noting the weight he'd lost, and that his muscles felt strained. And his body was terribly weak. He realized that his ulcer must have bled internally, and the weakness was from the fever and blood loss. He shook his head slightly; it was idiotic. He was a doctor and should never have let himself get to such a point.
The aroma of chicken broth tickled his nose, and he felt her sit once again on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes as she put a napkin over his chest, and propped him up with some pillows behind him. She picked up the bowl, and carefully spoon-fed him, occasionally wiping his mouth for him. Adams felt irritated that a woman he didn't know was fussing over him like an intimate; but he also recognized that without her, he would most likely be dead. She set the empty bowl down, wiped his mouth and removed the napkin from his chest.
She brushed a gentle hand over his brow. "You still seem a little warm." The sensory memory of her familiar hand rushed at him, and his cheeks flushed with color. "You're a little bashful about a stranger taking care of you..."
He shrugged slightly, muttering, "Just not used to it."
She smiled at him. "You married?"
He glared at her. "I most certainly am not."
"You make it sound like a fate worse than death. I was married for almost ten years before my husband died; it was wonderful."
He felt embarrassment color his cheeks further. "I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"It's all right. He died seven years ago. But I still miss him." She looked into his pale eyes. "You kept calling for a woman named 'Kitty' when you were feverin'...she your gal?"
Hearing Kitty's name stabbed him hard in the gut, and Elsie saw the visceral reaction, although he looked away, saying, "No. No, I don't have a gal."
She shrugged, setting her hand on top of his. "It's all right either way, Mr. Adams, I just thought if you wanted, I could contact her for you. Or any other kinfolk that might be worried where ya are."
He shook his head, looking back at her. "No. I don't have any kinfolk."
She could see the pain in his eyes, and was unsure if it was from his illness or possibly, his heart. "You need to rest now. Close your eyes."
After a moment, he did as he was told, and felt her fingers slowly brushing through his thick hair; but it had been so long since he had accepted attention from any woman other than Kitty, that he felt strangely guilty. Yet the soft stroking of his hair began to relax him, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.