Title: The Story of Boston Bound, part 2 of 4
Author: Tipper
Disclaimer: see part one.
The Story of Boston Bound
Part two
The next morning dawned with a sharpness that only a pure white landscape can create. The snow reflected the sun brightly, deepening the clear blue sky, and causing even the eagles to squint.
Four Corners was awake early, shoveling and chopping and laughing. Even Ezra was awake, unable to fight the glare of the landscape through his window, and helping Inez clear the snow from in front of the saloon.
Upstairs in the clinic, Nathan was dressing Josiah's hand, checking the stitches and changing the bandage. The preacher watched quietly as Nathan worked, not oblivious to the strained atmosphere that had attached itself to the young man. But he waited, unwilling to interfere until asked to.
Nathan finished tying off the bandage, and patted Josiah on the arm.
"How's it feel?" he asked. "Too tight?"
"Just fine, brother. Nothing a little liquor wouldn't help dull."
"Good, good," came the absent reply. The healer stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the drifts were at least a foot high – there was no way anyone was going to be coming or going today. It would be a peaceful day for the lawmen.
And BB would be here another day.
"The weather is warming up," Josiah said lightly. "All those icicles that formed last night are dripping like crazy. Might be a good idea to cut up some more bandages in case any decide to fall on someone's head."
"How long do you think the snow will keep?"
"Not long with this sun. Probably be mostly dirty slush in a couple of days."
"I kissed her Josiah."
The water basin next to the preacher's elbow crashed to the floor, and Josiah blushed a deep red as Nathan turned his surprised gaze on him.
"Sorry, sorry," Josiah mumbled, picking up the shallow metal bowl. "Wasn't expecting that." He smiled sheepishly, and replaced it in its former position. Nathan just stared at him, then shut his eyes.
"I don't know how it happened," he said, "one second we were talking, then…."
"She kiss you back?"
Nathan's eyes opened, and he relived the moment in his mind. Finally, he nodded. "She loves me, Josiah. But she won't leave him. Says she can't."
Josiah watched the anguish that crept across the younger man's face, and shook his head. "What are you going to do?"
Nathan opened his mouth, then shut it. Finally, he shrugged. "I don't know, Josiah. All I know is that I don't want to lose her again."
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The freezing cold air bit at Carl Weather's cheeks as he dug out the space in front of the mercantile. Mrs. Potter was inside with Sarah, preparing for what would unquestionably be a long day. However beautiful the snow may be, it also meant the town was now cut off from the outside for at least a few days, and the Potter General Store would be the only source of supplies since the grocery store down the street was closed for the winter.
He straightened, arching his aching back, and shook some of the twinges that still shivered up his leg. He'd broken it when he first arrived four months ago, when he and Sarah had tried to join the Seminole that lived half a days ride out from here. As a result, he had been forced to find work here in the town, refusing to be a burden to anyone, especially the good Seminole. They had a hard enough time feeding themselves without him and his wife hanging about. Nathan had gotten him a job working for Mrs. Potter, and the arrangement turned out to work well for everyone. Mrs. Potter had herself a man around the place again, which is especially useful for when she had to lift heavy objects, and Carl and Sarah found themselves a new home. They lived above the store, renting the top floor of the three story structure, and were happy for the first time in a long while.
He smiled as he looked about the town, even when he spotted the plum coated gambler out in front of the saloon leaning lazily on his shovel and watching one of the other regulators chat with Inez, the bar manager. He recognized the man from many years ago, though Ezra had just been a boy then, probably no more than 14 or 15. Of course, he knew well that the southerner had absolutely no recollection of him. Not surprising – most white folks had that ability to look through black folks as if they were glass, and the gambler was no exception. Hell, he probably wrote the book. It had been a shock to see him here, an ugly reminder of what Carl and Sarah had tried so hard to get away from before the war ended. Had Carl known he would be in the same town as him, he and Sarah probably would have traveled further, tried to run again, but then he'd broken his leg.
And Nathan came.
He remembered the day Nathan had set his leg like it was yesterday. The gambler playing with the children at the village, and Nathan telling Carl that he trusted the red coated man with his life. Carl had watched with astonishment and confusion then as the two had interacted like brothers, clearly enjoying each others company without thought, despite their obvious differences.
It had given Carl the strength to sit still, and to even come to like the Southern bastard…to a degree.
As if aware of the scrutiny, Ezra straightened and looked over at the General Store, and saw Carl watching him. He smiled and tipped his riverboat hat at the black man, and Carl raised his hand in acknowledgement. Then Ezra pulled his shovel from out the snow, and unceremoniously stuck it in the hand of the man – Vin Tanner – who was still talking to Inez before walking into the saloon. Vin shouted "hey!" at the receding back, but got no response. Carl grinned and shook his head. What a real lay-about that gambler was.
"Carl?" The voice was light, female, and incredibly familiar. Carl turned to see that a couple had emerged from the hotel and were walking towards him. He knew the face of the old black woman and her husband keenly, and he dropped his shovel in shock.
"Miss Lacey?"
"Carl! My God, I thought that was you child!" Lacey jogged a few steps forward and embraced the man. Carl was hardly a child at the ripe age of forty, but, in the arms of the woman who'd all but raised him (and every other man and woman on that ranch), such facts were irrelevant.
Carl released her and pushed her back so that he could see her better, and was impressed to see that she looked so much healthier than she used to. "Miss Lacey, you look wonderful." He looked over at the man, and stuck his hand out. "And Wally…I can't believe it. Its been so long…" He trailed off, pumping Wallace Milton's hand. The old man just grinned.
"Good to see you son," Carl's old foreman whispered in return, his voice faint. Carl's eyes trailed across the old scars around the man's neck, surprised that the old man could talk at all. The man had worn an iron collar around his neck for a month once, that scraped and chafed the skin enough to leave a permanent scar. It had also damaged his vocal cords. It was about a month after that that Charlie Weller had come to get the couple and run them north.
"What are you doing here?" Lacey asked, still holding his other arm, as if afraid he would run away.
"I live here, Miss Lacey. Me and Sarah live above the Mercantile here."
"Sarah?" Lacey brought her free hand to her mouth, "Heavens be, is she here as well? Charlie told us that he'd lost her after…" She trailed off, her eyes scanning the street for the girl.
"After we got captured, yeah. But I found her again when the war was over, though it took me a few years. And as soon as I did, we got away from there as soon as we could." He stood proudly, and leaned against the handle of the shovel where it stuck upright in the snow as if her were leaning on a scepter. "We arrived here almost four months ago. October."
"Well, you look right well, Carl. Where is Sarah? Can we see her?"
"Sure! She's inside, helping the store owner with the inventory. Come on, I'll introduce you. Let me just get one of the boys to finish this." He whistled, and called out the name of Mrs. Potter's son. From around the corner, a young white boy, about twelve, came charging, his clothes covered in snow. Carl leaned over, told him to finish the front, and tousled his hair. Lacey and Wallace raised eyebrows, but, when no one stepped forward to reprimand Carl for his insolence about treating a white boy this way, they relaxed some. Carl flashed them a smile, and, with the couple behind him, went into the store.
Sarah was up on a ladder, calling down numbers to Mrs. Potter, who was herself marking them down on a pad. Both women glanced across as Carl entered, and Mrs. Potter frowned slightly at the interruption. Lacey and Wallace stopped on the doorstep, waiting to be invited in. Sarah's eyes widened, and her face spilt into a wide grin.
"Sarah, love, look who is here," Carl said.
"Saints alive, child, are you sure that ladder is safe?" Lacey called, looking up.
"Miss Lacey! Wally! Oh my goodness!" The girl jumped down, forcing Mrs. Potter to step back to avoid being in her way. The older woman looked bemused for a moment, then smiled and leaned against the ladder as she witnessed the reunion. Sarah was in the older black woman's arms, and Wally was patting her affectionately on the back. Carl glanced over at Mrs. Potter, his look a bit sheepish.
"Sorry, Ms. Potter," he said, "I promise we won't be long, and you can have Sarah back…"
"Nonsense, Carl," Mrs. Potter waved off his words. "I'll have Violet help me until you can get back. Take your time," she smiled and put down her clipboard. With a nod to the newcomers, who still stood in the doorway, she went off in search of her daughter.
"What are doing here? Are you moving here?" Sarah couldn't keep the enthusiasm from her voice as she stepped back to allow the two visitors to breath. They grinned back, much more comfortable now that Mrs. Potter had left. Carl brought them inside, into the warmth, his ears burning with the sudden change in temperature. Lacey took Sarah's hand in her own, patting it gently.
"No child, I'm afraid we're just passing through. We're on our way to Arizona, to start a ranch. And guess who is going to run it?" She looked at Wallace, who nodded. Carl was leaning on the wall, Wallace slightly in front of them, and Lacey had her back to him. Neither saw the way his face suddenly frowned.
Sarah's eyes darted from one person to the other, and still smiling, she shrugged, "Who?"
"Why, our very own Charlie Weller. He's next door at the hotel, you must see him. He and a couple of white folks from Illinois have invested in this land, and he's taking all of us to go there to live. Isn't that just wonderful? He's finally getting his dream." Lacey looked at Wallace, who smiled lightly.
Sarah blanched, "Charlie?"
"And his wife, BB, sweetest little thing you ever saw," Lacey added. Her face fell when she realized that Sarah looked a little less than pleased.
"Wife?" Carl asked, standing up straight now. "He got himself a wife at last, did he?" The sardonic tone was not lost on the older couple.
Wallace moved so that he could look at both people, a frown evident on his features. "What's the matter?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Is Charlie here?" Carl questioned in response, his mouth curled in an ugly sneer. "I'd love to see him again."
"I…he's at the hotel. Carl, what is the matter with you?" Lacey demanded. She looked down when she realized that Sarah had withdrawn her hand from her arm. She looked at the girl and was alarmed to see that much of the color had gone from her face. "Sarah?"
"I…I'm sorry, Miss Lacey. I don't think I feel too well anymore. Carl?" She looked to her husband, who looked ready to run out the doors and tear down the hotel with his bare hands. Reaching out, she stumbled to him, "Carl, take me upstairs, please." She reached him finally, draping her hands on his upper arm. For a moment, he didn't see her, until she increased the pressure on his arm. He looked at her, to see her shaking her head emphatically.
"Please Carl," she whispered.
"Sarah," Lacey entreated, still trying to understand their reaction. "Please, if something I said has hurt you…." Wallace reached over to take the old woman's hand.
Sarah was still looking at Carl, and he found himself unable to break her gaze. Finally, he shut his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. Sarah looked over at the visitors, and attempted a smile.
"I'm sorry Miss Lacey, Wally…it was wonderful to see you, but perhaps you should move on." Her voice was undemanding, but there was a quality of finality to it.
"Carl, Sarah, please, don't dismiss us like this. Not after everything," Lacey's eyes filled with tears, but Sarah shook her head.
"We can't look back anymore, Miss Lacey," Sarah said, her voice breaking. She fell slightly onto Carl, finally waking him from his reverie. The heavyset man looked sadly upon his old friends, then, taking his wife by the arms, led her through to the back. Mrs. Potter walked back in with Violet at that moment, her daughter's snow drenched hair hidden beneath a towel. Violet looked at the newcomers, and smiled, while Mrs. Potter looked at the retreating backs of the young black couple.
Lacey smiled back as best she could, then, apologizing to Mrs. Potter for intruding, she and her husband quickly bowed back out the door. Out on the boardwalk, Lacey looked at her husband, her eyes still holding tears.
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Vin finished shoveling out the saloon, and practically threw the shovel down. He was so angry at Ezra, he wanted to spit! Fancy giving him the shovel after only having done a third of the long boardwalk, and after Vin had spent the morning clearing the livery and stables, and clearing a path behind the saloon to the privy for Inez. He'd just been telling her that he was done when that lazy, spoiled good-for-nothing stuck the shovel in his hand without so much as a by your leave. Inez had sighed, saying she had known it couldn't last, and reached for the shovel. Well, being the chivalrous type, Vin had dismissed her attempt and told her that he would finish the job. Her eyes had been grateful, and she promised to let him eat free for the next couple of days. Small comfort when she generally let them eat on the house anyway. He stretched his aching back, and groaned.
In the back of his mind, Vin was already working through several scenarios of the best way to cause Ezra pain without actually killing him. A smile crossed his features as he imagined Ezra roasting on a spit, that stupid red coat of his on fire at the coat tails.
"Well, you're cheerful," Buck said gaily as he wandered up. The ladies man clapped his hands together for warmth, and smiled.
Vin looked up, and arched a brow. "Just imaging all the different ways I could torture good ol' Ez for leaving me with this thankless job," he gestured at the boardwalk. Buck laughed.
"Yeah, me and JD just spent the morning clearing the way in front of the boarding house and some of the stores down at the end." He looked down the street, noticing how the pristine snow had already taken on the dingy quality of being around too many people. Looking back at Vin, he took in the tracker's tired stance, and clapped him on the back.
"C'mon pard, let me buy you some sustenance for that little frame of yours."
"Little frame?" Vin shot back, straightening from his customary lean. Again, Buck just laughed, and wrapped a hand around Vin's upper arm. Vin allowed himself to be led, then he balked.
"Oh, wait, I should get that shovel put away so it don't rust. I'll meet you inside, okay?"
Buck just shrugged, and continued on into the saloon on his own. Vin grabbed the shovel and tossed it onto his shoulder. Glancing around, he looked to make sure that everyone else had finished clearing the boardwalks in front of all the open businesses. It was only by chance that he happened to see a flash of purple as Ezra bobbed and weaved between the townsfolk on his way to the hotel. Gripping the handle of the shovel more tightly, Vin found himself focusing on Ezra, wondering how the gambler had gotten by without his seeing him.
He could only have done so by leaving the saloon by the back door.
Vin thought on this, and frowned. Now, he might understand if it was because Ezra was avoiding him, for so rudely passing the buck on the shoveling detail, but that was unlikely. Ezra was more likely to flaunt his little victory over the tracker, not act furtively.
Then there was the way the man was moving. Ezra's head was low, hat pointed downwards over his eyes, and his steps were short as he drew his plum coat tighter around him. He was trying not to be noticed, acting much like he when he is about to work a con or pull a practical joke. Vin followed him with his eyes until the gambler disappeared down the alley between the hotel and the Mercantile.
Curiosity, one of Vin Tanner's strongest traits, got the better of him at that moment, and he smiled. He propped the shovel back up on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, then ran out after the gambler. He would get to the bottom of this.
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Ezra leaned against the wall at the bottom of the alley, and tugged at his jacket sleeves. He knew he didn't have to wait long, and, sure enough, the crunching footsteps of a man plodding from the rear door of the hotel greeted him. He looked up, then away as Charlie Weller moved to stand a little in front and off to the side – facing Ezra without actually facing him.
"So, what is your answer, Mr. Weller," Ezra drawled, pulling off the glove on his right hand to expose it to the cold air. He looked at his nails, wondering if he had damaged his hands at all as a result of the forced labor he'd done this morning.
Charlie licked his lips, and balled his hands into fists. "I have nothing to say to you, Spencer."
"Standish, sir. The name is Standish."
"Then I have nothing to say to you…Standish," Charlie spat the surname, his black eyes glaring at Ezra. Then, as if disgusted, he looked off into the snow covered meadows that drew away from the hotel's back door.
Ezra sighed, and tucked his glove into his gunbelt. "I must say, I find that hard to believe. Perhaps I did not make myself clear last night…."
"Oh, you made yourself perfectly clear, you son of a bitch! You think that I'm just going to roll over to your blackmail? You think far too highly of yourself," Charlie stepped forward, then rocked back. "You're scum, you Southern piece of trash, and there ain't no way you'll get one piece of what I got."
Ezra looked up, his poker face frightening in its coolness. Charlie couldn't help but wonder which was more icy – the southerner's frost green eyes or the snow underfoot.
"May I suggest you reconsider, Mr. Weller? Unless, of course, you want that lovely wife of yours to know the fickle nature of your fugitive running business, and the money you made off of it." He smiled wickedly, his gold tooth gleaming.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Spencer. And you have no proof."
"Oh but I do…two pieces of proof, to be exact. They live in this town, and I have no doubt that they would be more than willing to support me in my endeavor to expose you." Ezra raised his eyebrows, watching as Charlie's face registered confusion at this statement. The black man did not know about Carl and Sarah Weathers, but Ezra did. Contrary to Carl's belief, Ezra had recognized the couple immediately upon their arrival at the Seminole village. Their faces, and those of several others, had been burned in his memory.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Charlie said finally.
"No, I don't suppose you do," Ezra replied.
Charlie waited for more, but when the gambler simply chose to lean there, staring at him with those hateful green eyes, he realized that it was pointless. Grimacing, he made to turn away, his hand drifting to his belt. Fingers wrapped around the knife hidden there, and Charlie smiled slightly.
Ezra watched the subtle movements without reaction. He would have snorted in laughter had he not been trying to retain a cold demeanor. Weller was so obvious.
"I ain't giving you nothing, cretin, so you best just leave, or I'll show you what proof really is." Charlie gripped the handle, his heart swelling at the idea of taking this southern reprobate down. His gravel voice was very effective in making the threat sound real, and Ezra silently applauded the performance. Chris did it better though, mainly because he knew that Chris could actually back the threat up.
When it became clear that Ezra wasn't leaving, Charlie smiled. "So be it," he said, leering. He spun around, ready to pull the knife…and stopped before it was halfway out of the sheath.
The black barrel of a Remington stared him directly in the face. He hadn't even seen the gambler draw.
"I'm sorry," Ezra drawled, "what did you say?"
Charlie stammered, and backed away, the knife falling loosely to the ground. "What are you going to do?" He asked tremulously.
"Nothing, unless you try that move again. Believe me, Mr. Weller, you are outclassed on this one." Slowly, never lowering his aim, or taking his eyes from his opponent, Ezra reached down and scooped up the knife. He slid it onto his own belt, letting the handle hook itself on the leather. Finished, he leaned himself back against the wall, and brought the gun back to point away from Charlie, towards the sky.
"Now, I ask you again, Mr. Weller….What is your answer to my proposition."
Charlie swallowed, and looked down the alley. There was no one around, the shadows deep enough to hide them both beneath the shielding eaves of the clapboard buildings. No way out.
"What do you want me to do," he muttered, slumping his shoulders. Ezra grinned, flashing his tooth.
"I'll return this evening with the contracts. Excuse yourself early from dinner again, and I'll find you in your rooms. We'll finish this then." He nodded, and returned his revolver to its holster, snapping the latch into place.
Charlie nodded, not looking up. Then, as Ezra drew himself from off the wall, Charlie's breath quickened and the large black man tried again. He lunged at Ezra with his bare hands, figuring his greater weight and strength would give him the advantage, and found himself grasping air as the gambler easily sidestepped the maneuver. With a flick of his wrist, Ezra had the derringer in hand and resting on Charlie's temple where the larger man was still bent over facing the now blank wall.
"Outclassed, Mr. Weller, and outgunned. Until later," The gambler backed away, leaving Charlie still frozen in place. When he reached halfway up the alley, Ezra turned and casually walked the rest of the way, unconcernedly tucking the derringer away. When he was once more on main street, he placed the glove back on his right hand.
Charlie slumped down onto his knees, and gagged. God, he hated that man. Hated him when he was just a lackey to his mother's rule, and hated him even more now. When Charlie finally stood up, and attempted weakly to brush the snow from his legs and hands, he noticed that the world seemed to have taken on a reddish tinge. Grimacing, he rubbed his eyes and moved to walk back into the hotel.
Vin hugged the back of the mercantile as Charlie entered his line of vision. The black man never saw the tracker, but Vin saw him. As soon as Charlie was inside, Vin brought a hand to his heart and shut his eyes.
"Oh hell, Ezra," he whispered. "How could you?" Slowly, he opened his gray eyes, the shame he felt for the gambler clear.
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Nathan clicked his tongue as Mr. Greene's son, Jeremy, squirmed under his care. The little boy had, as Josiah had foreseen, gotten in trouble with an icicle. The difference was, it hadn't fallen on the boy's head. Jeremy'd climbed up on some precariously stacked empty crates by the side of the apothecary shop and tried to pluck one off from an eave. According to his brother Elwyn, who was bouncing up and down by the door impatiently, Jeremy had fallen with a great deal of style and then cried like a baby for ten whole minutes afterwards, despite only succeeding in grazing his head a little and ripping a hole in his trousers.
He stuck a piece of gauze over the small cut on the boy's head, taped the bandage into place, and tapped the boy on the cheek.
"There you go, Jeremy. All done," he smiled at the boy, who grimaced back.
"Thanks Nathan," the ten year old said contritely. He got up and walked to the door, grabbing the arm of his younger brother in the process. Elwyn grinned at Jeremy, and waved at Nathan as the older boy dragged him from the clinic.
Nathan was still smiling when another knock on the door broke in on his reverie. It was turning into a very long day, he thought moodily, but at least it was keeping him from thinking about…
"Nathan?" BB peeked her head in, her beret askew as always. She had a scarf tied around her face, covering it from the cold breeze wafting in. Nathan dropped the washbasin he'd been drying to the floor. BB let out a little apology at his reaction, and rushed over to pick it up. Nathan had already bent down to retrieve it, resulting in them both inches away from each other.
BB broke the eye contact first, backing up so that she was standing a good five feet away from him. Nathan picked the basin up and placed it on the small stand next to a chair. He looked at the metal sheen, noticing how dull and lifeless it seemed.
"We need to talk," BB said, moving to lean on the wall near the door. She glanced down, looked for a lock. There wasn't one. That meant anyone could barge in at any moment. She sighed.
"I can put a chair against the door," Nathan suggested, knowing her thoughts. BB looked up, surprised he could read her so well already. Eventually, she shook her head. Nathan nodded, and sat down in the same chair that Jeremy had sat in. His fingers idly traced the rim of the basin.
"I…I'm sorry about last night. I know what you must think of me," she whispered, her voice muffled by the scarf she still had tied around her face. Nathan frowned.
"No, Boston, you don't. I love you, always have. You were, are, one of the best things that ever happened to me. Nothing that happens now will change that. I just wish…" He shook his head, unable to put into words the fact that he wanted her to leave the man she said saved her life. BB stared at the floor, her hands shaking where they clung to the fabric of her cloak. She balled the calfskin in her fists, then let go so as to bring her hands together.
"You want to sit down? Take off your scarf and coat?" Nathan asked after a moment. BB shook her head.
"Then I take it you have nothing more to say to me," the healer noted, his own hands unmoving where they lay in his lap.
"Love…its not a very pretty word, is it? I mean, as words go," BB replied nonsensically, her brown eyes tracing the flow of the wood that made the clinic. "I mean, I've heard much prettier words that seem to mean a lot less, and sure as hell hurt a lot less." She stopped, aware that she was rambling. She looked at Nathan, and slid to the floor to sit with her knees close to her hurting chest.
"I love you, Nathan. I would have gone to war with you, had you asked. Except that I couldn't. Besides being the wrong color, I was the wrong sex. Always, the wrong sex." She shook herself, but kept his eyes held tightly inside her own. "I had to do what I could. It's the way I was brought up."
Nathan tilted his head, and squinted slightly. When BB had slid to the floor, some of the scarf around her face had come loose, and he thought he could see a slight discoloration on her left cheek. BB ignored the scarf, intent on her words.
"I came to see you, Nathan, because I needed to…I wanted you to know that…you will always be love to me. But I can not stay. I owe him too much to leave him." She shut her eyes, and sighed. "Please tell me you understand."
"Take off your scarf."
"What?" she looked up, her hands automatically reaching to tug the scarf higher.
"Did he hit you?"
"What! Nathan, no, of course not." Shaking uncontrollably now, BB pulled herself back up to her feet. The healer mirrored her movements, and strode across to where she cowered against the wall. Gently, he reached up and pulled at the scarf, loosening it. She shut her eyes as he took in the swollen lips and discolored jaw. She'd been hit, and hit hard. He looked at her face, unable to hide the rage that newly infused his tone.
"Did Charlie do this?"
"It doesn't matter," she answered.
"Are you insane?" Nathan backed away, his eyes scanning the rest of her for damage. "How could you let him hit you?"
BB's eyes snapped open, her gaze suddenly angry. "Let him? You think I let him? He doesn't exactly ask me first, Nathan."
"That's not what I meant," he said, but BB didn't want to listen. She turned away, her eyes welling with tears. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but drew it back.
"Did he hit you because of me?"
BB glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then looked back at the wall. "Maybe…in part. But, there was something else too, something else that made him angry last night. I don't know why he hit me. I never do."
"He's done this before?"
BB simply nodded. Nathan reached out again, and this time he let his hand drift down to touch her lightly on the shoulder. She was still shaking, but not as badly. When she didn't pull away from the touch, he drew himself closer to her so that he could place his face in her hair.
"Stay with me, here," he begged, his voice husky.
BB listened, her eyes wide. They stood in that tableau for a good minute, absorbing the quiet of the clinic like the eye of a storm, all the while aware of the world moving on outside. Finally, BB moved from out his grasp and placed her hand on the door latch.
"I'm sorry Nathan," she said, unable to look at him. "But I gave Charlie my loyalty, and my life."
"You make it sound like he owns you. But no one owns you, Boston Bound, not anymore. You told me so yourself." His hand traced the line of her neck, feeling the thick red ribbon that ran along it, and the gold locket of promise that it held.
She pulled away, and opened the door, letting in the cold air. "I lied," she said, just before vanishing into the brightness. The door closed after her with a resounding thud, jarring Nathan to the bone.
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The rest of the day passed slowly, the sun beating down heavily enough make a severe dent in the height of the drifts. By the time it fell below the horizon, at least half a foot had melted away, and slush marked the ground. At some point, the stage coach driver had emerged from the saloon to measure the snow's density. With a nod of his head, he figured that he and his passengers would likely be able to escape Four Corners the day after tomorrow.
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BB didn't come down for dinner, feigning sickness. Charlie excused himself early, and wandered off into the shadows of the hotel. For the other four visitors, the rest of dinner passed in a tense silence, and not even Annabel Street at her most boisterous could break the mood. They left the table as soon as the last bit of food was eaten, and the clock chimed 7:30.
Back in the saloon, Ezra stood up to leave, patting the feel of contracts in his pocket. Looking up, he caught Vin watching him. He nodded, and tipped his hat to the tracker. Vin scowled and turned away. Ezra's face fell. Did Vin know? The gambler bowed his head, and left the warm environment, moving to go to the hotel.
Nathan sat by himself, rebuffing all of his friends who tried to join him. Josiah sat with Buck and JD, the three men watching the healer with concern as Nathan downed glass after glass of Red Eye. Abruptly, Nathan stood, his hands balled into fists, and left the saloon. As he walked past the preacher, Josiah caught the man's mumblings.
"Not like this. I won't let her. Not like this," the healer was repeating over and over again in various forms. Josiah considered following, but was afraid. He didn't know what he could say or do to help Nathan now.
Carl Weathers pushed his way into the saloon, and went to the bar. Inez served him, but he didn't drink. He simply stared at the bottle of Red Eye as if it were poison. Finally, he scooped the bottle from off the bar with his hand, never once making eye contact with the others in the dank room, and fled the scene.
In the background, Chris was aware of it all. Without conscious thought, the man in black absorbed everything with the air of a tiger on the prowl. Ezra's odd behavior, and Vin's reaction to it. Nathan and BB Weller, both when he first saw her, to the way he was drinking heavily now. The way BB had run to Nathan's clinic this afternoon, clearly trying to hide bruising beneath that scarf. The fact that Carl and Sarah Weathers had left Mrs. Potter short handed today, and the knowledge that it had been the visit of the old couple of newcomers that had been the stimulus for the retreat. And then there was Charlie Weller. Chris had seen him walking out the back of the hotel just after dinner, looking as if he planned to walk into the meadows beyond and never come back.
Taking a sip of the whiskey before him, Chris catalogued the information, and tried to ignore the foreboding in his stomach.
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It was a new moon, and the temperature dropped distinctly, freezing the snow and turning it into ice. From Mr. Greene's apothecary shop, the faint sound of his grandfather clock chimed the hour, the single clang rippling out, somehow unsatisfying in its singularity. Vin stood in the door to the jail, his patrol long since given up under the pressure of his thoughts, and the chill that seeped into everything. He felt completely alone in the deserted setting that gaped before him, unforgiving and fragile.
Then his heart stopped.
The scream cut the night air, bursting forth like a clarion call, then repeated itself again and again and again, until stopping as abruptly as it begun. Vin took off running.
Chris sat bolt upright in his bed, threw on a shirt and his boots, and charged out of the boarding house gun in hand. Buck and JD joined him moments later, both hastily strapping their gun belts on over their night shirts and pajamas. Ahead of them, they watched as all the oil lamps in the hotel flared to life, along with various other lights in the structures nearby, including the mercantile and the Clarion.
"JD, get the others," Chris ordered, not even bothering to turn to see if his orders were followed. He knew they would be. Behind him, Buck pulled out his pocket watch and tried to discern the time. As they got closer to the now well lit hotel, he could just make out the hands.
"One o'clock," he said out loud to Chris's back. The man in black acknowledged the information with a nod.
As Chris and Buck entered the lobby, it was to find all the various guests milling about like sheep, fear and confusion floating above them as thick as smoke as they stared up the stairs. Looking up, Chris saw Vin already there, standing at the top of the landing. The tracker signaled them men to come upstairs, then turned away. Buck glanced askance at his oldest friend to see if he too had seen the dread that had lined Vin's face. Chris just tensed his jaw, and headed up the stairs.
Reaching the landing, they looked down the narrow hall and saw Vin standing in the brightly lit doorway of a room near the end, leaning against the frame. Mr. Sykes, the night manager, leaned against the wall opposite the door, his face scanning the hallway carpet as if searching for the meaning of life.
Crying emanated from the room, along with the soothing tones of someone trying to calm the crier down. Frowning even more deeply now, Chris made his way to the door, trying to read Vin's face, but the tracker was unresponsive. With a sigh, Chris looked inside and stopped, the sickening smell of blood assaulting his nostrils. Buck bumped him aside, and both stepped further inside to get a better look.
They stood in the outer room of a two room suite, the double doors next to the fireplace that led to the bedroom both ajar. This outer room was fairly small and narrow, holding a small divan and coffee table that faced a dwindling fire, and a couple of hard backed chairs and small table against the room's only window at the far end. The clapboard wall of the mercantile was visible on the other side.
Ezra, fully dressed and covered in blood, knelt over the body, examining it where it lay between the coffee table and the fireplace. In one hand, the gambler held a long knife, the same one that Charlie had pulled on him earlier. He laid it on the ground as Buck sidled up next to him.
BB Weller, also covered in blood, was held tightly in the arms of Nathan. The healer had his eyes closed as he rocked the girl, whispering in her ear, trying to protect her from what was in front of them.
Lacey and John Milton stood off to one side, neither expressing much feeling, the result of many long years of conditioning against horrors like this. Annabel and John Street, however, were both cowering near the door to the hallway, lost in each others arms. Annabel cried quietly, while John smoothed down her hair.
Charlie Weller was dead. Knifed several times in the chest and gut. Blood had pooled around the body, and was drying where it had been absorbed into the rug.
"My God," Josiah said from the doorway, bringing the others attention to him. "What happened?"
Continued in Part Three