Thanks very much for the positive feedback, which has spurred me on to
write this next part. Cat
Disclaimer: I don't own Frank but I hope those who do own him don't mind me writing a little something for him. The other characters are all mine.
He was just admiring a large painting of a herd of horses at full gallop when there was a knock – no, a kick – at the door.
"You decent, Frank T?" It was Lilian, pushing the door open and entering backwards, carrying a tray and a bucket and weighed down with various items of clothing over her shoulders.
He made sure everything was covered and tried to look nonchalant. But when he told her she was safe to turn round, and she did, she looked so – so domesticated, with strands of hair curling round her face and an apron on, and it unsettled him.
"You want something to eat? Or the fire lit? Or I could help you into a nightshirt?" She was more tentative then he had seen her before, and stood as if waiting for him to make the decision for her.
"Nightshirt, ma'am. If that's all right." He tried to sit up and the tray almost slipped from her hands as she rushed to help him. She set the tray on the nightstand and put out her hand to him. He was grateful for her help.
She pulled the blanket from round his shoulders and shook out the nightshirt.
"Did the best I could with it," she said, reaching up through the garment and grasping the neck. "You can leave your arm inside or we could try to get it through the sleeve."
Between them somehow, the shirt went over his head. But after that it was awkward, working his painful arm and its clumsy strapping through the right sleeve, which she had split along the seam up to the elbow. He managed to slip in his good arm and pull the shirt down to his waist but it wasn't going any further, not without help. He looked at her and she looked at him.
"Reckon you'd better shut your eyes again, ma'am," he said, his heart beating a little faster.
"You want me to get Mr. Watson?"
"I think I'm getting used to you doing it. Ma'am." He glanced at her again. She had grasped the nightshirt firmly and had already closed her eyes but the corner of her mouth betrayed her feelings. He leaned on his good arm, raised his hips and let her pull the garment down. "Thanks, that about does it. Reckon my dignity's the least of my worries right now. How long before you reckon I can be moving on?"
She reached for a towel and began to dry his hair, being careful to avoid the sore spot on the side of his head.
"Oh – you want to move on? I was thinking, maybe, you could work for Mr. Watson for a while? Once we get this fever down, that is. You could do some work with the horses, couldn't you?"
"I could," he said carefully. "If I was going to stay."
She said nothing. What she had wanted to say was said and answered. She fetched a comb to his hair but he took it gently from her hand.
"Reckon I can do that. Fire'd be nice, though. If I'm gonna be stuck here in this fancy residence I'd like to make use of all the facilities."
She nodded and walked over to the fireplace, taking her bucket with her. It had kindling in it and a couple of small logs and while he tried to pull the comb through his long hair she fed a small flame carefully, tending it until it caught and she could add one or two larger logs from the basket by the hearth. The room began to warm.
Frank set the comb on the nightstand and looked at the cup of soup and plate with a couple of biscuits on the tray she had brought. He calculated whether he could reach the soup without unbalancing the tray. He didn't feel much like food but it was necessary for him to keep up his strength. But the world was revolving again, and he badly wanted to just sleep the recovery time away.
"You want some of that? Some of the soup? Biscuit, maybe?" She was back but he was sinking away from her, head back in the pillows and struggling to slide further down. "Frank – you all right?"
He shut his eyes against the pain in his head and tried to find a comfortable place for his arm. He felt a pillow being shoved against his side and his arm being moved onto that before he fell asleep.
He was trapped in a circular idea. He needed to do something. He couldn't think what it was and tried to run through in his mind everything that experience had taught him he needed to do when he set up camp. He had moved stones to make a safe place for the fire. He had gathered enough wood. He sure was warm enough – too warm if anything. He had cooked something – he couldn't remember what – and wasn't hungry, so it stood to reason that he had eaten something. And he was comfortable, so he must have found a good, soft place to spread his bedroll. So what needed doing? The more he went round his list, the more anxious he became that he had an important job that needed doing.
Then it struck him. Hidalgo. How could he forget? He tried hard to remember – had he set him loose to forage? He couldn't hear him anywhere around. Come to that, he couldn't hear any of the sounds he was expecting to hear, the sough of the wind, or the tiny rattle of windblown detritus on the coffee pot. And it wasn't dark, as he found out when he finally opened his eyes.
How could he be in a hotel? It didn't make a particle of sense. He must have left Hidalgo tied up on the hitching rail because he couldn't remember going to the stable. It needed sorting out, immediately, and he reached out for his coat and hat so that he could do what needed doing. He should have seen to it already. Hidalgo came first, before his own comforts. He'd never done anything like it before.
But his coat and hat were nowhere to be seen, and his arm hurt like the devil when he stretched it out from under the warm blankets. No wonder he was hot. He had blankets piled on him, enough to keep a family warm. He used his left hand this time, having learned his lesson, and pulled the blankets and sheet aside. He swung his legs round. They didn't seem quite part of him but he had a job to do. He had no right being sleepy and comfortable with Hidalgo out there in the street.
It was quite a task, for some reason he wasn't quite getting, to move across the room but he felt a little stronger by the time he got to the door. He felt a little silly in the nightshirt and bare feet, but needs must when the devil drives. He paused to think who had used this little phrase. His father. Long ago. Well, his father was long gone. He shuffled along the corridor, left arm out to give himself a little help, and began to think he must be drunk. The place wasn't like any hotel he had ever been in. Perhaps he was dreaming.
He reached the front door without bumping into anyone. The light was beginning to fade, the oranges and reds which had suffused his room disappearing and being replaced by a soft pearl grey which suited his mood better.
It was cold outside, too cold, and he wished he could have found his coat. The wind whipped his nightshirt round his legs and he shivered.
Then there was a hand on his arm, and a quiet voice and he let himself be led back inside, though he wanted to know where Hidalgo was.
"He's fine, Frank, in a nice warm stable. You're staying on a ranch, and you're sick. Now come on, down here. Come on."
He hesitated, trying to see who it was speaking to him. He thought he knew her. She looked worried and small, and she couldn't take him back to that room if he didn't want to go.
"Frank, please. You're getting cold. You need to stay warm. Please. There's no-one here but me right now – Mr. Watson's tending the stock. I'm sorry – I went to sleep. Come on, please."
He didn't like to disappoint her, whoever she was. She was nice-looking, some part of his brain was telling him, and it would be a shame not to do what she wanted. So he shuffled after her, letting her lead him by the hand until they were back in the over-warm room.
She helped him to sit on the edge of the bed and started to rub his feet.
"You're frozen half to death – your feet are like ice."
She was right. He did feel cold. He felt grey, too, sort of worn out and lethargic, and he couldn't find the energy to say anything. She seemed to be saying enough for the two of them, anyway. She talked and he heard the music of her voice but not the words any more. When she tried to lift his legs back onto the bed he co-operated as best he could, then he heard her, quite clearly.
"Frank – you scared me half to death. Don't go leaving this bed again, you hear me? Can you hear me?"
He nodded, and the world swayed. He still couldn't say anything.
"You stay here. I'll get you some water. You just stay here."
She managed somehow to get him settled and he remembered at last where he was, and who she was, and how foolish he had been, giving in to his fever like that.
"I've been a fool," he muttered. "Shouldn't have done that. Sorry I put you to any trouble, ma'am."
"It wasn't any trouble. It wasn't. You just had me scared there. Outside like that. You warm enough now?"
"Yeah. You can leave me be – I ain't goin' nowhere again in a hurry. Leave me be."
"Oh. You don't want me to get you any water then?"
"No, Miss Lilian – I said, I'm all right now. You leave me be."
He heard her make some noise, he couldn't have said what, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He heard her boot heels click on the floor then all fell silent.
Sleep eluded him completely. He was aware of every noise, every flickering shadow as the room darkened. He couldn't even doze for the people coming to see him. Mr Watson, and another woman, maybe Mrs Watson because she looked old. Then there was another, younger woman, not Lilian, who had brought him some water then gone away. A young man, too, not out of his twenties, he judged. So many folk, all fussing over him and keeping him from sleeping, giving him bitter things to drink and keeping his blankets straight. He had not had such a crowd of folk looking after him since as long as he could remember.
But no more Lilian. No light hand, or half smile, and no look from those eyes, those green eyes, which she closed when she had to. No more Lilian.
Disclaimer: I don't own Frank but I hope those who do own him don't mind me writing a little something for him. The other characters are all mine.
He was just admiring a large painting of a herd of horses at full gallop when there was a knock – no, a kick – at the door.
"You decent, Frank T?" It was Lilian, pushing the door open and entering backwards, carrying a tray and a bucket and weighed down with various items of clothing over her shoulders.
He made sure everything was covered and tried to look nonchalant. But when he told her she was safe to turn round, and she did, she looked so – so domesticated, with strands of hair curling round her face and an apron on, and it unsettled him.
"You want something to eat? Or the fire lit? Or I could help you into a nightshirt?" She was more tentative then he had seen her before, and stood as if waiting for him to make the decision for her.
"Nightshirt, ma'am. If that's all right." He tried to sit up and the tray almost slipped from her hands as she rushed to help him. She set the tray on the nightstand and put out her hand to him. He was grateful for her help.
She pulled the blanket from round his shoulders and shook out the nightshirt.
"Did the best I could with it," she said, reaching up through the garment and grasping the neck. "You can leave your arm inside or we could try to get it through the sleeve."
Between them somehow, the shirt went over his head. But after that it was awkward, working his painful arm and its clumsy strapping through the right sleeve, which she had split along the seam up to the elbow. He managed to slip in his good arm and pull the shirt down to his waist but it wasn't going any further, not without help. He looked at her and she looked at him.
"Reckon you'd better shut your eyes again, ma'am," he said, his heart beating a little faster.
"You want me to get Mr. Watson?"
"I think I'm getting used to you doing it. Ma'am." He glanced at her again. She had grasped the nightshirt firmly and had already closed her eyes but the corner of her mouth betrayed her feelings. He leaned on his good arm, raised his hips and let her pull the garment down. "Thanks, that about does it. Reckon my dignity's the least of my worries right now. How long before you reckon I can be moving on?"
She reached for a towel and began to dry his hair, being careful to avoid the sore spot on the side of his head.
"Oh – you want to move on? I was thinking, maybe, you could work for Mr. Watson for a while? Once we get this fever down, that is. You could do some work with the horses, couldn't you?"
"I could," he said carefully. "If I was going to stay."
She said nothing. What she had wanted to say was said and answered. She fetched a comb to his hair but he took it gently from her hand.
"Reckon I can do that. Fire'd be nice, though. If I'm gonna be stuck here in this fancy residence I'd like to make use of all the facilities."
She nodded and walked over to the fireplace, taking her bucket with her. It had kindling in it and a couple of small logs and while he tried to pull the comb through his long hair she fed a small flame carefully, tending it until it caught and she could add one or two larger logs from the basket by the hearth. The room began to warm.
Frank set the comb on the nightstand and looked at the cup of soup and plate with a couple of biscuits on the tray she had brought. He calculated whether he could reach the soup without unbalancing the tray. He didn't feel much like food but it was necessary for him to keep up his strength. But the world was revolving again, and he badly wanted to just sleep the recovery time away.
"You want some of that? Some of the soup? Biscuit, maybe?" She was back but he was sinking away from her, head back in the pillows and struggling to slide further down. "Frank – you all right?"
He shut his eyes against the pain in his head and tried to find a comfortable place for his arm. He felt a pillow being shoved against his side and his arm being moved onto that before he fell asleep.
He was trapped in a circular idea. He needed to do something. He couldn't think what it was and tried to run through in his mind everything that experience had taught him he needed to do when he set up camp. He had moved stones to make a safe place for the fire. He had gathered enough wood. He sure was warm enough – too warm if anything. He had cooked something – he couldn't remember what – and wasn't hungry, so it stood to reason that he had eaten something. And he was comfortable, so he must have found a good, soft place to spread his bedroll. So what needed doing? The more he went round his list, the more anxious he became that he had an important job that needed doing.
Then it struck him. Hidalgo. How could he forget? He tried hard to remember – had he set him loose to forage? He couldn't hear him anywhere around. Come to that, he couldn't hear any of the sounds he was expecting to hear, the sough of the wind, or the tiny rattle of windblown detritus on the coffee pot. And it wasn't dark, as he found out when he finally opened his eyes.
How could he be in a hotel? It didn't make a particle of sense. He must have left Hidalgo tied up on the hitching rail because he couldn't remember going to the stable. It needed sorting out, immediately, and he reached out for his coat and hat so that he could do what needed doing. He should have seen to it already. Hidalgo came first, before his own comforts. He'd never done anything like it before.
But his coat and hat were nowhere to be seen, and his arm hurt like the devil when he stretched it out from under the warm blankets. No wonder he was hot. He had blankets piled on him, enough to keep a family warm. He used his left hand this time, having learned his lesson, and pulled the blankets and sheet aside. He swung his legs round. They didn't seem quite part of him but he had a job to do. He had no right being sleepy and comfortable with Hidalgo out there in the street.
It was quite a task, for some reason he wasn't quite getting, to move across the room but he felt a little stronger by the time he got to the door. He felt a little silly in the nightshirt and bare feet, but needs must when the devil drives. He paused to think who had used this little phrase. His father. Long ago. Well, his father was long gone. He shuffled along the corridor, left arm out to give himself a little help, and began to think he must be drunk. The place wasn't like any hotel he had ever been in. Perhaps he was dreaming.
He reached the front door without bumping into anyone. The light was beginning to fade, the oranges and reds which had suffused his room disappearing and being replaced by a soft pearl grey which suited his mood better.
It was cold outside, too cold, and he wished he could have found his coat. The wind whipped his nightshirt round his legs and he shivered.
Then there was a hand on his arm, and a quiet voice and he let himself be led back inside, though he wanted to know where Hidalgo was.
"He's fine, Frank, in a nice warm stable. You're staying on a ranch, and you're sick. Now come on, down here. Come on."
He hesitated, trying to see who it was speaking to him. He thought he knew her. She looked worried and small, and she couldn't take him back to that room if he didn't want to go.
"Frank, please. You're getting cold. You need to stay warm. Please. There's no-one here but me right now – Mr. Watson's tending the stock. I'm sorry – I went to sleep. Come on, please."
He didn't like to disappoint her, whoever she was. She was nice-looking, some part of his brain was telling him, and it would be a shame not to do what she wanted. So he shuffled after her, letting her lead him by the hand until they were back in the over-warm room.
She helped him to sit on the edge of the bed and started to rub his feet.
"You're frozen half to death – your feet are like ice."
She was right. He did feel cold. He felt grey, too, sort of worn out and lethargic, and he couldn't find the energy to say anything. She seemed to be saying enough for the two of them, anyway. She talked and he heard the music of her voice but not the words any more. When she tried to lift his legs back onto the bed he co-operated as best he could, then he heard her, quite clearly.
"Frank – you scared me half to death. Don't go leaving this bed again, you hear me? Can you hear me?"
He nodded, and the world swayed. He still couldn't say anything.
"You stay here. I'll get you some water. You just stay here."
She managed somehow to get him settled and he remembered at last where he was, and who she was, and how foolish he had been, giving in to his fever like that.
"I've been a fool," he muttered. "Shouldn't have done that. Sorry I put you to any trouble, ma'am."
"It wasn't any trouble. It wasn't. You just had me scared there. Outside like that. You warm enough now?"
"Yeah. You can leave me be – I ain't goin' nowhere again in a hurry. Leave me be."
"Oh. You don't want me to get you any water then?"
"No, Miss Lilian – I said, I'm all right now. You leave me be."
He heard her make some noise, he couldn't have said what, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He heard her boot heels click on the floor then all fell silent.
Sleep eluded him completely. He was aware of every noise, every flickering shadow as the room darkened. He couldn't even doze for the people coming to see him. Mr Watson, and another woman, maybe Mrs Watson because she looked old. Then there was another, younger woman, not Lilian, who had brought him some water then gone away. A young man, too, not out of his twenties, he judged. So many folk, all fussing over him and keeping him from sleeping, giving him bitter things to drink and keeping his blankets straight. He had not had such a crowd of folk looking after him since as long as he could remember.
But no more Lilian. No light hand, or half smile, and no look from those eyes, those green eyes, which she closed when she had to. No more Lilian.