Disclaimer: As ever, I don't own the character Frank because he was
dreamed up by some talented people. I make no money from this enterprise.
The other characters are my own.
Three days. Three lots of twenty-four hours. That was seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes. And many, many seconds. Time he had spent waiting out his fever. Now he was doing complicated sums in his head to stop himself wondering when Lilian might come and see him.
He was flat out, awake, and cool. The fever had broken sometime in the early morning, leaving him drained of every ounce of energy. He had been puzzling out where the fever had come from but couldn't pinpoint it. It hadn't been a cold. Apart from the ache in his arm he couldn't find a thing wrong with himself, except that he felt hollow and out of sorts.
He waited for someone to help him out, and Samuel, old man Watson's grandson, had come to his shout. When he was settled again, the young man had welcomed him back to the world, put a drink in his hand and gone.
Now he wanted to get up, pack up his stuff, get on Hidalgo and ride out. The room was a prison, whatever it looked like, whoever looked after him, and he was ready to leave. Nothing to stop him. He should just get up and saddle up, though it came hard to leave the Watsons without some payback for their hospitality.
He would do it, too. In a couple of minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds.
It would have been good to have seen Lilian once more. Maybe before he left. Just to say goodbye and thank her. If she wasn't there, maybe he could write her a note. Maybe, all things considered, that would be the best way to go.
"Mornin', Frank T." The door was pushed open and a cheery, hoarse voice interrupted his calculations. "You ready for a shave?"
He struggled to sit up. "Ma'am – fever's broke."
"I know. Samuel told me. Said he'd helped you out, too." She put down the large bowl she was carrying on the nightstand and coughed into her hand.
He made up his mind not to drive her away this time. "Everyone's been real kind, ma'am."
"They're a good family. Took me in when I needed them." She came to sit on the side of the bed. "You think you can sit up?"
"I reckon." He managed it, too, though he felt a touch light-headed. She draped a large towel over his chest and ran one hand experimentally through his stubble.
"If you keep still enough, you'll get a good shave. I've done this before," she said, reaching for the brush and a bowl of lather.
She had, too. He kept silent while she moved his face, confidently shaving away the stubble and cleaning the cutthroat razor on a cloth. When she moved to the other side of the bed to tackle his right cheek he saw she was puzzled about how to do it for the best.
"I think ..." she said hesitantly. "I think I'll have to kneel over you. You think you can stand that?" She looked at him with a spark of mischief in her eyes and his heart missed a couple of beats.
"I reckon. You all right?"
She had turned away from him and was coughing again and he resisted the urge to reach up and lay a hand on her back.
"You know, it's strange," she said when she had recovered herself. "You got the fever, I got the cough."
"That why you've not been near me for three days?" He hadn't meant it to sound quite so sharp but there it was, the question he had been longing to ask was out in the open.
She stopped smiling. "Not entirely."
He looked at her and she met his eyes steadily. In the end, it was he who broke the contact. He couldn't push her further. He was on unsafe ground.
"Well – you okay with me sitting across you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I reckon I can stand it if you can."
So she did, and it wasn't as awkward as he thought it might be. As she wiped the last traces of lather from his face he wondered what to say.
"Thank you, ma'am." It was hopelessly inadequate. She had saved his life. "Thank you very much."
Lil threw the towel back onto the nightstand and he thought for a moment that she was angry with him. Then she kissed him. Just a light kiss, and she had leaned in to him without touching him. Then she sat back on his thighs, head on one side, looking at him curiously.
"That is what you wanted me to do, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yeah," he gasped, feeling winded. "Yeah." He wanted so much to reach for her that it hurt. But he couldn't – he just couldn't. There was too much in the way. No – this was stupid, it was hurting her, it was not right. Neither taking her invitation nor refusing it was a clear choice. In the long moments it took him to make a decision, she had made one of her own. He could read disappointment in her whole body.
He expected her to, well, at least look at him, but she was rambling something which sounded somehow apologetic. "Well, I'd better get out of your way, then. You'll be wanting to get dressed. I don't suppose it's what you should do," she continued, climbing back over him and off the bed, "but I have no doubt it it's what you want to do. And I'd better get this bowl back to the old man, because he doesn't know I've borrowed it." She stopped abruptly, facing away from him
"Lilian?"
"It's all right. I'm all right. I'll tell someone you need some help to get up." She kept her face averted while she threw the towel over her shoulder, picked up the bowl of water and walked out without another word.
He lay back and tried hard not to wonder what he had said wrong this time. But mostly, the feel of her lips on his scrambled his brain too much for any inquest.
It took him the better part of two hours to feel anything like ready to move to another room, but a dogged determination to talk to Lil again drove him, and he was shuffling down the corridor and into main room, where large, comfortable chairs and couches invited him to rest from his labours.
Sure enough, she was there, reading, and she looked at him when he came to a halt in the doorway. A large fire shed hot light over the space he didn't quite feel able to invade.
"I'll go back to my room, if you want me to," he said, wondering what the answer might be.
"No – looks like it cost you something to get here. Stay, Frank T., make yourself at home."
She relaxed visibly when he took a couple of steps into the room. "You feeling better, ma'am?" he ventured. Perhaps she had been ill when she left him last time.
"I'm all right. You want something to read?"
He ducked his head. "Thank you. But – maybe I could interrupt you for a while? You mind if I ask you a few questions?"
He sank gratefully into the corner of a large, soft couch.
She put down her book. "Ask away."
"Well. This place."
"Old Man Watson made a fortune in San Francisco. Kept it, too. But the way he tells it, it didn't suit him to stay and do what he was doing any longer, so he sold up and came back here, where he was born. Built himself the fanciest ranch house he could, though. Got two panes of glass where folks usually put one, and he's thinking of putting a heating system in so you won't hardly need these fires."
"He done a good job. It's a comfortable place."
"More than that."
"How did you get to know him, ma'am? If ya don't mind me askin'?"
"I don't mind. I was working there – working – well, you know what I was doing. That first night, I wasn't lying to you. Friend of his, he found me when I was in trouble." Her head dropped. She wasn't going to tell him the whole truth. "Mr. Watson took me in, seein' I was from the same town as him, and he knew my uncle pretty well. Brought me back here."
He puzzled over what she'd said. He had thought perhaps she was lying about being a loose woman, joshing him or something, but she was hinting it was true. In San Francisco, at least. August Lil, she'd called herself.
"So you – you started up a business here?"
She raised her eyebrows and grimaced. "I owned that saloon. Bought it myself with my earnings. Ran a respectable business."
It was his turn to feel the stab of embarrassment. He became gruff with it. "Didn't mean anything else, ma'am."
"Lilian! Why don't you call me Lilian? And you did mean something else, so why are you telling me different?" Her emotion started her coughing again.
"I'm sorry, ma – Lilian. Maybe I should go back to my room?"
She didn't answer for a moment. "No, please don't. I'm sorry – I had no call shoutin' at you like that. No reason at all for you to know I owned that place, or that I don't run the local cat house."
He looked at her, then put out his left hand to her, inviting her to sit by him. She stood and stepped over to him.
"I keep feeling like we should somehow start over. We seem to misunderstand each other most of the time." She sat down and he let his arm rest on the back of the couch, and at last they began to get to know each other a little, exchanging easy questions and answers until he began to feel tired and she began coughing again.
She pulled up her feet and settled near him, her head on his arm, and dozed. He worried that she looked pale and tired, but it felt right for her to be there, trusting him at last, letting him watch over her as she slept.
Three days. Three lots of twenty-four hours. That was seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes. And many, many seconds. Time he had spent waiting out his fever. Now he was doing complicated sums in his head to stop himself wondering when Lilian might come and see him.
He was flat out, awake, and cool. The fever had broken sometime in the early morning, leaving him drained of every ounce of energy. He had been puzzling out where the fever had come from but couldn't pinpoint it. It hadn't been a cold. Apart from the ache in his arm he couldn't find a thing wrong with himself, except that he felt hollow and out of sorts.
He waited for someone to help him out, and Samuel, old man Watson's grandson, had come to his shout. When he was settled again, the young man had welcomed him back to the world, put a drink in his hand and gone.
Now he wanted to get up, pack up his stuff, get on Hidalgo and ride out. The room was a prison, whatever it looked like, whoever looked after him, and he was ready to leave. Nothing to stop him. He should just get up and saddle up, though it came hard to leave the Watsons without some payback for their hospitality.
He would do it, too. In a couple of minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds.
It would have been good to have seen Lilian once more. Maybe before he left. Just to say goodbye and thank her. If she wasn't there, maybe he could write her a note. Maybe, all things considered, that would be the best way to go.
"Mornin', Frank T." The door was pushed open and a cheery, hoarse voice interrupted his calculations. "You ready for a shave?"
He struggled to sit up. "Ma'am – fever's broke."
"I know. Samuel told me. Said he'd helped you out, too." She put down the large bowl she was carrying on the nightstand and coughed into her hand.
He made up his mind not to drive her away this time. "Everyone's been real kind, ma'am."
"They're a good family. Took me in when I needed them." She came to sit on the side of the bed. "You think you can sit up?"
"I reckon." He managed it, too, though he felt a touch light-headed. She draped a large towel over his chest and ran one hand experimentally through his stubble.
"If you keep still enough, you'll get a good shave. I've done this before," she said, reaching for the brush and a bowl of lather.
She had, too. He kept silent while she moved his face, confidently shaving away the stubble and cleaning the cutthroat razor on a cloth. When she moved to the other side of the bed to tackle his right cheek he saw she was puzzled about how to do it for the best.
"I think ..." she said hesitantly. "I think I'll have to kneel over you. You think you can stand that?" She looked at him with a spark of mischief in her eyes and his heart missed a couple of beats.
"I reckon. You all right?"
She had turned away from him and was coughing again and he resisted the urge to reach up and lay a hand on her back.
"You know, it's strange," she said when she had recovered herself. "You got the fever, I got the cough."
"That why you've not been near me for three days?" He hadn't meant it to sound quite so sharp but there it was, the question he had been longing to ask was out in the open.
She stopped smiling. "Not entirely."
He looked at her and she met his eyes steadily. In the end, it was he who broke the contact. He couldn't push her further. He was on unsafe ground.
"Well – you okay with me sitting across you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I reckon I can stand it if you can."
So she did, and it wasn't as awkward as he thought it might be. As she wiped the last traces of lather from his face he wondered what to say.
"Thank you, ma'am." It was hopelessly inadequate. She had saved his life. "Thank you very much."
Lil threw the towel back onto the nightstand and he thought for a moment that she was angry with him. Then she kissed him. Just a light kiss, and she had leaned in to him without touching him. Then she sat back on his thighs, head on one side, looking at him curiously.
"That is what you wanted me to do, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yeah," he gasped, feeling winded. "Yeah." He wanted so much to reach for her that it hurt. But he couldn't – he just couldn't. There was too much in the way. No – this was stupid, it was hurting her, it was not right. Neither taking her invitation nor refusing it was a clear choice. In the long moments it took him to make a decision, she had made one of her own. He could read disappointment in her whole body.
He expected her to, well, at least look at him, but she was rambling something which sounded somehow apologetic. "Well, I'd better get out of your way, then. You'll be wanting to get dressed. I don't suppose it's what you should do," she continued, climbing back over him and off the bed, "but I have no doubt it it's what you want to do. And I'd better get this bowl back to the old man, because he doesn't know I've borrowed it." She stopped abruptly, facing away from him
"Lilian?"
"It's all right. I'm all right. I'll tell someone you need some help to get up." She kept her face averted while she threw the towel over her shoulder, picked up the bowl of water and walked out without another word.
He lay back and tried hard not to wonder what he had said wrong this time. But mostly, the feel of her lips on his scrambled his brain too much for any inquest.
It took him the better part of two hours to feel anything like ready to move to another room, but a dogged determination to talk to Lil again drove him, and he was shuffling down the corridor and into main room, where large, comfortable chairs and couches invited him to rest from his labours.
Sure enough, she was there, reading, and she looked at him when he came to a halt in the doorway. A large fire shed hot light over the space he didn't quite feel able to invade.
"I'll go back to my room, if you want me to," he said, wondering what the answer might be.
"No – looks like it cost you something to get here. Stay, Frank T., make yourself at home."
She relaxed visibly when he took a couple of steps into the room. "You feeling better, ma'am?" he ventured. Perhaps she had been ill when she left him last time.
"I'm all right. You want something to read?"
He ducked his head. "Thank you. But – maybe I could interrupt you for a while? You mind if I ask you a few questions?"
He sank gratefully into the corner of a large, soft couch.
She put down her book. "Ask away."
"Well. This place."
"Old Man Watson made a fortune in San Francisco. Kept it, too. But the way he tells it, it didn't suit him to stay and do what he was doing any longer, so he sold up and came back here, where he was born. Built himself the fanciest ranch house he could, though. Got two panes of glass where folks usually put one, and he's thinking of putting a heating system in so you won't hardly need these fires."
"He done a good job. It's a comfortable place."
"More than that."
"How did you get to know him, ma'am? If ya don't mind me askin'?"
"I don't mind. I was working there – working – well, you know what I was doing. That first night, I wasn't lying to you. Friend of his, he found me when I was in trouble." Her head dropped. She wasn't going to tell him the whole truth. "Mr. Watson took me in, seein' I was from the same town as him, and he knew my uncle pretty well. Brought me back here."
He puzzled over what she'd said. He had thought perhaps she was lying about being a loose woman, joshing him or something, but she was hinting it was true. In San Francisco, at least. August Lil, she'd called herself.
"So you – you started up a business here?"
She raised her eyebrows and grimaced. "I owned that saloon. Bought it myself with my earnings. Ran a respectable business."
It was his turn to feel the stab of embarrassment. He became gruff with it. "Didn't mean anything else, ma'am."
"Lilian! Why don't you call me Lilian? And you did mean something else, so why are you telling me different?" Her emotion started her coughing again.
"I'm sorry, ma – Lilian. Maybe I should go back to my room?"
She didn't answer for a moment. "No, please don't. I'm sorry – I had no call shoutin' at you like that. No reason at all for you to know I owned that place, or that I don't run the local cat house."
He looked at her, then put out his left hand to her, inviting her to sit by him. She stood and stepped over to him.
"I keep feeling like we should somehow start over. We seem to misunderstand each other most of the time." She sat down and he let his arm rest on the back of the couch, and at last they began to get to know each other a little, exchanging easy questions and answers until he began to feel tired and she began coughing again.
She pulled up her feet and settled near him, her head on his arm, and dozed. He worried that she looked pale and tired, but it felt right for her to be there, trusting him at last, letting him watch over her as she slept.