Disclaimer: As ever, no copyright infringement is intended. I have borrowed a character and added some of my own. I make no money from this venture.
Part 10
When he woke, he couldn't immediately pinpoint what had disturbed him. He lit a candle to dispel the darkness and glanced at his pocket watch. Two thirty in the morning. It was a bad time to wake and he groaned inwardly at the thought of waiting in the quiet for sleep.
Then he heard it, the sound that had wakened him. Her cough, a noise that came to him because he hadn't been able to shut his door on her, not quite. He sat up and was out of bed before he could think of consequences, or good sense, or propriety. In bare feet and nightshirt he hurried along the corridor, the candle flickering in his hand and up the walls. He had no difficulty in finding her. Her door, too, was open, and an oil lamp warmed the corner of the room.
She sat upright in the large, double bed, her legs drawn up and a shawl round her shoulders. Her eyes, full of the misery of being so sick, met his as he stood there and wondered what to do next. She coughed again, trying to take a breath between each convulsion and barely succeeding.
"Honey," he said, "there should be someone sittin' up with you." He didn't know what else to say or do.
She could hardly speak. Each breath was an effort. She looked at him again and he felt the pull to go to her and do something for her.
"Where is everyone?" It was his last defence against – against whatever he was afraid of doing. He had slept in the same bed with her before but now it was different, so very different.
"I sent them away," she gasped. He moved to her, set his candle on the nightstand and climbed up awkwardly next to her on the mattress.
"Come here, honey," he said quietly, putting his arm round her shoulder. She eased over to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He felt her fever-hot forehead with his hand. "You been takin' anythin' for this?"
She shook her head. He reached behind her to the nightstand and picked up a couple of bottles at random. There was nothing there which could help her, he knew that. He knew what could, too, but he didn't have the herbs he'd need. He remembered his mother pounding the leaves and roots, making a tea to ease his own cough when he'd been nine or so. They'd worked, too. Just such a cough. He held her and reassured her as she tried to clear her throat.
She sank back, exhausted. He stroked her hair then shifted to ease his back. She looked at him and smiled faintly. She tried to speak again but he shook his head.
"It's okay, you just rest. I know, I ain't decent. You mind if I get a comforter? Least then you don't have to look at my cold feet." As soon as he said it, he regretted his words, but she didn't seem to notice.
He arranged her pillows for her and went in search of a comforter, finding one on the back of the rocker. He trailed it back across the room and made the bed dip as he climbed back in next to her. The comforter covered his feet and legs and he settled back, pulling her close again.
"Feel any better?" he said after a while, when her coughing subsided.
"One night," she gasped. "Usually. Just one night, I'm bad like this."
"You had this before?" he asked.
"Twice. Never with help." She leaned back and looked up at him. "Feel safer than usual."
He settled back a little himself then began to hum a tune that came into his head from some old memory. She twisted round and laid one hand on his chest. He stopped humming.
"Don't stop," she said. "Like to hear you." Her breath hitched.
He began again, remembering how it felt to be held like that and soothed. Her breathing eased a little, became longer and steadier, and he knew that she was dozing. He sat still, the tune running quietly through his brain. She was warm against him. He tried as hard as he could not to let his thoughts run into a future he was less and less sure they could have. He didn't fear that she would die. She had lived through such an illness before. But he was afraid he could not offer her such security for long. The guilt that gnawed at him was still strong. How could he set that aside and give himself to her?
Her breaths slowed again, into the deep, rhythmic pushes of sleep. It was the best thing for her but even as he held her, he missed her presence. He needed her there, to return his hold on her. Perhaps it was too much to ask, to be freed of the past by another person. Maybe it was something he had to do for himself, by himself.
He dozed. The house was hushed and dark, and he began to dream. The faces of his family, his people, gunned down by scared soldiers, sick themselves with the fear and horror of what they were doing. The fires washed over the dirty tents, maddened by the wind. Over it all, flakes drifting, the snow coming, and the beauty and horror drove Frank to the brink of what he could bear. He woke with heart pounding, eyes burning with tears, and found the woman leaning into him was dreaming too, and wild with them, moving, crying out with the remains of her voice, her words garbled until she began to say his name and then, as he came more awake, to push him away, to fight him, to hurt him as she shoved and panicked.
He moved back, his arm hurting, trying to reassure her and wake her gently, but she was only saying one word, over and over. "No!"
Suddenly there was more light, and people in the room, and someone had a gun, pointed at him, someone was shouting at him to leave Lilian alone, to back off, to get out of the room. He wanted to stay, more than anything else in his life, to stay with her and help her through whatever the dream was. He fought them, but then the gun was levelled at him and his attention was focussed on that, a single point, life or death. He backed off, protesting.
"I ain't done nothin'! I wouldn't hurt her – no – I was – I wasn't doin' nothin'!"
But the gun was steady, the man holding it watching him, guiding him to leave, until Frank found himself outside the door, breathing hard, his emotions fogging his judgement.
"Go to your room, boy." The voice cut through that fog. "Get packed up. Go to the bunkhouse. Go on. I'll deal with you in the morning."
Still Frank stood, hearing Lilian's hysterical cries, soon overtaken by that racking cough. He was desperate to reach her but the old man stood his ground, holding the gun on him and Frank knew he would not get back into her room. He backed away further.
"Okay, okay, I'm goin'. I'll go to the barn."
"Go where you want, boy, but leave my house!"
Frank turned, anger burning through him, the fog descending again. He went to his room, dressed as best he could and packed away his meagre belongings in the saddle bags which had been hung over the back of the chair. He stamped his feet into his boots and pulled his coat around him. As the anger died he was filled with a keen despair. He didn't understand what had happened. He had been doing nothing to her except what he had done most of the night – holding her, comforting her, simply being close to her. Now that was all gone and he ached with the pain of it, the loss of something that had become the most important thing in his life.
He glanced out of the window. It was still dark and it was snowing, very lightly, just a few flakes now and then. He threw his gunbelt over his shoulder then carefully removed his sling. He draped the saddlebags over his broken arm, aware there was more pain there again but it was the least of his worries. Without looking back he left his room, his small piece of heaven, and went outside.
Facing the bunkhouse was beyond him. The hands would draw their own conclusions about why he'd been thrown out of the house, and he couldn't face their questions, their insinuations, their looks. He trudged to the barn, making his way carefully in the dark and lighting a lantern as soon as he could locate one. Hidalgo shifted in his stall, looking up slowly and then pricking his ears as Frank went to him.
"Looks like it's just you an' me again, Little Brother. Should never have dreamed of anythin' else. Pure foolishness."
He rubbed Hidalgo's nose and wiped his own.
"Can't see it though, what I did wrong. I'll never see it."
He had an idea to saddle up and leave right then but it was too dark, and too dangerous for Hidalgo. His horse hadn't done anything, no sense in hurting him for the mistakes of humans. He leaned back against the stall railings and then slid down, curling in on himself and shutting out the world. It was too painful to face and he sat, trying to control himself, while his horse dozed beside him.
A flash of movement caught his eye. By the door, a figure, standing and looking at the house. The dimmest grey light outlined him. A big man, tall, just standing.
Frank pulled himself together, sitting as still as he could. Even sitting, he could have been seen if the man cared to glance into the barn. Then the figure was gone, stepping quickly out of view, but Frank had caught a signal, a wave of the hand which would tell someone else to move forward.
Frank stood slowly and patted Hidalgo, settling him. "Hush there, horse – don't make a noise. Something ain't right out there and I'm goin' to see what it is." He took his gun out of his belt and paced silently to the door of the barn, trying to work his legs to increase circulation and shake off the fuzziness in his mind. He needed to be absolutely clear-headed.
Outside, in the freezing morning air, he had to crouch down to avoid catching anyone's attention. Three men were clearly visible, one with a lit torch in his hand, the other carrying a can. They were close to the house and unaware of him. Fuel was poured against the house and before Frank could do anything, the torch had been thrown, and the hungry flames were already eating up the side of the house, throwing light out across the yard. Frank stood, firing at them, with enough light to see them but too away far to do much good. The three men ducked and began to fire in his direction, forcing him down on his stomach in the snow. He fired and one yelped and dropped his weapon. The other two paused then grabbed their companion and ran, low and fast, to the road leading away from the house.
Frank ran to the bunkhouse to rouse the hands and get the fire bell ringing. Then he made for the house. The flames were catching more of the wall, sparks now drifting upwards. The fire began to roar, but he could do nothing about that – if the house was gone, it was gone. But those inside – why were they not outside yet? What was happening to them? He ran for the main door and choked immediately on hot, dense smoke that was crawling round him, climbing the walls and reaching for him with clawing fingers.
He turned to the right, the source of the smoke, and at last saw someone, Mrs. Watson, a coat over her nightdress and terror in her eyes.
"Frank!" she screamed. "We can't wake Lilian! Get someone to carry her out!"
His heart contracted. There was no time to fetch anyone. He ran to Mrs. Watson and grabbed her. "Is she alive?" he gasped, coughing now from the smoke.
"I don't know – get help! You can't lift her!"
"Go outside. I'll get her." He didn't know how, but somehow he would get her. The wall beside him burst into flame and Mrs. Watson screamed, then ran for her life along the corridor.
Frank jumped back, startled by the sudden breakthrough of the fire. He was too close and he backed off, trying to head towards Lilian's room but balked by hot flames. Head down, covered by his arm, he began to ease along the wall. He kicked burning cinders out of his path and was closing in on the room when the wall bellied inwards and showered him with sparks and fiery splinters.
He had to make it. A few more steps. He burst into the room and nearly tripped over Mr. Watson, who lay full length on the floor. Lilian was there on the bed, twisted onto her side, smoke all around her. She was as still as if turned to stone.
"Lilian!" he shouted, agonised, and ran to her. He grasped her hand, still fever-hot and damp. "Lilian!"
She didn't respond, her head lolling back, her hair across her face. He picked her up, his broken arm no help so he threw her over his shoulder. There was only one way out now – the window. He set her down again on the floor, leaning against the wall, and opened it. Then he went back for the old man, dragging him as best he could to the window. His eyes were burning, his coat blackened with cinder burns, but he felt nothing, only the clear sense that he must get both of them out.
"This way, Frank!" someone shouted from outside the window. "Pass 'em through!"
There was no dignity in it, only a mad scramble for life. He sat Lilian on the windowsill and then pushed her out into the cold. Two ranch hands took her weight. Then the old man. With breath harder and harder to gasp into his lungs, Frank knew he was fading. He hauled and pushed, and the burden of the man who had threatened him with death hours before was taken from him. But that was as far as he could go. He watched them take the old man and lay him outside on the grass. Then he couldn't breathe any more and fell, half in, half out of the room, and lost the battle to remain awake, the enormous sound of the fire fading away as he slipped into unconsciousness.