On Monday Bill enters the saloon. Strategically, he chose an early hour, when Henry's still in the infirmary, so he can have a few words with Jeremy Black—just the two of them. Bill walks up to the bar and nods to the saloon owner. Black nods back.
"The usual, Bill?"
"Yes, and something more. I need some… information." Bill leans on his elbows. "By any chance, did you notice money missing from the saloon?" Smooth opening, man.
"No."
"No money is missing or no, you didn't notice?"
"I'd have noticed if someone had broken open my safe, wouldn't I?"
"Yeah, but what if the thief didn't need to break open the safe?" Bill prods further. "What if they could put their hand on the money before it was taken into the safe? Theoretically speaking."
"What are you sug— Oh." Black frowns. "It's about Henry, isn't it?"
Bill shrugs. "I don't want to point fingers but don't you find it interesting, to say the least, that he lived in a single room for months but suddenly he has enough money to afford a whole house?"
"I'd rather not discuss the private matter of my employees in the middle of the saloon."
"You have only one employee—"
"—and he's not stealing from me." Black didn't want to shout and certainly didn't want to draw attention to their conversation, no, it wasn't his intention at all, but now those few guests they have today are all looking at them. "I take you're merely askin' me," he goes on in a lower voice, "and not investigatin' a case just yet, aren't you?"
"No, no, I'm just asking around," Bill admits.
"Then you got my answers. Next time you want information about my employees," he presses the ess at the end of employees, "it's better be a real investigation or don't come at all. No pointin' fingers here, alright?"
"Or what?"
"It's not a threat, it's a reminder." Black takes Bill's empty glass. "You might have forgotten that threatenin' isn't the only way to communicate."
As Bill walks out of the saloon, he can feel the guests' eyes boring into his back. Fine. He might have lost this round but as soon as he finds evidence, Black's opinion will change about his employee.
-:-:-:-
That evening, when Henry takes his place behind the bar, he immediately senses a strange tension in the air. The war changed the atmosphere of the town, yes, and it constantly makes its presence known, but this is different. Henry can't put his finger on the source of it—until he finds out that he himself is the subject and the origin of this unusual tension. It would be hard not to notice the way the guests keep glancing at him and whispering, only to stop mid-sentence whenever he looks at them. Great. What's their problem now?
He finds it out soon enough.
"Oi! You!" A husky, dark-haired man walks up to him. "Watcha doin' here?"
Henry reminds himself not to lose patience. "I'm working," he says as nonchalantly as possible.
"So what if I ask you to gimme a beer?"
"Then I'll ask: what type of beer?"
"Molson ale." The man bangs his fist on the bar. "We don't need Yankee beer here!"
Henry doesn't comment on that. Good thing they have Molson ale; he really doesn't wish to have an argument about the patriotism of alcoholic beverages.
"Here."
The fist-banger takes the beer. "So what if I cannae pay for it?"
"Then there is no beer for you today."
"Yo' wannae my money that bad, eh?"
Henry grits his teeth.
"I heard yo' liked money. A little bird told me so."
"I wonder what's the name of that bird," Henry mutters. Out loud he only says, "It's a saloon. If you want a drink, you need to pay for it."
"Yeah, so yo' can steal it."
Henry draws himself up. Don't lose your patience, he warns himself. "No money, no ale."
"So? Whatcha gonna do if I give yo' no money?"
This man is going to cause him a serious headache.
"Hope Valley has a mountie and a sheriff. Surely one of them would be glad to put you in a cell until your head cools down a bit."
"Yo' know so much about prison cells, huh?" He slams a couple of notes on the bar. "Here."
Henry takes the money, biting back a remark. This surely isn't his best day but he's seen worse so he can swallow a grumpy railroad worker's insults, can't he?
-:-:-:-
Not his best day? More like not his best week, as it turns out. The people of Hope Valley are eyeing Henry as a criminal—again or they have never stopped doing so, he can't decide. He tells himself he doesn't care. Not many of the people makes comments like the railroad man did but suspicious looks and malignant whispers follow him wherever he goes. Henry pretends that he doesn't notice anything and congratulates himself on finally growing back his thick skin.
On Friday, he snaps.
He's spent the morning helping Faith with sorting and counting bottles of different medicines: he read the labels, she scribbled down the medicine's type and the quantity. When they're finished, Faith checks the results and leans back in her chair.
"We're short of iodine—again."
"Well, it's the best stuff for disinfecting wounds," Henry recalls what she taught him about the use of iodine, and Faith rewards him with a smile. Suddenly he feels proud of himself—it's a nice change after the events of the week. "I could place an order at the mercantile."
"Sure, thank you."
Faith walks to the drawer containing the infirmary's money, unlocks it, takes out a couple of notes and turns back to Henry. She seems to hesitate—she moves to hand him the money but stops mid-motion.
"You know what?" Faith smiles but Henry notices that her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I'll go to the mercantile."
Henry narrows his eyes. "Why?"
"I'm always bossing you around—"
"Because I'm a volunteer!" he interrupts and Faith flinches. "It's not you bossing me around, it's me trying to be useful. But you know that quite well, so I'm asking you again: why?" No response. "It's the money, isn't it? You don't want to trust me with it. I know that everyone thinks I'm a thief."
"I don't think you're a thief!" she protests.
"It doesn't matter." Henry shrugs. "You're free to believe whatever you want."
"Please, Henry, let me explain—" Faith starts but he stops her with a gesture of his hand.
"I don't care. As I said, it doesn't matter." He takes his coat and mockingly bows a little. "If there isn't anything else—"
"Henry," Faith says and her voice is firm as if she was talking to a petulant patient. "I need you to listen to me."
Any other day she could stop him. Any other day she could make him listen. Any other day this fierce woman could make Henry turn back.
But not today.
"I'm not having this conversation now." As he puts his hand on the handle, Henry reminds himself not to feel guilty. "Just for the record, you were the last person I'd expected to judge me."
-:-:-:-
Henry Gowen is a grown man, not a pouty schoolboy, thus he would never sulk. If he makes the impression of a sulking person just because he decided to sit down behind the saloon—well, that's another story. He only wanted a little peace, nothing more, before he stands behind the bar, waiting for orders and malicious glares. This week Black tried to give him as many tasks in the kitchen as possible but even with a war raging in Europe people want to drink so Henry found himself behind the bar much too often for his liking. But it's fine, he tells himself, he can do his job, even if he needs a five-minute break right now.
"Good evening, Henry."
Well, at least he had one minute of peace, that's something, right?
"Hello, Jack. Are you here to arrest me?" Henry means to spite him but his tone is more weary and resigned than belligerent. "Because my break is up soon and I'd prefer to be handcuffed here, rather than in the middle of the saloon."
"I'm not going to arrest you. I came as a friend. May I sit?" Jack motions towards the log Henry is sitting on. Not the most comfortable seat but better than the cold ground.
Henry shrugs. "Do as you please. It's a free country."
"Nowadays the people of Belgium can't say the same." Jack sits down. "It's a blessing to live in a free country."
Henry picks up a pebble, weighing it in his hand, playing with it absentmindedly. He didn't mean it to come out like that; in his self-pity he forgot that he isn't the only person in the world carrying a burden. Selfishness has always been his biggest problem. So far Henry has lived his life worried about his own welfare and whenever he tries to change, to do the "be better and care about others" thing, he just can't get it right. He repeats the same mistakes over and over again—hurting people and making enemies instead of making friends.
"It isn't easy to do the right thing," Jack says as if he was reading Henry's mind. "I like to think that I'm on the path I was meant to take but— But sometimes I wonder if this is really what I was meant to do. Maybe I should do more. I should do better! Because one can always do better."
Henry drops the pebble and nudges it with the toe of his shoe. He doesn't know what to say.
"Every day I'm measured and judged. People look at me and wonder how many people died by my hand when I fought in the Northern Territories. I'm judged for the number they come up with in their minds. I'm judged by the people who expect me to go to Europe and fight the good fight, and the people who expect me to stay and protect their peace here. No matter how I decide, I'll be judged for the things I do—and for the things I didn't do."
"It doesn't matter as long as— Well, as long as you know, or at least, feel that you did the right thing." Henry hangs his head. He feels like he hasn't been doing the right thing for a while.
"Yes." Jack nods. "Duty, conscience, and the Lord lead me, not other people's opinions, and I'll be judged out of those things which were written in the books." He places a tentative hand on Henry's shoulder. "Thank you for listening to me."
"It's— it's alright," Henry stutters. "I didn't think you had problems. Okay, I didn't mean it like that, I just meant—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I guess I was so absorbed in my own misery I forgot about everything else."
"Are you worried about Bill and a possible investigation?"
Henry sets his jaw. "No. Yes. Maybe. I don't care, not really."
"You shouldn't say that." Jack frowns. "Henry, you're on parole! The last thing you need right now is an unnecessary investigation."
"I know but I'm tired of the people— of Bill wanting to see me in jail."
"Why don't you try talking to him? He represents the law, not his personal opinion."
"I'm talking to you. You're a constable, representing the law."
"I told you I came as a friend, not as a constable."
Henry sighs, frustrated. "Then I'm telling you as your friend that I didn't spend dirty money on the house. I didn't steal it, I inherited it."
"All right," Jack says calmly. "Why didn't you tell it to Bill?"
"He wouldn't have believed me."
"Innocent until proven guilty, remember? Nobody has reported missing money and Bill wouldn't have had a single reason not to believe you—apart from his own prejudice but he's a man of the law, he knows how to overcome his, er, grudges. Even if he needs some time to do so." He smiles. "And you didn't make things easy for him either."
Henry should be behind the bar by now, he knows that, so he quickly scrambles to his feet.
"If Bill comes prying again, surely I'll have a few words for him," he says, "but that's all. I won't be begging him to believe me."
"You two have much more in common than you think."
Henry rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, both of us would think that you've just insulted us by saying this," but Jack only laughs at his words.
-:-:-:-
"Henry, you're on parole! The last thing you need right now is an unnecessary investigation."
Abigail stops in her tracks when she hears Jack's words. Jeremy told him she would find Henry behind the saloon but she didn't expected him to have company. She wonders what Jack is doing here—did he come on his own or did Bill send him? So far none of them has spotted her and she's about to call out to them when Henry's words reach her.
"I know but I'm tired of the people— of Bill wanting to see me in jail."
It hits her how weary his voice is. He isn't exaggerating, no, he downright sounds enervated—and hopeless.
Abigail doesn't want to eavesdrop so she quickly retraces her steps. She has heard enough and there is only one thing for her to do so she wastes no time, hurrying to the jailhouse. Bill is inside, reading a newspaper, but he rises from his chair when he sees Abigail entering. She's in front of him in a second and—not bothering with greetings and formalities—practically attacks him.
"We need to talk about Henry."
Author's note: When they put the show on retooling hiatus, the source of my inspiration suddenly disappeared and I found it hard to go on with this story. But now (thanks to the works of Lucy Maud Montgomery) I'm back in business!