The moment Henry spots the husky "Molson ale" man playing cards in the saloon he knows that trouble will rise soon enough. It's been in the air since the railroad became short on supplies—the war is showing its teeth everywhere—, which means that the workers have been out of work for days now. Even while playing poker, the man seems bored with himself and has a menacing scowl on his face—he's looking for entertainment. Something like picking a fight.
Of course, he should know better than picking a fight with the town's sheriff.
This is how it happens.
Bill enters the saloon and, much to Henry's surprise, walks up to the counter. Right. Maybe he expected to see Jeremy there—which would have been more comfortable for both of them—but he isn't a man who backs down. Fine. Henry can be polite. He's quite sure it's in his job description somewhere: yadda-yadda-yadda and politely attending to the town's sheriff who hates you and the feeling is mutual.
"Hello, Henry. Can we talk?"
So, he did expect Henry behind the counter after all.
Henry suppresses a sigh—he's way too familiar with the good old script of a "Henry and Bill try (and fail) to talk" scene.
"Sure. Although I'm kind of busy right now, so…" He lets the end of the sentence fade away but Bill doesn't hit the cue. "Can't it wait? I have a break in an hour or so—"
"I'd prefer to get done with it now."
It might be just Henry's imagination but Bill seems nervous. Bill "I'm cool as an icicle" Avery nervous? Never a good sign.
"Okay." This time Henry can't hold back a sigh. "Come on. This is no place for a professional conversation."
"This isn't a—" But Henry has already gone around the corner and taken a seat at an empty table. "It's a private conversation, actually," Bill says but nevertheless, sits down, facing Henry.
"A private investigation then?" Henry provokes him, making the good sheriff groan.
"Please, don't start. I'm here to offer you an olive branch, so to speak."
"And you find that so hard that you just want to be done with it?" Much to his own surprise, Henry wants to laugh at the situation. Are they really this hopeless?
"Yes? No? Will you just listen to me?"
This time Henry can't help but laugh—and it attracts the do-no-good ale guy's attention like the smell of blood attracts a lynx. (At least, some people can still hit a cue.)
"So, the law's recruiting thieves now, eh?" Molson Ale man spats.
"This is a private discussion," Bill says coolly and maybe, maybe they can drop it.
"Is that how yo' are callin' it now?"
Or maybe they can't.
"When I said private, I meant not your business."
"Oh, but it's my business when the sheriff is teaming up with criminals. Who knows, maybe I should report yo'."
His self-satisfied grin makes Henry frown. "And what do you want to report, exactly?"
The guy looks confused for a second but finds his voice in no time. "Or maybe I should report yo' to yo'r boss." He points a finger at Henry. "Yo' know, neglecting yo'r job an' stuff."
Bill stands up, pushing back his chair so forcefully that its legs make a loud, screeching noise across the floor, and Henry follows suit.
"I think you should go back to your beer," Bill warns the guy before nodding to Henry. "I'll see you later, at a more… convenient time," and with that, he turns to leave.
Henry's still looking at the trouble-maker because no chance the guy would let go of his prey so easily—and that's right, in slow motion, like time has stopped, he can see Molson ale man raise a fist... Then time catches up with itself and everything seems to happen at the same second.
Henry takes a step forward, an instinctive movement, and tries to warn Bill— Bill, the shrewd old fox, who was careless enough to turn his back on trouble.
"Bill, watch—"
And this is the very moment when Molson ale man's fist connects with Henry's chin, rendering him speechless. Ouch.
Henry staggers but manages to stay upright by catching the edge of the table. He rather suspects than sees the second blow coming and raises his free arm to fend it off. His head might be swimming but at least his reflexes have woken up. A small mercy.
Bill catches the man's wrist and in one swift movement twists his arm around his back.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name, Mr…?"
"Holt," the man grunts.
"Well, then, Mr. Holt, I think it's time to chat and I just have the perfect place in mind for that." Bill looks around, addressing his next words to the dead silent saloon. "I'm warning you, if anyone else is looking for trouble, you'll join your friend in his cell before you could say moose."
Henry would smile at Bill's choice of word (moose, really?!) but his face hurts too much. He will feel and wear the memory of the little incident for a while but he couldn't care less about his looks. What matters is that he didn't lose a tooth nor did his skin break so he doesn't need to see Faith or Carson about it. Maybe if he pretends that nothing happened, just this once everyone will leave him in peace.
-:-:-:-
Of course it's too much to ask for a little bit of peace but it's Abigail who finds Henry licking his wounds (metaphorically, not physically), so it's a win-win. Half of his face purple or not, he finds that he doesn't mind her presence at all. A small part of him even hopes that Abigail came to visit him because she cares, not because Bill couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"Bill told me what happened at the saloon."
Well, Henry shouldn't be greedy, should he? No matter why she came, it's always a great comfort to see Abigail.
"Here. This might help," and she offers him a small jar full of thick, sage-smelling salve.
"Thank you." Henry takes the jar, awkwardly turning it around in his hands. "You shouldn't have— It isn't a big deal, really."
Abigail smiles. "Maybe not but I wanted to be sure you were fine." She glances down for a moment, hesitating and shy, but when she looks back at him, her voice almost sounds playful. "And I wanted to hear your version of the story."
"I, I could walk you home, if you don't mind, and tell you," Henry stammers. "Although there isn't much to tell, not really..."
"Well, it's settled then."
In the end, Henry tells her how he experienced the incident, and it sounds like quite a funny story. In the heat of the moment he couldn't see the humorous side of the situation but now, as he is recalling the events, he can laugh at its absurdity.
"Maybe my relationship with Bill is doomed. He comes offering peace and I end up punched in the face? Doomed, I say," he concludes and they laugh like two unruly children until they can't breathe. When they reach the café, they're still giggling and Abigail needs to wipe away a few tears of laughter.
"You know, for someone who doesn't even like Bill, you do an awfully good job of protecting him."
"Do I?"
"Twice you've shielded him from harm, getting hurt in the process…" Abigail lets her words fade away as a cloud of gloom passes over her face. She must be remembering the case of the gun that went off. Now, now, that felt much nastier than a punch.
"I can promise one thing," Henry groans, massaging his chin—it's a pitiful attempt to divert Abigail's attention from the memory of that gunshot. "I'll never ever step in front of Bill again."
"I'll hold you to your promise," Abigail says and Henry is glad to see her smiling again. "Do you need help with that?" she asks, pointing at the jar.
The question makes Henry think of the one time in the infirmary when Abigail shaved him because his hands were shaking too much. Well. He can candidly admit that Abigail has seen him in his lowest and weakest moments.
"Thank you but I hope I'll manage."
As much as he craves human touch, Henry is no damsel in distress; he can cream his own face.
"All right. You know where to find me if—"
"—if I need you."
"—if you need anything, yes."
All right. Henry will pretend that he hasn't just blurted out that he needed Abigail personally. Not that it should come as a surprise for anyone, really. Despite their history—or more like, given their history—, she's probably the person closest to him. What a heavy thought.
"Henry, there's something else we haven't discussed yet and it keeps bothering me."
It's not that his stomach immediately tightents into a knot or anything.
"Yes?"
"Maybe if we could go inside?" Abigail suggests and Henry immediately thinks, oh, no, another private conversation.
Surely, Abigail is much better company than Bill but today just doesn't seem like the right day for peaceful private discussions.
"Yes, why not?"
Abigail pats his elbow gently. "Don't look so scared. I want to talk about your brother if you're alright with that."
They sit down in the living room, side by side on the sofa, and Henry braces himself for an awkward conversation.
"Look, I won't say I'm sorry for telling Bill about your brother because I'd do it again without hesitation if it meant shaking you out of your own stubbornness. Even if you get angry with me. Which is absolutely fair, I mean, getting angry with me, because it wasn't my story to tell but—" Abigail rubs her face. "No, I'm not doing it right."
"No, it's fine, really—"
"No, it's not fine," she shakes her head impatiently. "Henry, I hate seeing you suffer. So yes, actually, I'm sorry. For telling Bill without asking you first and for meddling with your affairs instead of offering comfort. But still, I'd do it again without hesitation if— if I can't bring you out of your isolation otherwise."
And he thought he had made some progress with the people of Hope Valley…
As if reading his mind, Abigail quickly adds, "I know what you've achieved in this town and I'm glad you decided to give us a second chance. Most people in Hope Valley see a different man now, I'm sure of it. But in your grief you shut yourself away from everyone— and even though I only wanted to help, I chose the wrong method. Which isn't an excuse or anything, so I apologise."
Henry wonders if they'll ever have a conversation that has nothing to do with hurt feelings.
"Apology accepted—if you forgive me for my behaviour."
"Oh, I see you love beating yourself up." Yesterday's news, Abigail. "All right, mutual apologies accepted and I promise to talk to you first before talking about you."
"And I promise to talk— Well, more talking."
Congratulations, Henry Gowen. That didn't sound awkward at all—but at least it made Abigail laugh.
"Goodness, sorry, I'm an awful host," she gasps, laughter suddenly gone, her face rapidly turning beet red. "I didn't even ask you if you wanted a cup of coffee—"
"I think it's too late for drinking coffee."
"Right. Maybe something to eat? How about a late night scone?"
In Henry's opinion, Abigail's embarrassment is adorable.
"No, thank you, I'm good. If anything, I should go home and let you retire for the night. I've kept you up long enough."
"I enjoyed your company. Very much."
At hearing her kind words, Henry tries not to trip over his own legs—or drop the jar of the magical cream for bruises.
He must be tired. Yes, that must be it.
"I'll come back for that coffee tomorrow morning."
"Now, this is another promise I'll hold you to."
When Henry steps out of the building, he spots Reverend Anderson walking on the street. He'd pretend to ignore him but Abigail says quietly into his ear,
"He looks lonely."
Henry tries to shrug his uncomfortable feelings off. "Every man is an island."
"Maybe, but sometimes there are visitors."
The reverend disappears from their range of vision but it's too late—there's a foul taste in Henry's mouth. If Abigail wasn't standing by his side, he'd have easily acted like the reverend was a mere puff of smoke. But now? Now he'll have to act like an adult—and eventually face Anderson. If he could choose, he'd prefer getting punched twice rather than talking with the reverend but fine. Let it be.
Tomorrow he'll cut the metaphorical olive branch and offer it to Anderson.