Chapter Fifteen
The drive to Dr. Cliveden's seemed to take forever, even as it was only three blocks away. His office was located just north of Sherman Street, in a two story building. It was flanked by a lawyer's office, and a trade broker; this was a street of professional businesses. The trees and well-kept yards with finely crafted wrought iron fences gave off a sense of calm, which Sarah noted so belied the churning in her stomach.
The note from Priscilla had fractured the feeling she'd come away from the lunch with Adam – one of almost walking on a cloud. Clearly one of the brothers had been hurt, if a surgeon was involved. Her hope was that Nick was the victim, because Priscilla was sending the note. However, it was a small hope because she knew her husband's propensity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sarah recalled everything that had happened since they'd been in Denver, starting with the fall at the train station. Then there was the derelict outside of the Opera House that Heath had known previously; she shuddered as she recalled the police in the hotel suite the following morning. No, she mused, Heath had been at the center of all the mayhem that had gone on in the city.
With that thought in mind, she almost jumped out of the hansom and rushing through the gate walked quickly up to the door. Not bothering to ring the bell she opened the door and strode past the young man sitting at a desk in the front hall. There was a sign above the door to her right, and Sarah turned to it, figuring that is where she needed to go. It was with a jerky twist that she rotated the crystal door knob to gain access.
Sarah entered the doctor's waiting room, which was soberly and simply furnished in muted tones of blue and brown, and noticed Nick and Priscilla right away. They were both dressed in black funeral clothes, which caused her to almost stop breathing. Fear overtook her as a hard wave of tightness constricted her heart. Heath was dead? How? Her mind went numb, even as she struggled to catch her breath.
"Sarah, don't faint." She heard Priscilla's voice, as her sister-in-law hurried over to help her to a chair. Sarah was vaguely aware of Priscilla asking Nick for something, and then she was being offered a glass of amber liquid. She took it, swallowing without thinking; the drink burned in her throat and mouth.
"Agh, eh." She sputtered, pushing the glass away, and moving to stand up. "What is going on? Where is Heath? Why are you wearing black?" Sarah had her wits about her again, and she wanted to know exactly why they were all at the doctor's office.
"Heath is almost out of surgery." Priscilla answered, and went on to explain about where he'd been shot, and what the doctor had said about the injury.
"But why were you at the cemetery?" Sarah looked at her brother and sister-in-law, sensing that there was more to the story than what Priscilla had relayed.
"Well for Logan Dawes' funeral. You know Heath's old friend?" Nick laid out the details of funeral and how the shooting had happened, after the service.
"Logan Dawes? What funeral?" Sarah felt anger building inside of her, her worry for Heath being overtaken by the knowledge that Heath had kept this information from her. Her lips tightened into a thin line, as her hands balled into tight fists. Her reaction must have been very apparent, because Priscilla moved over to stand next to her.
"Sarah, we only found out about the funeral this morning. Nick was taking me to see Hester and Joseph's mausoleum. We met up with Heath on his way to the cemetery." Priscilla's voice was soothing, and she put her arm around Sarah's shoulders and stroked her softly. It was supposed to be comforting, but Sarah knew better.
She saw through what Priscilla was trying to do, which was deflect blame from Heath. Oh no, perfect Heath, kind Heath who would never do anything like that. If only everyone knew what he was really like Sarah thought to herself. Before she could say anything the doctor, an older man came into the room, and looked around expectantly.
"Mrs. Barkley? Mrs. Heath Barkley?" He asked and Sarah brusquely removed herself from Priscilla's embrace and walked over to where the doctor was standing and introduced herself. The man said that the surgery had gone well, and Heath would be waking up soon; she was welcome to sit by his bed and wait.
"Thank you Doctor. Yes, I will sit by his bed." Sarah moved to follow the man through the door to the surgery he was holding up. She paused, as she turned to look at Nick and Priscilla, raising her chin with ill-concealed disdain. "Please go ahead and leave. I think you've done quite enough. Heath is my husband and I am capable of sitting with him." There was dismissal in her tone and from the surprised looks on the couple's faces it was apparent that they had heard her meaning clearly. Sarah took pleasure in walking through the doorway and hearing the doctor soundly shut the wood panel against the frame.
The doctor showed her to the room where Heath was, and Sarah felt the fear overcome her again, as she saw her husband. Heath was pale, and so still that Sarah had to lean close to see him breath, which reassured her. Sarah was introduced to the doctor's wife, who brought a chair over for her, and offered tea or coffee. She turned them down, and was relieved when they left her alone, after giving her instructions if Heath came to.
Sarah was both scared and intrigued as she looked at her husband, flat on his back, recovering from being shot. She'd heard about all the injuries Heath had incurred; Sarah has seen the scars on his body when they'd been intimate. When she'd tried to ask him about them, Heath had brushed off her questions with gentle kisses and murmurings of oh it was long ago nothing to concern yourself with et al.
On one level she knew that Heath was just trying to protect her from any more unpleasantness in life. The other side though was that his concern gave him the excuse for keeping his earlier life from her, which left her to be blindsided time and time again. By keeping that information from her, he could keep himself separate from her and their marriage.
It scared her, because she saw the parallel of her parents' marriage; her father took care of everything and her mother had gone along. The end result was her mother being left with nothing, after Wilton's dizzying fall and death. Sarah had sworn that she would never be a silent partner in a marriage, but it came to her with cold shock that her marriage to Heath was that same scenario.
He never shared anything personal, in an attempt to take care of her, but she wondered if there wasn't more to his reticence than a desire to shield her. If Heath didn't share his experiences with her, he wouldn't have to tell her the truth.
Her thought processes saddened her, as she regarded her husband, looking helpless. Sarah then remembered the scene with Priscilla and Nick in the waiting room. Heath wasn't going to die; the doctor had stated that he would be fine, but confined in his movements. A fissure of pleasure overtook her, as she realized that Heath wouldn't be able to go do all the mine inspections he'd planned on. Served him right, Sarah thought, for keeping the funeral of his – God knows who this Logan was – from her.
It came to her, amid her anger and hurt, that Heath would never give her the emotional intimacy that she craved. Sarah saw that no matter what she did – and she'd tried everything from anger, tears, silent treatment and catering to all his needs – Heath was never going to open up to her. The morning she'd spent with Adam Cohen, a man she'd just met the night before, had given her more honest communication than anything she'd received from Heath.
Sarah felt a quiver in her heart, as she realized that she needed to turn over a new leaf in regard to her marriage. Heath had made his feelings about their union – not spoken but his actions on this trip and before with Hester and Maria – were clear to her. Lightness came over her, as she realized that she didn't need to feel guilty about staying at the store, or traveling to San Francisco. No she wasn't home to cook dinner, but she didn't need to bother about that matter anymore, as Heath probably wouldn't make it home in time anyway.
The last bit of guilt, about the issue of not wanting a child and her means of preventing it, also lifted. Heath wanted a marriage, for the outward show of having a marriage; in reality he wanted the window dressing. Well fine, Sarah mused to herself, she could certainly give him that, while lining her pockets and having a discrete social life in San Francisco.
For the first time in a long while there was peace in her heart, as she came to terms with her life. It made it easy to sit by Heath's bedside, and later, when he woke up, she could nod pleasantly at whatever story he wanted to tell her about the cemetery.
Sarah wasn't the only one turning over a new leaf, but in Abner's case it was a physical transition rather than a mental one. He'd been hired to kill Heath Barkley, which was nothing more than a business deal for him. He'd been brought up in a world that only valued strength and will; if you weren't strong enough to survive the streets you were better off dead, that being the general mind set.
Abner had been at the top of his game until Heath; the man seemed to have charmed life. In addition to the train station, the park, and the cemetery, Abner had attempted two other times to kill Heath. Now, he was back at his meager lodging – a bare room its only feature a large window that caught the setting sun.
He took a deep breath and recalled the look of madness in the well-dressed man's eyes; the man who had hired him to kill Heath Barkley. The man had been ready to beat him with his ebony cane even before this last failure. Abner knew exactly who the man was, and what his status was in Denver society. His failure with the well-dressed gentleman would not go unnoted; it came to Abner that his time in Denver was done.
Luckily he'd saved most of the money he'd made, carefully trading the bills for gold coinage. Abner had hallowed out a space in the floorboard of his dwelling, where he stored the coins, being careful to always keep some paper money for quick spending. He now decided that it was time to move on, but wanted to be careful not to raise anyone's suspiciousness.
Abner carefully packed his stash of gold coins into a beaten up leather satchel – the type a dispatch messenger would carry – putting his small toiletry bag on top. That, along with one change of clothing was all he took. He had bought the bag second hand, liking how it could hold more inside than it let on from the outside. To outward appearances he looked like a mid-level clerk carrying business correspondence, which is what he wanted to portray. In truth he had enough money to buy whatever he needed at his final destination.
He went to Union Station and bought a second class to ticket to Cheyenne, with onward passage to Sheridan. Abner carefully muttered to the ticket agent about his boss demanding this last minute trip, to deliver cargo manifests. The ticket agent sympathized with Abner, who was dressed in modest business attire, and upgraded him to first class because he was clearly a hard worker.
In truth Abner wasn't going on to Sheridan, but knew that the ticket agent would provide a solid alibi for him if needed. He didn't put it past his employer – the well-dressed man – to follow him to gain his pound of satisfaction. Abner had heard about the Dakota Territory, and the town of Deadwood, for the last several months. It was a wide open area, where a man with Abner's skills would be well received and employed.
The stage to Deadwood left from Cheyenne twice a week, and Abner was sure that the stage line didn't keep records of passengers. The service was well-established; the only disruption had been during 1876 because of Custer and Sioux; Abner's understanding though was that the 9th and 12th Calvary had re-established control of the Black Hills. At the end of the day, as Abner boarded the north bound train he decided that he would rather take his chances with the Sioux, than the fanatical employer he was leaving behind. For the rest of his life, whenever he saw a pair of grey leather gloves, his heart would constrict to the point of almost not beating.