~~Chapter 4

I've done my share of informing people that their loved one is dead. No lawman worth a damn ever gets used to it. With his brother gone, James was a Negro boy without family, without protection, easy prey for animals that were worse than wolves.

I opened my mouth to tell him that his brother was dead but what came out was another long bout of wrenching coughs that nearly brought me to my knees. I could taste blood and the infection that filled my lungs. I leaned heavily on James, breathing through my mouth in ragged gasps. The boy murmured something in French as he wiped my nose and chin with a warm, damp cloth. I don't speak French but my mind translated whatever he said into an endearment. I pondered that while he peeled off my undergarments then led me to a cut-down barrel the size of a large bucket in front of the fireplace.

"I can –," I began.

"We have to do this standing up, Marshal. I wouldn't be able to get you out of a proper bath tub."

"But - ."

"Stop protesting, Mr. Dillon. You can hardly see straight. It will go quicker if I do it," he said, manhandling me into the barrel.

I stood with my head down while James dipped a small pitcher into another bucket then poured the warm water over me. Once again, the boy was right. The water felt good and I my chest loosened minutely from the steam. I braced my hands on the mantle and let him scrub my body with a rough sponge and wood-scented soap. He cleaned the crusted blood from my leg and remarked about my other scars, suggesting that perhaps my fool-headed stubbornness was a result of the amount of lead that had been shot into my body over the years. I found his scolding chatter to be soothing, much in the way that I felt when I heard the same from Doc. I was too tired to be embarrassed when he got to my privates. He moved them around gently, using the back of his hand the way Doc did, washing them thoroughly. I stood obediently while he dressed me in a linen nightshirt that was about a foot too short.

I was trembling with fatigue when he finally allowed me to sit in a large rocking chair by the fire. He wrapped a quilt around my shoulders. I immediately began to nod off.

"Stay awake, Marshal," said James. "It is better to be up upright when you cough."

I watched him with half-closed eyes as he dragged a side table to my chair and went about his tasks. He moved with grace and economy, his hands sure, quick and steady. He would make a good doctor someday. Or a good gunman.

He set a small bowl of broth and another cup of the bitter tea before me. I held the bowl in my trembling hands and took a sip. The broth was hot and salty and thick with fat. It was delicious and I was starving but I barely had the strength to swallow. James stood beside me and alternated between hard thumps and gentle stroking on my back as I doubled over with coughing between sips. When I finished about half of the broth, he made me take a few swallows of the tea.

I leaned back in the chair with my eyes closed, gathering the strength to tell the boy that his brother was dead.

"It's time I let you sleep," said James.

He helped me into one of the other rooms and tucked me into a narrow bed, covering me in a feather-stuffed quilt that was five inches thick and felt like it weighed twenty pounds. James bent over me and pulled the quilt to my chin, his face close to mine. I could've told him then that his brother was dead but fatigue turned me a coward. I stared into his eyes.

"Granite and fool's gold," I murmured.

He smiled indulgently – the way a physician would with a delirious patient.

I didn't even try to stay awake. I was asleep before James left the room.

Pressure in my bladder woke me some time later. It was dark. My throat was painful again. I heard voices and warm laughter. I swallowed, frowning. I heard James laugh again. Maybe his brother was home and Lucien Lémieux was just some poor drifter who died alone. I was glad that I hadn't told James that his brother was dead. I struggled out of the bed and shuffled to the bedroom door. I held myself up with a shoulder against the doorframe.

The main room was lit by the fire and one lamp. Mortimer lay on his side with his back to me. He acknowledged my presence with a twitch of his ear, apparently deciding that I wasn't worth more of his attention. A sound drew my attention to the fireplace.

My eyes traveled from the dog to the cut-down barrel, up a pair of long, slender legs, over the curve of a buttock, the fullness of a breast and the strong column of a neck. Soapy water slicked smooth, dark skin.

"James?" I croaked.

James whipped his head around. "Mr. Dillon! You startled me," he said. He snatched a sheet off a chair and clutched it to his chest. Water soaked through and clung to his flat belly and full breasts.

Her full breasts.

"Did you need something, Marshal? You've only slept for three hours."

"I uh…I have to-." I stood there, ogling her breasts. "I have to -," I said. "I mean - ."

"There is a pot in your room." James stepped out of the barrel. "Would you like me to help you?"

"I – Am I- ? Are you -?"

"I'll help," she said.

"I can manage."

"That is your favorite thing to say, "I can manage".

James came over and wrapped a damp arm around my waist. I looked down at her.

"You're a girl."

James gave an exasperated sigh. "Stop being so provincial, Marshal. It is wasted on me. All I read these days is medical books. I am familiar with male anatomy. And, I've already seen yours – up close. Besides, you are falling off your feet. Now come along. I'll hold it for you."

"Uh – ."

"The pot, Marshall. I'll hold the pot."

"I know what you meant," I snapped.

James held the pot in one hand and waited. When I fumbled a bit, she captured my wrist in her other hand to steady my aim. I made the mistake of looking down – right into the deep cleft between her breasts. In spite of my fever, I felt my shaft thicken. My stream faltered and my face burned. James gave no indication that she noticed, distracting me with threats to exile me to the barn for being such a difficult patient. She eased me onto the edge of the bed, brought me more tea and pounded my back while I coughed.

I lay back on the pillows and drifted on the drugged tea. When James came back, she was dressed in the baggy pants and oversized jumper again. She smeared a pungent salve on my chest and neck, laid a clean cloth over it and pulled the heavy quilt up to my chin.

She pressed her wrist to my forehead before retrieving the pot and going out.

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