He woke in the morning to find an old black man standing by the side of his bed, holding a tray and studying him intently. His head was woozy and his mouth tasted like an old rag left too long in some corner, but the pain in his side had eased.
"I expect you would dearly love some of this water," the man said, giving him a kind smile. He deftly placed the tray on a table near the head of the bed, beyond Heath's line of sight, returned with a spare pillow and helped lift him up by slipping the second pillow behind his head. The movement woke the demon in his stomach and ribs and it was all he could do not to cry out.
"I've got a little more of that medicine, to help the pain." He looked at the proffered spoon of bitter relief with yearning, but he shook his head no. He could take that medicine once but knew he couldn't do it again without paying a heavy price.
"I'm good, thanks. I thank you for the water though." He was amazed at how weak his voice sounded. He felt like cursing and took a moment to calm himself. Nothing to be angry at here; he'd known what was going to happen when he went out in the street for that little sister of his. No one to blame here no reason for anger, just one of those things happens when a man's got a sister. He smiled a little on the sister notion and thought maybe all sisters didn't go riding to town on a Saturday night.
" I'm Silas." The old black man said smiling at him kindly, his eyes almost twinkling with good humor and kindness. "Now I expect you could use a little help, doing what a man needs to do in the morning?"
He looked at him his head bent a little at the shame of needing help with this thing a child should be able to do for himself. "Not my first time in a sick room, child. You just let me help and we'll be done in a minute."
The old man was as good as his word. Helping him turn on his side in the bed so gently, minding the wound, and so matter of fact in his help with the fancy porcelain chamber pot, that after a moment he was able to ignore his embarrassment and get done what needed doing. He knew the old man felt the ridges on his back when he eased him back on to the pillows, fussing with the blanket. But he said nothing and no change in the kind expression on his face indicated any repulsion. He figured that old man had probably seen his share of these kinds of scars and had no doubt where they came from.
"Now I've got some sleeping clothes here we could try to get you into if you want? Miz Barkley said you might want these. I'm thinking if we wash you up a bit and get you into some clothes, you'll be a lot happier here?"
"I'd be a lot happier somewhere else," he said, looking toward the window where the sun was shining brightly. He should be out digging an irrigation ditch, not lying here in this fancy room. Now that he was awake, he looked around with some amazement. He had never see the like of this room. It was huge; near as big as the house he'd lived in with his mother. He could see fancy, heavy drapes on the window hanging clear to the floor. There was a big fireplace with a fancy mantle all carved, with a big picture on the wall of some mountains with a red sunset.
The bed he was lying in was purely fine. He thought he must be lying on a feather bed. He'd seen them in some of the fancy houses they'd burned in Tennessee and Mississippi, fancy ticking full of feathers. Course, by the time he'd seen them, they'd been half empty, feathers all over. But that's what Luke had told him they were, beds for sleeping on. Even the ceiling over his head was painted a pale blue color. He'd never seen a painted ceiling before, sure was a fine thing, like having the sky inside.
The old man just stood there, waiting while he gazed around the room in wonder. He supposed the old man was used to people coming in this house and gaping like farmers their first time to town.
"Mr. Heath, don't think you're going anywhere, at least 'til you can stand up." The old man's kind expression took all of the sting out of his words and he was forced to return his smile.
"Reckon you're right."
"But you're gonna be a lot happier here after I get you clean and dressed. The Lord does love us clean and I suspect you'd like to be dressed."
It took almost twenty minutes for the old man to gently wash him with a rag, dry him and help him into the soft cotton clothes. Even doing almost nothing to help, he was exhausted by the end of the twenty minutes, his vision edged with black as he fought to not fall down that deep well that beckoned him with no pain and no dreams.
"Now I got a little food for you."
The old man brought a glass from the table he couldn't see at the head of the bed and placed it in his hand. Silas held on to his hand until he was sure he had a good hold of the glass and could manage it on his own. "You need to drink, to make up the blood you lost. Here now, you drink this, nothing finer in all this country."
He took a tentative swallow of the liquid. He had never drunk anything like that before in his life. He'd eaten oranges, but he never thought anyone could have so many they could make juice with them. So many they could keep them over the winter and make juice with them in May. It was sweet and tart at the same time, the bits of the pulp giving it substance. The pure delight of it surprised him, and even with the white-hot poker of pain in his middle, he smiled. "Believe you're right. That was very fine."
"Now here's some scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. Doctor says light food, so you start here. We'll see how this goes and if it stays where you put it." The man placed a tray in his lap and stood back, waiting for him to eat. He felt uncomfortable, that man just watching him eat. But sore as his stomach was, he hadn't eaten anything all the previous day and he was hungry and he knew part of his weakness was the hunger. The food was a wonder. The eggs were light and fluffy, seasoned with a bit of pork sausage and peppers, the toast fresh bread with honey.
On his birthday, his mama always tried to make him a special breakfast before he went to work. There was always a treat for his birthday breakfast. Sometimes an egg boiled soft and runny, other times a little honey for his porridge or a bit of jelly. He knew special breakfasts, but he had never had one like this. He wished his mama could have tasted those eggs with that sausage mixed in there, just the little bit to flavor them. He knew there had been more then one egg scrambled in there. He thought there might have been three eggs. There was more then he could eat, even hungry as he was.
"You could save this, Mr. Silas, I would surely like to finish it later," he asked, hating to think of that fine food wasted.
"Just Silas, and don't worry. I'll bring you some more in a bit. You rest now."
The old man lifted his shoulders from the extra pillow and removed it so he lay flat again. "I'll be back, by and by. See if you need anything."
Heath made one more play for the eggs. "You could leave those?" He surely hated to thing of those eggs going, him too sick and sore to do them justice.
"There's more, don't you worry on it." The old man gently patted his shoulder. "I got things to do but I'll be back."
The old man left, taking the eggs and tray and then he returned a moment later for the dirty wash water and the chamber pot. "I'll put this little bell here by your hand, here on this table. You need something, you ring it."
He nodded his understanding, although he vowed he would throw himself out the window before he would summon that kind old man with a bell. The door closed and he shut his eyes and tried to think what he was to do. He knew he had a fever, he could tell from the way he ached all over and how dry and hot he was this early in the day. He put his hand down on the hole in his side. He could feel the heat around the wound. The doctor was sure enough right; he had him an infection in that hole.
He tried to think what to do, how to get away from here before he was any more into these people's lives. He thought he if he could rest up the remainder of the day, he could maybe get away tomorrow. He just needed to get enough stronger to get ahead of the infection and he could ride back up into the mountains and heal up again. He'd come down too soon. If it hadn't been the fight in town, would have been a fight with Barrett or Nick. Someone was bound to hit that hole. He'd been so hot to see this family, he'd been to quick. He knew better. He knew not to put himself in the way of things, if he couldn't cover his own back.
He'd been foolish and now he was paying the price and dragging the Barkleys into his payment. He would sleep and heal today and leave tomorrow in the morning, before any of these people were even awake. He tasted those eggs again on his tongue. Maybe Silas would bring back the rest of those eggs later for his lunch, was his last thought before he slept.