Deadwood is surprisingly good for one's health, at least in one particular case...and the fledgling community outside of town is certainly good for business.
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Bill sat on the back seat of the swaying buckboard, holding Laura steady as she sat by his side. He saw a few curious gazes from the townspeople crossing their path, but most took one look at Swearengen's glowering face, ducked their heads back down, and went about their business. If anyone wondered about what had gotten the saloon owner out and about, they kept it to themselves.
Seeing Laura sitting up a little straighter lightened Bill's heart. It seemed like some strength was already returning. He was almost ready to accept that it wasn't just euphoria at being off the ship…something really did seem to be changing.
"It feels like we've been away longer than a year, doesn't it? So much has changed." Laura turned her head this way and that, taking in the new brick buildings, the beginnings of a second row of houses on a new street that had been scrubland last year.
Al glanced around as well, as if seeing Deadwood with fresh eyes today. "Got the fuckin' fire to thank for that. Couple months after you left, whole fuckin' place burnt down to the ground. Good thing your husband suggested splitting up the blastin' powder, or Boot Hill would've needed one hell of an expansion."
Bill and Laura exchanged shocked looks. The town looked a little cleaner, maybe, than it had been, and quite a bit larger, but so much was unchanged. Even the Gem, now coming into view, looked the same, down to the sun-faded banner hanging from the balcony.
"The Gem looks the same as it used to," Bill observed.
"Yeah, I still had the original plans in my safe…along with my insurance policy. Hell, I was up and runnin' a week later. Lots of tired,thirsty workingmen in need of an evening's recreation."
With an audible sigh of relief, Al pulled the wagon up to the hitching post. Bill watched Dan Dority cross the street to take over the reins before the wagon had come to a full stop.
"Get the Adamas' bags and take 'em up to their room. I trust E.B. won't mind your assistance."
Dan reached in the back of the wagon and grabbed the packs. Bill couldn't help but notice the sudden sadness in his eyes as he saw Laura's condition.
"Good to see you back, Adama, Mrs. Adama." He cast a worried look at Al before heading into the hotel.
"Bill, I can walk on my own, I think," Laura said as Bill swung himself out of the seat and onto the muddy street.
"You're saving your strength, Mrs. Adama. There's two flights of stairs ahead, remember?" He held out his arms. She hesitantly braced herself against his shoulder as she let him take her into his arms.
"I feel ridiculous."
"Look at that…you two look like a couple of fuckin' newlyweds." Bill looked for the smirk he expected to find, but Swearengen looked almost admiring…maybe even a touch envious. He glanced past Laura's shoulder at the glass doors of the Bank of Deadwood and wondered if Al and the widow were still an item.
"You know, it really does feel good to be back. And I'm not just talking about my health." Laura smiled as Richardson opened the hotel doors wide.
She was warm and already feeling a little less brittle in his arms, although his rational mind told him it was probably too soon to see any real changes.
"Oh dear, Mr. Adama…I trust your wife isn't ill with anything contagious! If she's in need of extra quiet to convalesce from whatever's befallen her, I can arrange to have the adjacent rooms kept empty…for a not unreasonable fee, of course." The weaselly E.B. Farnum hadn't changed, either, Bill reflected.
"Of course, if there is a risk of contagion, and Doc Cochran advises closing the hotel down, we'd need to discuss adequate recompense, but I—"
"E.B." Al's voice had turned more gravelly that usual.
"Yes, Al?"
"Shut the fuck up and let these folks get settled in."
E.B. went back to polishing his hotelier's desk, grumbling under his breath.
Bill began carrying his…well, she did feel like his bride, in a way…up the stairs. Dan was ahead of them, swinging the door open as they reached the upper hallway. Laura's face lit up as they walked in and saw the furnishings that were still familiar after a year. The loveseat, the washstand with its flowered basin and pitcher…and the big brass bed, sparkling with reflected sunlight. The closest thing they'd ever had to a marriage bed.
He held that promising thought in his head as he laid her down gently in the center of the counterpane.
"Welcome back," she whispered.
He didn't have to ask what that meant. For however long they had, they were back where they'd been husband and wife. Even fraught with worry, it was a good feeling.
"You, too, Mrs. Adama. You, too."
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By the next day, Laura could walk, unassisted, to the privy.
After another three days, Mrs. Marchbanks swore she'd never seen such a fine appetite for her cooking from a woman the size of Mrs. Adama.
The day after that, she held down the first shot of Kentucky bourbon she'd had in a year.
By the end of the week, she had commandeered Trixie from a gracious Alma Ellsworth to help her go through furniture catalogues. Ink wells were drained as they wrote up furniture orders for the houses in the new settlement.
The blustering one-eyed drunk came into town after the first week, substantially more sober and subdued that he'd been in his first visits. He and the boisterous mannish-dressed blond woman squabbled and sniped at each other over drinks in the Gem, but managed to get along reasonably well as they combed through back issues of the Black Hills Pioneer, borrowing particular issues from a puzzled but accommodating A.W. Merrick. If the editor wondered why certain issues held more value than others, particularly if they held news of mining strikes and expansion in South America, Canada, and Australia, he kept his speculations between himself and Al.
Merrick had balked at the request of Mr. Adama to borrow his cherished atlas, though, until Al had raised an eyebrow at him and pulled a handful of bills from his pocket.
"Here's forty bucks, fuckin' Merrick. Buy two more and quit wringing your fuckin' hands over a fuckin' book. Jesus Christ…you'd think you wrote it yourself with a fuckin' quill pen."
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The Adamas had begun a ritual of taking an evening constitutional after the last meal of the day. Dodging miners, vendors and drunks, they walked from one end of Deadwood to the other, pausing at the less congested end to look up into the night sky.
Al was marking their progress out of habit from his balcony perch when he heard his office door open after a delicate tap. At some point over the past year—he couldn't quite pinpoint when—Alma had stopped waiting for him to answer before turning the knob. It was like she was certain she wouldn't find one of the girls sucking his prick.
The thought crossed his mind that he might need to have one of the whores service him at a likely hour, just to keep the Widow Ellsworth on her toes. Then he caught the combined scent of fresh-brewed tea and the lily-of-the-valley fragrance she wore, and the thought fled as quickly as it had come.
He watched through the doorway as she set the small tray down on his desk. Picking up two cups, she gracefully walked out onto the balcony.
"I thought I'd save Jewel the trouble and you the wait," she said, handing him his cup.
"You been doing that regular-like. This becomin' a habit?" He took the cup and turned back to the street scene before him.
Joining him at the rail, Alma looked down at the busy thoroughfare. "Do you mind if it has?"
He glanced at her as she sipped her tea. "I've seen you with worse habits. This one's all right with me, for what that's worth."
She followed his gaze to the Adamas. "She's looking very well, isn't she? I can hardly believe that's the same woman I saw arriving a few weeks ago."
"Still down by about fifteen pounds or so, looks like to me. Hair seems to have picked back up some shine, though, and her color's improved." He turned at the surprised, but still ladylike snort.
"What? I've been evaluatin' women's conditions and fitness since you were a babe in arms."
"Oh, yes, I'm well aware of that. I just wonder how Mr. Adama would like you grading his wife like she was in a cattle show."
"Adama's so fuckin'—so happy she's regainin' her health, I doubt he'd care about my observations, which, I'll thank you to keep in mind, were made with no ill or improper intent." He took a final sip of the tea, draining the cup.
"And speakin' of observations, have you ever seen two people more fascinated with the moon and stars? They do this every night, since she's been up and around."
"I think it's sweet. They do still act like newlyweds, don't they?"
"Such would be the evidence I see in the shadows against their window shade, yeah." His smirk flashed, then faded. "I can tell you this, Alma. I wouldn't have put any money on her recovery when I saw her that first day. Adama's still not been forthcoming with what was wrong with her, but I thought it was over save for the last vigil." He studied Alma's classic profile in the moonlight and was suddenly fiercely glad she'd stubbornly clung to health and life, even when it had inconvenienced his business interests that first year.
"I've wondered if perhaps it was lung disease, and the altitude is helping, but felt it rude to ask, and—oh, I didn't realize their doctor friend was in town as well." She nodded down towards the man with the shock of white hair who had just come out of the hotel.
"Yeah…Cottle. He's been meetin' with Doc Cochran of an evening. Doc says he's a strange bird…seems highly skilled in some areas, ignorant of the basics in others."
"My goodness, if Doctor Cochran is calling him 'strange'…." She shook her head.
"Makes you wonder how many graves Cottle robbed in his day," Al said, grinning. He took her cup from her and walked back in his office, nodding at her to close the door behind them.
"How's the furniture business goin'?"
"Fine, I think. Mr. Adama has made another substantial deposit into his account to cover their orders. Apparently he's acting as treasurer for his group. The homes in Falcon's Rest should be well-furnished and livable within another month."
He took a seat behind his oak desk and pulled out his ledger as Alma looked over his shoulder.
"They buyin' local or orderin' from back east?"
"Whenever they can purchase locally, they do. They seem to want the homes ready as quickly as possible."
The lily-of-the-valley scent drifted down to his nose, enriched by her skin scent underneath. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close until the side of her satin-clad breast was against his cheek. He sighed and closed his eyes.
"Startin' to see the appeal of this 'home' business myself."
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The summer lightning was particularly bad that year, personal journals would later record. Folk kept waiting for fire alarms to be sounded from the direction of Falcon's Rest. Luckily, the residents seemed to be an unusually fortunate lot. Although sheet lightning seemed to favor their little corner of Dakota Territory, and although they had their share of deadwood that ran as dry as tinder, they never seemed to suffer the expected wildfire.
Or maybe they had fires here and there and handled it themselves. Nice folks, the consensus of thought was, but tended to be on the clannish side, coming to town to buy what they needed, have a drink, a game or a woman from time to time, and generally minding their own business.
If anyone noticed that there seemed to be quite a wide variety of faces coming and going from the small settlement, they kept it to themselves. "Asking stupid questions of a personal nature" was still a common cause of death in Deadwood.
A.W. Merrick began a weekly run of his newspaper up to Falcon's Rest. Apparently every man, woman and child were avid readers of the Black Hills Pioneer, judging from the number of copies requested.
General Fields hired on an extra driver so that the new community could have reliable coach service between their part of the Black Hills and the nearest railroad depot.
And the nearest river.
And the nearest coach line.
His new hire tried to tell him the impossibility of so many different travelers coming out of one small settlement, but the General put a stop to that chatter. No good ever came from his folks openly questioning other folks' business. Especially if they gave the impression they might have something to hide. And the Adamas had never been anything but decent to him. At times he thought they might be running some kind of underground railroad, like was done in years past. Other times, he didn't think about it at all, other than the increase in business was mighty nice.
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The young man stood out from the crowd of passers-by more by virtue of being relatively dust-free and clean-shaven than any strangeness of dress or manner. What dust there was on his trousers and shirt was newly kicked up; the kind that would blow off in the next September breeze. Dirt hadn't been ground into his clothes and skin yet. The lack of stubble on his taut jaw line said he'd had access to a razor, mirror and hot water before walking in to town.
Which put him as being from Falcon's Rest. Only explanation for it, Al thought, as he drank his morning cup of coffee on the covered front porch.
"Hey! You there," he called, putting his cup on the railing and walking down the front stairs. He modified his usual glower as he glanced to either side out of habit. He still felt like he was breaking some kind of societal rule in dropping by the Ellsworth home for his morning coffee.
The man stopped in the thoroughfare, as if to make sure Al was talking to him, giving him a careful once-over before coming to the front walkway.
Al returned the look. Something about this guy seemed familiar….
"Haven't seen you around town before. Of course, I'm not as good at keepin' up with everybody's comin's and goin's as I used to be…you in town on business or pleasure?"
The young man raised an eyebrow, then gave Al a smile that made him look even younger. "I'm looking for Al Swearengen…and I think I just found him."
Black eyebrows drawn down, Al gave him another careful look under the glower. Didn't quite have the smell of a process server…and then he got a good look at the eyes. Dark blue, like the fuckin' Atlantic.
"You're kin to Bill Adama, I bet."
The man nodded. "I'm Lee Adama. He's my father."
"Is that a fact?" He turned and nodded gravely to the woman standing at the front door of the well-built two story house.
"Let's walk over to my place of business, son, hm? Don't want to overstay my welcome here." He clapped a broad hand on Lee's shoulder and steered him on down the thoroughfare, as Alma and Sofia, the latter laden down with school books, stepped out onto the porch steps and headed in the other direction.
"My father asked me to—"
"No business conducted in the street, if you're to have dealin's with me. 'Nice weather for this time of year', what's playin' at the local theater, where can a man find an honest game of chance, is the most I'd have you say out here amongst the hoopleheads and fuckin' unknowns."
If Lee noticed that the townspeople gave the two of them a wide berth, he didn't remark on it.
"So, how's your mother doin'? Haven't seen her in a while." He was just making conversation and the confused look that passed over young Adama's face gave him pause.
"The…she's not my mother. But she's fine." He tried to hide a smirk. "My father's wife is fine."
Bet there's a back story there.
"And your father?"
He looked away. "He's staying busy. They both are."
Al nodded. "Well, this is my joint." He watched Lee Adama take in the rough men at the open front doors, the half-dressed whores flirting off his balcony under Dan's watchful eye, and the banner declaring that this was "The Gem Saloon" hanging off the railing. He ushered him into the raucous interior.
"You bein' Adama's son, your first drink, faro game, and piece of pussy's on the house. Johnny over at the bar'll run you a tab. Drink's fifty cents, faro table starts at a dollar, regular fuck's five dollars, ass-fuck's seven."
He gave Lee Adama a broad grin. "Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood."
He pushed Lee back by reflex as yelling began further down the bar, followed by the meaty sound of punches being caught by flesh. A chair was kicked over, cards flying, as Johnny got the shotgun out from behind the counter. The press of people around the bar made it impossible to make out who the fighters were.
Al shook his head and walked Lee around the throng to the stairs going up to his office.
"Can be combative..."
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The young man settled in Al's guest chair, looking around curiously as if trying to match up his observations of Al's office with the descriptions his father would have given him. That the descriptions had been thorough was confirmed when young Adama tensed upon Al reaching towards his bottom drawer.
"Relax, Lee…you did say Lee, right? I keep more than cutlery down here." He pulled out his whiskey bottle and shot glasses. "Too early for you?" He raised a bushy eyebrow.
"Not at all." Lee took the glass and downed it like he had his share of experience. Al refilled and studied the man's face with a frown until he saw signs of bristling.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Swearengen?"
"Just odd, that's all. I'm assumin' you were born before the war, so that's your parents' excuse, but I confess to some puzzlement that you'd go about with the moniker of "Lee", your old man havin' the appearance of having fought on the Union side. You generally in the habit of pokin' your father with a sharp stick?"
An interesting, angry flush rose up from Lee Adama's collar. Looks like that struck a nerve.
"It's short for Leland, not a reference to"—it seemed to take more effort than Al expected for him to recall the right name—"General Robert E. Lee."
"And yet…." He shrugged. "Not tellin' you what to do, Lee, but you might want to think twice about givin' out that name. Still have a few old-timers whose wounds have not yet healed. You got any other name you could go by?"
Lee looked down at his chest like he expected something to be there, then met Al's eyes again.
"I've gone by 'Apollo' for the past several years."
Al raked his gaze over the even, classical features. "Well, you're pretty enough for it, I suppose, if you like that kind of look." He poured another shot. "Might want to stick with 'Leland' for the time bein', just to be on the safe side. Not sure if bein' considered queer or a follower of General Lee would more problematic, but—"
He broke off as a shot rang out from the barroom downstairs. He cocked his head. No screams or return fire. Probably Dan trying to get someone's attention, he decided.
"So, Leland, your business with me?"
"Uh…my father's going to need to be away from Falcon's Rest some, and there's quite a bit of business that has to be conducted every day. He wanted to know if you could recommend a lawyer in town that could draw up incorporation papers, deeds…and wills. That sort of thing."
All rubbed his chin. Adama was thinking ahead, true enough. He was surprised the usually well-prepared Bill Adama didn't already have a will drawn up…surprised his wife hadn't insisted on that, unless she'd been too sick. He shrugged again. For all he knew, both might have wills that would only be under color of law if they went back to where they came from.
Wherever and whatever the fuck that might be, that had more than half-killed Mrs. Adama.
"You realize that a 'trustworthy lawyer' is right up there with 'virtuous whore' for bein' rare as a fuckin' unicorn."
The young man gave that ill-concealed smirk again. "Yes, sir…my grandfather was a lawyer, so I'm well aware of the stereotype."
Bill Adama was the son of a shyster? Day was gettin' odder by the minute.
"See, to my way of thinkin', you get a trustworthy cocksucker, known to you and yours, and let him read law until he can slither up the state bar and pass the exam. Of course, I know your father and his folk frequently like to find their own ways to accomplish their ends."
"Read law?" The young man seemed to perk up at that. "I…actually have done something like that." His face darkened and Al thought there might be some unpleasant memories in that particular mix.
"Well, there you have it…Leland. Assumin' your old man finds you trustworthy enough for the task, the simplest, if not the swiftest course of action would be for you to set yourself up with your own shingle."
"I suppose that'd be my father's call." His tone was stiff as his neck.
Oh, so that's how it is.
"Well, that's my recommendation, and not entirely on account of we don't have a livin' lawyer in town at the moment. Might be a couple up to Belle Fouche, at a half-day's ride. Couldn't speak for what you might find in Lead…and wouldn't suggest you go diggin' around in fuckin' Hearst's back yard anyways."
The young man—Al supposed he could call him "Lee" in his head, not having any more animosity against the rebel general that any other figure of authority—did have a lawyerly look about him. The notion of him in a frock coat and tie, twisting oily words in front of a judge and jury, seemed more believable than him trying to be like his old man, whatever that might look like.
"So if this seems like a workable plan to my father, where can I buy law books around here?"
Al looked at the newish rug on his office floor. He should start buying a few at a time, or think about retiring and letting such things be someone else's problem.
"The last shyster come through here ended up leaving his collection of law books behind when he…left town." Ended up leavin' a few pints of blood behind on my rug as well. Al hated that…Alma had helped him pick out a new rug after the fire and he'd quite liked it. Shame an educated man couldn't lose at cards gracefully without accusing the house of cheating and threatening to bring in the Pinkertons.
Heavy bootsteps sounded outside the door.
"Think I hear Dan now, young Adama. I can have him fetch those books from storage if you like."
His hollered "Yeah" coincided with Dan shoving the door open with his foot, his hands occupied with restraining the Gem's newest faro dealer, whose short blond hair was flying as wildly as her curses.
"Boss, you want me to take her over to the jail, let her cool off?"
To Al's surprise, his new dealer quieted as soon as she saw Lee Adama. Good to know something had the power to shut her up for a minute or two. If she hadn't shown such a good way with manipulating a deck of cards…
"Lee?"
The young man was on his feet, his expression somewhere between shock and delight.
"Kara?"
Al and Dan shot each other slightly bemused looks as the two younger members of Tribe Adama spoke at the same time.
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought you were back on—" Kara started.
"I thought you had gone to—" Lee interrupted.
The bemused looks turned into the closest thing to shock either man had felt in over a year, as Kara Thrace shoved herself out of Dan's grip and walked into Lee Adama's open arms.
The two hugged each other tight, his new faro dealer looking happier than he'd seen her since she first came to town. Al uttered a quiet "Jesus Christ" under his breath, rolling his eyes at Dan. Pulling out another two shot glasses, he poured all four of them a round. Whatever was going on, it looked like it called for a drink.
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