Dear guests and other reviewers I cannot reach via pm: Thank you so very much for your kind input! Your encouragement, praise, and tea and biscuits means a lot to me. Must admit I'd almost forgotten how wonderful it is to post a WIP and get all that lovely feedback.
And now on with the final installment of this story. Enjoy!
VI.
The world returns to him in the shape of too bright light, too stuffy air, and a splitting headache. As he tries to move there's more pain: his arms and legs are sore, and his back dully hurts from shoulder to hip, with the bonus of a particularly sharp sting somewhere in the area of his right shoulder. The all-over fatigue doesn't surprise him in the least, for he must have spent days being hunted through a sea of yellow silk by a gigantic black cat. He vaguely remembers being trapped and suffocated by the billowing fabric, and jumped at by the beast.
He groans. Laudanum. Will they ever learn that it does him more bad with the dreams it induces than good with the little pain relief it brings?
He groans again. It is satisfying to groan, to voice his displeasure to the world at large, even though it also hurts his parched throat and makes him even more conscious of the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He tries to get his left arm under his back to try and push himself up. In his experience there's always water on the nightstand, so there might be some now, and if he can get up and—
Well, he can't. Though it's not his own weakness but two heavy hands on his chest that keep him flat on the bed.
"Careful here, Adam," Hoss's voice says. "You've got a fine hole in that shoulder of yours, and the doctor spent a lotta time stitching. You don't want to ruin all his work, do ya?"
He groans again. Lord, that hurts. "Water," he manages to croak.
A hand sneaks around his shoulders, carefully avoiding the spot that hurts most, gently lifts him up, and then there's a glass at his mouth. Cool water. He drinks, a few tiny little sips—he doesn't need to be told not to wolf it down. He's had his share of unpleasant reencounters with too hastily drunk water when sick.
"Thanks," he mumbles as Hoss lowers him back. "How long…?"
"You've been out for two whole days."
Two days prone in bed. No wonder he's so sore.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, thanks. Well, a new head, perhaps."
"There ain't no spare mule heads around here, Adam. I reckon you'll hafta settle for the old one."
"Figures." Adam laughs softly, but his chuckles soon turn into coughs that shake his shoulder and pull at his stitches; they hurt, and when the coughs finally subside he's wheezing and tears have collected in the corners of his eyes.
Hoss grimaces. "Ah, shucks. Sorry, Adam."
"s' not your fault. Should have known better than to make bad jokes."
"Naw, I didn't…" Hoss looks down at his hands for a moment, shifts his shoulders a few times, then looks back up at Adam. "I'm sorry for letting you down."
"You didn't let me down." Adam frowns.
"You got shot. I was supposed to watch your back, and you got shot."
"Not your fault, either. Was my own brilliant idea to play the bait."
"But I coulda caught him before he shot. I saw him, Adam. I saw him, but…"
And then Hoss tells the sad tale of how he followed Carole and Adam, crouched low, sneaking through front gardens, until he saw something glinting in the bush at the other side of a bed of lupines. He pulled his revolver, made to dash through the flowers—and was almost startled to death by being held back by a strong hand, which belonged to none other than Sheriff Coffee. The short moment between "Now what do you think you're doing here, young man?" and "Roy, there's no time…" already was too long; and the next thing Hoss heard was a shot. He and Roy bolted through the lupines, captured the shooter before he could flee; then Hoss left Roy to handle the legal stuff and broke through the bushes to get to Adam. He found his brother face down on the street, senseless and streaming with blood, with a hysterically screaming Carole at his side.
"I'm sorry I wasn't quicker."
"Don't be, it wasn't your fault. Just bad luck, is all." Adam reaches out to pat Hoss's knee, it's all he can reach without shifting. "It was Horace Miller, right?" he says then.
Hoss nods. "He's crazy. Screeched like a madman when Roy collared him. 'Bout his wife, and Carole; and that you're Satan himself, tempting her with showing her the theatre. And then the whole bunkum about Will Kettler again. Mostly went on 'bout his wife, though."
"His wife?"
"Yeah, turns out she was an actress before he knew her but didn't tell him. He found out when she got sick after Carole was born. First doctor he called didn't want to treat someone of her kind. And before the next one came, she was dead."
It's even madder than Adam thought. "But that's no reason to…"
"There's no reason to it, Adam. I tell you, he's crazy."
Over the next half hour Hoss reveals the complete extent of Horace Miller's madness. Apparently Miller regretted agreeing to let Joe take Carole to the theatre—for he was afraid that being exposed to the "den of iniquity" might corrupt her—but didn't want to withdraw his permission because he feared that Adam was right saying it would drive her into Will Kettler's arms. The idea of his daughter befriending a "disreputable vagrant" was more than he could bear. In the end he saw no other way than to follow Joe and Carole and shoot Joe. He didn't attempt to murder Joe, just hurt him, thus keeping them from going to the theatre.
That he encountered Will Kettler, who was spying on the couple, he considered lucky coincidence, for it provided him with the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. He sneaked upon the young man, knocked him out, and after he shot Joe, placed the gun in the unconscious man's hand, and called for the sheriff.
In some mad way it all makes sense. It's interesting how reasonable the train of thoughts can go even though the start of it has nothing to do with reason.
There's only one thing…
"I wonder why he stole the gun," Adam says as Hoss has ended his tale. "He could have used his own, right? I mean, he didn't know Will would be there when he stole it."
Hoss snorts. "Adam, you keep forgetting he is crazy. He says he didn't want to soil his own gun with an evil deed."
Adam frowns. "Evil deed?"
"Evil deed, that's what he called it."
A brief moment of clarity perhaps. Might be Horace Miller's last moment of clarity for a long time, if Adam interprets things right.
The man almost pities him—if not for…
"And Carole, how's she?"
"Well, I guess she's all right now. She's been mighty upset first, blamed herself for you getting shot, didn't want to leave your side—until Joe properly woke, of course." Hoss grins. "Has been sitting with him ever since, apologizing for her pa and making a fuss over Little Brother."
"And Joe? I bet he's enjoying every second of it."
"Yep. Keeps telling her he's all right, and that she should stop fussing. But he's having the time of his life."
"He's better, right?"
"Much," says a new voice. Then Pa comes into Adam's line of vision, and Hoss skids a bit so Pa can place another chair next to Hoss's.
"Joe's much improved, and indeed enjoys Carole's company." Pa smiles. "I'm glad to see you awake and better as well. For a time we feared…"
"I'm sorry, Pa."
"No, I'm sorry. I have to apologize, Adam. I should have trusted your judgement."
"Well, I had no proof…"
"No, that's not the point. You were right in saying that time weren't a criterion for trust. I was wrong in that regard."
"It's almost worth all this," Adam makes a sweeping gesture that includes his whole body, "to hear you admit you were wrong."
Pa shakes his head. "No, nothing is worth all that. You took an awful risk."
"I did, yeah. But Pa, you surely don't think Will Kettler's life wasn't worth it, right?"
Pa studies him for a while, then he says slowly, "To be honest, Adam, if I had to choose between Will Kettler's and your life, I'd pick yours—even if that meant justice would not be served."
Adam gazes at his father through squinted eyes. He strokes his chin, tugs at his bottom lip. Eventually he says, "But I wouldn't…"
"Yes," Pa nods. "Yes. I know."
Adam can't keep his eyes open after that, sleep pulls at him, clouds his senses and beckons him with images of pleasant dreams—it is just too alluring to give in, and so he does. The last thing that makes it through his foggy mind before he slips away is Pa's voice whispering, "Sleep well, boy," and for once being called thus doesn't irk him in the least.
*** fin ***