CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Despite Michaela saving most people from the influenza epidemic, Hank still didn't fancy entrusting himself to her should anything happen to him, but when he found himself with no choice he subsequently revised his opinion of her somewhat.

A rough customer started causing trouble in the saloon, grabbing Myra and bruising her arm. He had had too much whiskey and decided he wanted her company without paying Hank for it first. Hank vaulted over the bar at once and punched the man who somehow managed to stay on his feet, shoved Myra to the floor and then pulled out a knife. The tussle concluded with the knife sticking Hank in the arm and the customer making a run for it when several other men stood up and stepped towards him.

"Y'alright?" Hank looked down at Myra where she still crouched on the floor and grasped her hand to pull her to her feet.

"I'm fine, but you ain't." She looked at the sleeve of his white shirt, which was torn and soaked in blood just below the elbow.

"It's nothin'." Still pumped with adrenaline, Hank didn't yet feel any pain and he rolled up the sleeve to inspect the damage. The wound wasn't nothing, but a two inch laceration which now dripped freely onto the floor. "Hell," he hissed through his teeth. "Where's Jake?"

Myra indicated the barber, slumped over a table in the corner with an empty bottle in front of him.

"I only gave him that an hour ago!" Hank exclaimed.

"Ya know what he's like; he's on one of his binges," said Myra. "Ya'll have to go and see Dr Mike."

"The hell I will, I ain't havin' a woman sew me up."

"Well, ya can wait till Jake sobers up, but ya might bleed to death in the process," Myra told him drily. "Dr Mike's real good; look how many people she saved from the grip. Half the town might've died without her, includin' Jake."

Hank sighed heavily. It was a nasty cut and it seemed there was no other option. Myra found a clean rag and tied it around his arm to stem the bleeding while he got on his horse and rode over to Sully's old homestead. The wound was really beginning to throb now and the soaked rag was leaking.

He jumped to the ground in front of the building and knocked loudly on the door, then after a few seconds went to the window and rapped on this hard, making the glass pane rattle in its frame.

"Doc!" he shouted. A moment later the door opened to reveal Michaela, wearing an apron over her dress.

"What happened to you?" she asked, reaching out to touch his injured arm. He flinched involuntarily.

"Some guy cut me." He cleared his throat, hating to ask her to help when he'd made it so obvious what he thought of her. "How much to sew me up?"

"I thought you'd prefer the expertise of Mr Slicker in these matters," Michaela said, eyebrows raised.

"Jake's drunk; now, can ya talk later when I'm not bleedin' to death?" Hank said, exasperated by the tone of her voice, which was a little condescending.

"Dollar a stitch," she said now.

"Well, that's robbery!" exclaimed Hank. Hadn't he told Myra she would cost money? He just hadn't realised how much. How Myra had paid for her treatment he had no idea. He certainly hadn't footed the bill himself, although he supposed he would have if he'd been asked.

"Then I invite you to take your business elsewhere," responded Michaela and began to push the door closed. Hank thrust his good arm out at once and held it open.

"Could ya do it already?" he said with a sigh. Dollar a stitch. He just hoped it would only take a couple of them.

Michaela told him to wait in the homestead while she fetched water and he sat down at the table, grimacing at the pain in his arm. She returned quickly and began laying out a clean towel, bandages, scissors, thread and so on. Who'd have thought sewing up a cut would have to be so complicated? Jake used a large needle and a length of black tailors' thread. No wonder she charged so much if she had to use so many different things.

Michaela carefully untied the rag from Hank's arm and it immediately began to bleed freely again. She covered it with a cloth and applied pressure to stop the flow.

"This is a nasty cut, Hank," she commented. "You say someone did this on purpose?"

"Guess he didn't like me punchin' him," said Hank with a slight grin.

Michaela frowned disapprovingly and swabbed his wound none too gently with a different cloth soaked in fluid. It stung like hell and almost made his eyes water.

"The fella was hurtin' Myra," he said through gritted teeth. "What's that stuff yer usin'?"

"Antiseptic. The knife which cut you may well have been unclean; you don't want to develop an infection. How is Myra?"

"Fine. He didn't have chance to do nothin'."

Michaela nodded and removed the pad again, inspecting the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but she replaced the cloth again and prepared a needle and thread; the tiniest needle Hank had ever seen in his life; in fact he could barely see it at all. He watched, fascination overshadowing the pain, as she began to stitch up the cut, the tiny needle slipping through his flesh with the minimum of effort. The stitches were so small they were barely noticeable, the most worrying thing about the procedure being that she put in eight of them, which of course meant eight dollars. Jake would have done maybe three or four large ones and charged two bits.

"There, this should heal nicely. You'll need to make sure it stays clean and change the bandage every day. I'll take the stitches out in a week or so," Michaela said. "There should be virtually no scar in a few weeks."

"Ya gonna charge me a dollar a stitch for takin' 'em out too?" Hank asked, grinning now.

"No, I think eight dollars in total will cover everything."

She finished up by cleaning the section of his arm around the wound for the second time and wrapping it in a thick white bandage. Then she handed over a second rolled up bandage to take as a spare and suggested he ask Myra to change it for him. Hank pulled some money out of his pocket and gave her the eight dollars.

"Thanks," he said, getting to his feet. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was impressed. It was only a simple sewing up job, but she'd made it seem like an important operation which she'd carried out with efficiency and great care. He guessed he'd rather have her fix him than Jake in the future. At least there appeared to be less chance of ending up with gangrene or something.

"You're welcome," she said now, showing him to the door. "Remember to keep that clean."

"Sure." He pulled open the door and almost knocked down an older woman, the doctor's mother who was visiting. Her face took on an expression of horror as she looked at him and it wasn't until he arrived back in the saloon and caught sight of himself in the mirror when he went to change his shirt, that he realised his face was streaked with blood in addition to that soaking his sleeve.

The next day, Hank was less than pleased when Horace Bing marched determinedly into the saloon again, only this time he had money. He slapped a five dollar gold piece down onto the bar and invited Hank to count it. Hank smirked and pointed him in the direction of Myra's room. The girls weren't out circulating the bar yet and he guessed it wouldn't hurt. Maybe if Horace used his five dollars wisely and got her out of his system, he would stop hanging around like a bad smell.

Considering Horace was most likely completely inexperienced, he was in Myra's room an awful long time. Hank kept on glancing at the clock, wondering what was taking so long. Horace must be trying to get plenty of practise in before his time was up. Hank left it half an hour and then went and banged on the door.

"Hey! Time's up! Ya want any longer, it's another five bucks!"

Horace emerged red-faced in an instant, not appearing in the least rumpled. Myra was sitting on the bed, all neat and prim-looking with everything fastened up, for all the world as if they'd been doing nothing except passing the time of day. Hank strolled back to the bar, scratching his head in puzzlement. Had Horace really paid him five dollars just to talk to her? It sure seemed that way.

Michaela's mother left for Boston a few days later and right after that Michaela took over the boarding house properly and turned it into a medical clinic. Apparently her mother had helped out, since Jebediah Bancroft, the banker in charge of the sale of the building, had refused the doctor a mortgage. Having the clinic in town made everything much easier for all concerned and Hank called in the following week to have his stitches removed.

Surprisingly, Horace returned for another 'talk' with Myra, apparently having found some hidden savings somewhere. Hank was certain there was more to it although Myra swore blind that Horace 'wasn't like that'. Hank hated the way she took up for him and when he asked what was going on, she said it was nothing. He thought about it and fumed, sure she was lying. Myra never lied as far as he knew and it made him feel sick and anxious, resulting in his temper increasing until it simmered just below the surface, waiting for an excuse to explode.

A week later, with the saloon full of drinkers along with a 'Doc Eli' and his pet Indian who were travelling around in a wagon with their so-called medicine show, one of Myra's customers emerged from her room half-dressed and complaining he wasn't getting his money's worth because Myra was sick.

"What's all this crap?" he hissed at Myra then.

"I ain't feelin' right," she said, clutching her stomach.

"Yer gonna be feelin' a lot worse if ya don't get back in there," Hank threatened, unable to control himself after the last few days of suspicion. Then much to his annoyance, Doc Eli butted in. He would have sent the man away with a flea in his ear, except for the fact that he offered free medicine to Myra, guaranteed to cure all female complaints, he said.

"I wanna see Dr Mike," protested Myra unhappily.

"She costs money." Hank pressed the bottle of medicine on her and sent her back to the irritable customer, hoping that would be the end of it. He doubted she was even sick. Since Horace came on the scene, she seemed to sulk all the time except when he came over for one of his 'chats'.

A couple of days later, he found out exactly what had been going on. Michaela had been over to see Myra after all and later on, Myra asked Hank to go to her room so she could speak to him.

"What's this about?" he grumbled, following her. "Ya gonna tell me what's been goin' on?"

"Yes. I'll tell ya," she said in a small voice, ushering him into the bedroom and closing the door after them.

"Hey, what the hell is this?" he demanded. Michaela and Horace were waiting in the room and Hank felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand up. If she really was sick he could understand Michaela being there, but how did Horace fit into it? Hank ground his teeth together and waited for one of them to speak. Myra scurried across the room and stood beside Michaela.

"I'm pregnant," she blurted out.

"What?" exclaimed Horace.

"How the hell did that happen?" demanded Hank.

"You know..." Myra said in a small voice.

"I know how it happened!" cried Hank. "I wanna know why! You've been in this business long enough to know better, Myra." He was reeling. How could she be pregnant? She was always careful. Always. Even with him.

"I'm sorry," whimpered Myra.

"It's not her fault," Horace put in quietly.

"Keep out of this!" Hank spun around, jabbing the other man in the chest. Tears began to roll down Myra's cheeks and Michaela put a comforting arm around her.

"I won't!" Horace exclaimed. "You made her cry!"

"I didn't make her do nothin'!" Hank growled.

He clenched his fists, waiting for Horace to open his mouth once more so he could hit him. What did it have to do with him anyhow? Michaela wrapped her arms tighter around the weeping Myra as she cowered against the wall. Hank looked at her again, his mind a turmoil - fury combined with shock and hurt. Myra - his Myra - was pregnant?

"D'ya even know who it was?" he roared at her.

"Me. It was me!" exclaimed Horace with a touch of defiance in his voice.

"Horace!" gasped the two women, both looking equally shocked.

"That's right. The baby's mine!" confirmed Horace.

Hank threw a punch before he could even think of a suitable response, his fist slamming into Horace's left eye and knocking him backwards onto Myra's bed. He felt sick.

"I knew there was more goin' on in here than just talk," he said, looking back at Myra.

Had she enjoyed being with Horace? Seen it as more than just earning money? Had feelings for him, maybe? He wasn't even a proper man. It was an insult. Hank stormed out of the room, dragging his hands through his hair, wanting to get away from them before he was tempted to add to Horace's black eye and dish the same out to Myra. He slammed into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him and paced around, breathing hard. He stayed in there until he heard Michaela and Horace leave, then went through to the bar for a bottle of whiskey.

He returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, taking large gulps straight from the bottle, going over and over everything in his mind. Myra taking care of Horace when he was sick with the grip, probably giving him a little extra special care. Horace sniffing around the saloon, making out he only wanted to talk. Who handed over five dollars a time for a conversation? Now she was pregnant. He got up again, paced about for a moment and then halted, hurling his fist at the door. His hand immediately began to throb and he turned around, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. How had things changed so fast?

Gradually his temper began to subside. He put the bottle down and opened the door quietly. Squeals and giggles were coming from Melinda's room at the end of the corridor and he could see Dotty through the door that led to the bar, standing behind the counter serving drinks. He walked down the corridor slowly and halted outside Myra's door, wondering what he could say to her. He was so bad at expressing his feelings and he wasn't even sure what they were at that moment; shock, anger, disgust, disappointment; mostly pain. He put his hand on the door knob and hesitated when he heard her sobbing softly the other side of it. Then he went ahead and opened it. She was lying on her bed facing the wall, crying as if her heart would break.

"Myra."

She froze and went silent except for letting out a long shaky breath. Hank stared at her back, part of him wanting to offer her comfort, but at the same time needing it himself. He simply stood there by the door for a long moment looking at her and then quietly backed away and closed the door again. Once back in his own room, he finished the bottle of whiskey and lay down, spending the rest of the night halfway between sleeping and waking, torturing himself with his thoughts. In the end the only conclusion was that if Myra had a baby he would lose her.