CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hank stayed in Denver for a week, making sure Zack settled into his new school without any problems. He was to live in a dormitory with three other boys, one of whom was deaf and dumb. The trio welcomed Zack like a brother and began showing him around immediately. The teachers were all very friendly too and advised Hank he could visit any time he liked and that they would take excellent care of his son. When he finally returned to Colorado Springs, he felt much happier about the whole situation and was confident he'd made the right decision for Zack.
He discovered on his return that Myra and Horace were closer than ever and consequently she drifted ever further away from him. Even during the nights he spent with her she was distant, her eyes averted or closed and it seemed that although her body was with him, her mind was elsewhere. As time went on it upset and angered him more and more and he almost welcomed the drought which drove him to make the decision to leave town just a week before Thanksgiving.
Horace had tried finding water with divining rods which he claimed had been a talent of the Bings for generations, but it didn't help him find it. Many of the men from town spent two days digging where Horace indicated and didn't find one drop. Hank packed up his wagon the day after, girls and all. Myra and Horace clung to each other until the last possible minute, while Hank thought with a hint of satisfaction that she would soon forget Horace and be his again once they got on their way to Oregon.
"Hank, please let Myra stay," Michaela begged, interfering as usual. "How can you do this? They're in love."
"So what?" spat Hank.
That was the sticking point. He loved Myra, but she loved Horace. Not for much longer. He led her over to the wagon and lifted her up onto the seat, then climbed up after her. A moment later they were moving and he stared grimly at the horse, doing his best to ignore Myra who twisted around in her seat, weeping and calling back to Horace that she loved him. She'd get over it soon enough he thought, forgetting that he hadn't managed to squash his feelings for her in however many years it had been.
For three days the wagon rolled slowly north-west, mostly in silence. Dotty and Melinda occasionally spoke quietly to each other in the back, but Myra said scarcely a word, huddling next to Hank on the seat, her arms wrapped around herself, face distant and miserable, every so often wet with tears. Hank tried talking to her a couple of times, but she answered in monosyllables or not at all.
"Talk to me, damn it!" he exclaimed at one point, halting the horse and turning towards her.
"What d'ya want me to say?" she said dully, turning tear-filled eyes on him.
Hank sighed heavily. "We're goin' to Oregon," he told her firmly.
"Fine." She dropped her eyes again.
"What makes ya think they ain't got a drought too?" Dotty spoke up from behind.
"Shut yer mouth!" snapped Hank. Exasperated he faced forwards, slapping the reins against the horse's flanks to get it moving again. They continued on for the rest of the day and made camp by a creek, or what had once been a creek. Now only a trickle of water made its way along the dried up bed, just enough to scoop up to drink and to water the horse, but nothing more.
Hank spent most of the night awake, thinking about their situation. Everyone was miserable and he began to wonder about leaving everything behind - his business, the townsfolk. He wouldn't say he could call any of them friends exactly, but he missed Jake and Loren and the regulars who came in to drink and play poker. He even missed Michaela in a way. She'd gone out of her way to help him with Zack, despite his meanness to her previously. Although he had been reluctant to accept her, he found he had developed an admiration for her and he wondered what she and everyone else were doing now. In addition he wondered why he was really so keen to leave. It seemed now that the main reason had been to have Myra to himself again, only he didn't have her. Her mind was back in Colorado Springs with Horace and she could barely bring herself to speak to him.
He rose at dawn and began hitching the horse up to the wagon, scraping up a shallow pan of gritty water to give the animal a drink along with its oats. Myra emerged from beneath the wagon where the girls had spent the night a moment later. He glanced at her briefly.
"It's early," she commented.
"We're goin' back," Hank said curtly.
"Back? To Colorado Springs?" Her eyes lit up with hope.
"Yeah." He turned away from her. "Wake the others; ya got five minutes."
The journey home was just as quiet as it had been on the way out, only this time Myra looked happy about it. Hank drove the horse, barely looking at her, resigned to the fact that she was going to throw herself into Horace's arms the minute they arrived.
When they reached the saloon most of the town appeared deserted and he realised it must be Thanksgiving. Everyone would be over at Grace's. The four of them walked over there and found everyone sitting around a long table made up of several smaller ones pushed together, a bunch of Indians mixed in with the townsfolk, the Reverend beginning to carve up the turkey. Myra left his side at once and ran to join Horace. He watched sadly for a moment and then shrugged it off and walked over to the table, finding a place between Jake and Matthew.
"What're ya doin' back here anyway?" Jake asked him after a minute.
"Lost a wheel is all," Hank said, pouring out generous cups of whiskey for himself, Jake and Loren.
As they dug into the Thanksgiving dinner, the heavens finally opened and put an end to the drought and most of the townsfolk danced around, soaked to the skin, celebrating while the food got wet and spoiled. Hank grabbed his bottle of whiskey, pulled a leg off the turkey and headed back to the saloon alone.
Myra and Horace's relationship continued to eat away at Hank through the winter. He guessed he could have cancelled her days off and refused to let her see him, but he didn't see the point. She'd just fall into that miserable lethargy that had taken over her when they briefly left town before Thanksgiving and at least while she was happy she was pleasant to be around. However, he could feel her slipping ever further away from him and it infuriated him that he couldn't do a thing about it. She had even begun refusing him when he went to her room at night; well, making excuses, but it boiled down to the same thing. First she had a stomach ache, then she wasn't feeling well, then it was her time of the month, not that this last had been a problem to her before now.
At New Year he had even spent an hour with Melinda to relieve the physical ache, the first time he'd ever been with her, but it had merely been a necessity; he hadn't got much pleasure out of it. Now it was February and he decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer any more. Myra had been forgetting she still had a contract saying she belonged to him.
He locked up the saloon and went to his room briefly, pulled his boots off and tossed his shirt into a corner, dragging his hands through his hair. He felt ridiculously nervous for some reason and that annoyed him. Myra was still managing to tie him in knots after all these years and he wished he could just see her as an employee again and stop yearning for her so much.
He went to her room now, opened the door quietly and slipped inside. She was in bed, wearing a pink nightdress, the quilt covering her to the waist.
"Myra," he said softly.
"Ya wanna talk to me about somethin', Hank?" she asked.
"No. That ain't what I want."
He knew she was going to come up with some excuse, it was just a matter of which one. She used a couple. When he joined her on the bed and slid his arms around her, telling her he missed her, she said she was tired. He pointed out she never used to be too tired for him and tried to kiss her. She braced her hand against his chest and said she wasn't feeling well.
"Ain't that a coincidence?" Hank said with a sigh. "I seem to recollect ya not feelin' well the last three times I've been wantin to be with ya."
Myra made one more protest, trying to push him away, complaining about her stomach. He wondered briefly if it was anything to do with her operation the year before and then decided as usual it was just an excuse. If she really had a problem, she wouldn't have been working that afternoon.
"Ya forgot who ya belong to," he said. "Yer mine, Myra. Don't forget that."
She gave in then, let him do what he wanted, but her response was half-hearted and her mind was elsewhere, her face turned away from him. He didn't sleep with her. There seemed no point staying when she would hold him with her arms, but not her heart.
A couple of days later a wagon-load of orphans looking for new homes arrived from New York, which Loren had previously read about in the Denver Herald. The Reverend had asked for them for some reason unknown to the rest of the town and he proceeded in trying to persuade some of the townsfolk to adopt them. None were keen, although Hank saw opportunity in one fifteen-year-old girl named Jennifer. She had a nice face and pretty hair and he guessed a scrub, some makeup and a change of clothes would make her appeal to the customers.
Jennifer called in at the saloon to talk to him about the job, seeming keen and not as innocent as she looked. He told her she could start that night if she wanted and she gazed around at the customers, then left, not having actually said yes or no. He glanced at Myra and was surprised to see a frown on her face. Could it be that she didn't like him suddenly showing an interest in someone else? He grinned to himself. Maybe Jennifer could be of more use than he previously thought.
The girl returned that evening and Hank sorted out a contract for her and took her to Myra's room, introducing them and asking Myra to fix her up ready to start work the following day. Then he left them to it and went back to the bar. The next morning as he sat on the porch smoking a cigar, Myra hurried out and he stopped her to ask about Jennifer, wondering what she really thought about her being taken on.
"I don't know if there's gonna be a new girl, Hank," she said.
"You ain't talked her out of it now, have ya?" he scowled.
"No, 'course not."
Hank got to his feet and went towards her. "Well, what is it then? Feelin' a little jealous? Feelin' like she might just take yer place?"
"No, it ain't that," sighed Myra.
"See, if she does come to work here, maybe I wouldn't need you no more," he added.
"What're ya talkin' about?" Myra looked up at him now, her eyes widening.
"Maybe I'll just tear up that contract of yours."
"Ya mean that?" Her eyes actually lit up now and he realised things weren't quite going the way he hoped. He had wanted her to be jealous of the younger girl, not like the idea that she might become Hank's new favourite, but it seemed she didn't care one bit.
"Yeah, I do," Hank replied, sounding sulky even to his own ears and mentally kicking himself.
He turned away from her and walked back inside, snatching up a whiskey bottle and pouring himself a large measure. He knew he was going to lose Myra, it was as plain as the nose on his face. He wished he hadn't spent so many years fooling about and had simply swallowed his fear of hurt and told her how he felt. If she hadn't had feelings for him in the beginning, then she'd been a damned good actress. In fact it was only since the grip epidemic a year ago that things had changed. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe it was because she didn't know his feelings and she wanted more than she was getting. He sighed heavily. Was it worth taking the chance of telling her how he felt?
He thought about it for a while. Myra returned not long after and then went out again with the other two girls. He made his mind up. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose. Feeling a little silly, he went out the back of the saloon and picked the solitary yellow flower which had sprouted at the side of the corral. She had once said daisies were her favourite flower and he was sure he had heard Dotty mention recently that a yellow daisy had sprung up out back. He went into Myra's room then, laid it on the pillow and sat down on the bed to wait for her.
He waited an hour, almost changing his mind and hurrying out of there a dozen times, convinced he was only going to make a fool of himself and that she wouldn't respond the way he wanted. Then he would think about her leaving for good and tell himself he was doing the only thing he could do that might make a difference.
The door opened suddenly and she halted on the threshold in surprise.
"Oh, Hank, what're ya doin'?"
"I brought that for ya," he said, indicating the flower, caught off guard and suddenly not knowing what to say to her. She gave it only a brief glance before walking into the room and stopping in front of her mirror.
"Hank, I got somethin' to tell ya," she said. "Ya know that girl? She ain't comin' back."
"She got a contract," Hank told her.
"No. I'm stayin' on extra in her place." Myra went back to the door and leaned against the jamb, looking at him. He couldn't read anything in her face, but surely if she'd taken on Jennifer's contract herself it was because she didn't want to leave him after all?
"I know why yer doin' this," he said with a hint of a smile.
"Why?" prompted Myra.
"Must be...'cause ya got feelin's for me."
"No, Hank, that ain't it. I just don't want her to go through what I did."
"Whaddya mean?" He was stunned. What had she gone through? Hadn't they always been close? At least until Horace stuck his oar in. Had he been completely blind all along? Didn't they say love was blind?
"Remember how ya said I belong to you?" Myra went on. "Well, you're wrong. I love Horace. I work for you, but I belong to him."
"He ain't any kinda man, not like me," grunted Hank.
"What kinda man makes his woman spend the night with other men?" demanded Myra.
"That's different, Myra, it's business. I went to all this trouble to show ya." He hesitated before continuing. He'd got it so wrong. He'd considered ripping up her contract all those years ago and keeping her to himself, but not done it because he thought the piece of paper would be sure to keep her with him, when all it had done in the end was push her away. Why couldn't she have said something then? But if she had, would he have listened?
"I love ya," he added before he could stop himself. It seemed pointless now and as soon as it was out of his mouth, he wished he could take it back when he heard her reply.
"I feel sorry for ya, Hank. Ya don't know what love is."
That was it. She turned and strode off down the corridor, leaving him sitting on her bed. Much as he hated the analogy, which was the sort of thing you got in dime novels or so he'd heard, it felt like she had reached into his chest, pulled his heart out and walked off with it. If only he had told her how he felt years ago; even one year ago might have changed everything. Now it was too late.