CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Hank was not as deeply unconscious as when he had been in the coma following Sully hitting him in the head at Myra's engagement party, but he wasn't really aware of anything going on around him. He kept hearing Myra's voice and once or twice dreamed that she was with him, touching him, her cool hands stroking over his body. He didn't want to wake up from a dream where it seemed that she wanted him, but eventually he was dragged out of it violently by the most agonising pain he'd ever felt. It was as if his skin was on fire, as if one of Robert E's blacksmith's tools had been pulled out of the furnace and rammed through his shoulder. He sucked air hard into his lungs and then clenched his teeth to stifle a groan.
"Hank?" A cool hand touched his forehead and he tried to speak, but found his mouth too dry and the pain too great. He closed it again and heard himself whimper like an animal in one of his traps, trying to get free with a broken leg. He grimaced at the sound and resolved to stay silent. A moment later his head was being lifted carefully and a spoonful of something was poured into his mouth. He swallowed it, thinking it would lessen his thirst, but it was bitter and foul-tasting and made his throat feel rough. He licked his lips and made another effort at speaking.
"Myra?"
"I'm here. You're gonna be alright. Go back to sleep." Her voice was barely above a whisper. She pulled her hand out from under his neck and slid it into his instead, her slim fingers entwining with his. He wanted to talk to her, to pull her closer and hold her, but found himself slipping back into sleep again.
This time he didn't dream, but when he came to once more the pain was slightly lessened. He opened his eyes cautiously and stared at the ceiling above him - a large white ceiling with some kind of pattern around the top of the walls surrounding it. His eyes slid to the left and came to a large window with sunlight filtering through the rose-patterned curtains. Beneath the window was a long dresser with a number of things laid on the top - photographs, a hairbrush, various trinkets. Looking down he found himself covered by a quilt similarly patterned to the curtains. He rolled his head to the right on the pillow and saw Myra, fast asleep on her side, facing him. She was lying on top of the quilt, wearing a dark red skirt and a white blouse with the neck unfastened. Her hair was loose and tangled around her shoulders.
"Myra," he whispered. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. He tried to reach out towards her, but immediately he moved his right arm, a blinding pain shot through his shoulder again and he lay still. "Myra!"
She opened her eyes immediately. "Hank, are you alright?"
"Yeah." He tried to move again and flinched although at least he managed not to whine like a sissy. Myra sat up quickly.
"I'll get you some more laudanum."
"No, I'm alright. Just water." His tongue almost felt as if it were sticking to the roof of his mouth, it was so dry.
Myra slid off the bed and poured water from a jug into a cup, then carefully lifted his head up with one arm and held the cup to his lips. He drank some, thinking he ought to be taking it from her and holding it himself, but his left arm didn't seem to want to move either. It didn't hurt, but it felt as heavy as lead. Myra lowered him back onto the pillow and put the cup down.
"What happened?" he asked now.
"There was a robbery in the bank. You..."
"No, I mean after I got shot."
"You lost a lot of blood. The bullet went right through. Some of the men outside brought you here, to my sister's house and the doctor stitched you up. He said the exit wound was the size of a child's fist." She grimaced slightly. "He didn't think you'd survive. He's been back twice to make sure there was no infection, but it seems like it's healing fine."
"How long've I been here?" Hank frowned.
"Only three days, but it seems much longer. The doctor says you'll be very weak until your blood regenerates."
"How long's that gonna take?"
"He said you should rest for at least a couple of weeks."
"He didn't think of takin' me to the hospital?"
"They have an outbreak of influenza. You're safer here."
"So you've been lookin' after me then?" Hank said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable.
"Of course."
"Ya shouldn't have to do that, you oughta send for a nurse or somethin'."
"Don't be silly, Hank, I'm not going to do that," Myra scolded. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to get up for short periods in no time, so long as you start eating and getting your strength back."
Hank sighed and closed his eyes again. "I'm real tired," he muttered.
"Get some more sleep," Myra said softly. "I'll get you something to eat next time you wake up."
When he woke again it was dark outside, the room lit only by a small lamp on the dresser. Myra was sitting in a chair close to it, reading a book.
"Hey," he said quietly. She put the book down at once and got up.
"How are you feeling?"
"Hungry." He tried moving and although weak and shaky, managed to pull himself up a little and lean back against the wall behind the bed. The movement made his shoulder wound throb fiercely, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before. Myra grabbed up a spare pillow and slid it behind his back.
"I'll get you some food," she said. "I won't be long."
"Myra?" He called her back as she reached the door, realising for the first time that he didn't have a stitch on beneath the bed covers. "Where's my clothes?"
"They were soaked in blood, I had to clean them. I fetched your bag from the guest house too." She avoided his eyes and he guessed she was blushing, although the dim light disguised it.
"You undressed me?" he said, eyebrows rising.
"You've got nothing I haven't seen before, Hank," she replied with a slight smile. He was surprised and risked teasing her a little.
"So I've been lyin' here naked in your bed for days? Never thought this'd ever happen again. Yer lucky I'm in too much pain to move much."
"Well, we can soon rectify the naked part," she retorted, bending down suddenly. She straightened again with his bag in her hands, placed it on the edge of the bed and pulled out the spare set of underwear he had packed, dropping them onto the pillow next to him.
"Spoilsport," he smirked.
She quickly flicked back the quilt and helped him into the red union suit, her face the same colour as the fabric and her eyes studiously avoiding his, before scurrying out of the room. He hadn't been able to keep himself from grinning during the operation, despite the pain when she moved his right arm.
While she was gone, he risked a peek under the bandage around his shoulder, viewing the bullet's exit wound. It was pulled together with large black stitches, the skin surrounding it bruised purple, but there didn't seem to be much swelling and it wasn't bleeding or leaking any other fluid; it just hurt like hell. He replaced the bandage and gazed around the room while he waited for Myra to come back.
He looked at the two photographs standing on the dresser which he had noticed previously; one of Myra holding Samantha when she was a tiny baby and another of Samantha on her own sitting on a rug playing with a doll, a little older and wearing a fussy, frilly dress. The hairbrush lay to one side, accompanied by various hair pins and clips and next to them, two bottles of scent. Hank blinked and stared harder. One was a cheap little coloured bottle and the other was decorative cut glass with a fancy stopper protected by a silver cap.
'I bought you this, it came from Paris, France, it cost me ten dollars, you keep it,' he heard himself saying. He was never going to forget that bottle as long as he lived. What he didn't understand was why she had taken it after all. He'd always wondered when it couldn't be found, when Dotty was so offended that he thought she must have stolen it, but dismissed the notion that Myra would have picked it up. What had she said? 'If I live to be ninety, I'll never put this on again and you can't make me.' Why would she take it? Something that at the time he had given it to her, had meant something in a way. His heart thumped. He would just have to ask her. At that moment she pushed open the door and sidled in carrying a tray and he turned his eyes away from the dresser quickly. Later. He'd ask later.
Now she lowered the tray onto his lap. It held a plate of beef and potatoes, cut into chunks so he could eat with one hand. A fork lay beside the plate and there was also a steaming cup of coffee.
"Thanks, Myra." He wasted no time digging into the food and could almost imagine his strength returning with every bite. The last thing he wanted was to carry on being a burden to her. He'd wanted to take her out to dinner, maybe even dance, to take her and Samantha out on a buggy ride perhaps, but here he was lying in her bed an invalid, barely able to move one arm at all.
When he finished eating, Myra stayed chatting to him for a while until he found himself unable to keep his eyes open any longer, then she took the tray away and left him to sleep.
The next time he opened his eyes it was daylight again and he felt much better. He sat up and found himself a little stronger and in less pain. He was alone and guessed Myra must have slept in one of the other rooms. The clock on the wall indicated it wasn't yet six o'clock and the rest of the house was silent. Deciding to go out and relieve himself before she got up, he shoved back the quilt and experimentally slid his legs out of the bed. When he tried putting his weight on them, he realised with dismay how weak he still was. He reached out to rest his left hand on the wall and took a few shaky steps to the door, then leaned his body against the wall while he opened it. How he was going to make it all the way downstairs, outside and back again he had no idea.
He took a few steps along the landing and found himself forced to stop and rest, leaning heavily on the banister, shaking and sweating. He hated feeling so helpless, but was loath to call out to Myra for help. However, at that moment she emerged from one of the other bedrooms, wearing a long white nightgown and holding Samantha's hand.
"Where on earth are you going?" she demanded. "Wait here a minute, honey," she told Samantha and released her hand, hurrying to Hank's side.
"Outhouse," he grunted through his teeth.
"No, you're not," Myra said firmly.
"Myra, I'm not usin' the damned chamber pot!" he growled, embarrassed rather than angry. The thought made him shudder and he couldn't bring himself to think about what Myra must have been doing for him while he lay unconscious for three days.
"You won't have to," said Myra, smiling as she pushed open the door close to where he was standing. "We have indoor plumbing."
"Oh!" Surprised, Hank heaved a sigh of relief.
"I'll be downstairs, Samantha wants her breakfast." She returned to the little girl now and picked her up. "I'll bring you a meal when we're done," she called over her shoulder as she began to descend to the first floor.
By the time she returned with a tray of food - bacon, eggs, biscuits and more coffee, plus a large glass of water - Hank was back in bed, propped against the pillows, exhausted from the brief excursion out of the room.
"I could use a cigar," he said as he began to eat. "There were some in my bag."
"Well, I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until you're well enough to go outside," Myra said. "I don't want Suzannah's house smelling of smoke."
Hank grinned. "When did ya get to be so bossy?"
"Comes from being a mother, I guess," she smiled.
"Well, don't get to behavin' like yer my mother," he said darkly. "Soon as I'm outta this damned bed we got a dinner appointment to keep."
"I haven't forgotten."
He finished eating and sipped the coffee. "Thanks," he said to her.
"What for?"
"This. Takin' care of me. Ain't quite what I had in mind."
"You don't have to thank me, Hank. Of course I'll take care of you if you need it, I..." She broke off for a second. "I wouldn't dream of getting some stranger to do it."
She picked up the tray and went out, leaving him wondering what she had almost said before she stopped herself. Maybe he would find out if he asked her about the perfume, but somehow it didn't feel right when he was laying there injured having her run after him like a nurse. When he was out of bed, not at such a disadvantage, then they'd talk he told himself. He'd never been much good at it before, but there was a first time for everything and maybe it would be worth it. If not, if she didn't feel the same, then at least he'd be capable of escaping the house and getting the train home.