I stepped inside the house and was . . . surprised. It was neat and clean, that I expected with a live-in housekeeper. But that's not all . . . it was elegant, conservative, tasteful. There was a sitting room, with a settee, three chairs, a decorative chest that held several houseplants, and a sideboard full of china and crystal. The sitting room led to two separate rooms, a dining room on the left and what looked to be the study on the right. There was a mahogany table and seven chairs in the dining room; the table was ready to host a dinner party. I turned to the right and found a room with a desk and several bookshelves, and a small table with two comfortable looking chairs round it in the far corner.
A man was sitting behind the desk. He appeared thin, very, very thin, with hair almost entirely silver. He was dressed elegantly in what looked to be silk pajamas and a dressing gown. There was something familiar about him, and yet I couldn't quite place him. Until he opened his mouth and spoke to me.
"Bart Maverick, as I live and breathe. I would never have expected you to show up here." English accent and all, it was Dandy Jim Buckley. We were somewhere around the same age, but Jim looked at least ten years older than me. I half expected him to stand up, yet he didn't, and when he made his way out from behind the desk, I saw why – Jim was in a wheelchair. "Well, say something, old boy."
I finally moved closer and reached out to shake hands with him. "I . . . I . . . it's been a long time, Jim."
Something dawned on him, then. "Ah, I see, it's the chair. It's a necessity these days, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Murtaw padded into the room, carrying a silver tray with a coffee pot and two cups. She set it down on the table at the far end of the room, then proceeded to pour a cup before gazing at me. "Coffee, Mr. Maverick?"
I nodded my head, still at a loss for words. Jim wheeled back to the table, and I followed him. Mrs. Murtaw moved one of the chairs away from the table, and Jim maneuvered into its place while indicating that I should take the other chair. "Cream or sugar?" Mrs. Murtaw inquired, as I sat down.
"Neither, thank you," I managed to say.
The housekeeper poured a small amount of cream into Jim's coffee before asking, "Anything else I can bring you, gentlemen?"
"Have you had breakfast, old boy?" Jim asked, and once again I nodded. "That will be all, thank you, Mrs. Murtaw." She left us then, closing the study doors behind her. I continued to sit and stare at Jim for another minute or so until I once again found my voice.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to stare. I didn't know . . ."
"About the wheelchair? That, I'm afraid, is a more recent development. Between the pain and the lack of strength in my legs, I simply can't handle walking any longer."
"How long . . . ?"
"Have I been this way? Let's see, getting on to a year, I would say. Jack had just come to stay for a week or two, and I began having pains in my stomach. It hurt when I ate, it hurt when I didn't eat. It was a rapid deterioration, I'm afraid." Jim drank some of his coffee and looked right at me. "You must have heard from someone up here, and they've most likely led you astray. Let's see, I ran into that funny fellow – the one that took care of the hole in the wall you grew up in. What was it – the Little Bend Bar? And his name was . . . "
"Ray. Ray Ames. He wrote to somebody in town. I heard you were . . . sick." Of course, I'd heard more than that, but I had no intention of asking Buckley if he was dying. At least not right then.
"That's it. Ames. He always made me laugh, he had such affection for the Maverick family. What did he tell you? That I was sick? Well, that's certainly been true. But what would get you to come all the way up here?" Dandy drank the rest of his coffee and poured himself another cup. This time he reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a small flask, proceeding to pour it into his coffee instead of the cream. "Still not drinking, old boy? It's good brandy." He held the flask out to me and I took it, pouring about half a shot into my coffee cup. "Well, things do change, don't they?"
I felt the need for the brandy, something to steady my nerves. Dandy sounded the same as always, but that was as far as it went. There was no doubt in my mind that Ray had been correct in his assumption that Jim was dying.
"When did you . . . buy the house?" I had a lot of questions to ask, and a lot of things to say, but I needed to be calmer, steadier than I was. So I took the coward's way out and changed the subject.
"Ah, pretty little thing, isn't it? Actually, I didn't; the house belonged to Janet."
"Janet?"
"Janet. Janet Stinson. I wrote to Doralice about her. Didn't she tell you?"
He wrote about Janet to Doralice. Dandy had written to my wife, and I knew nothing about it. "No," I managed to answer without stuttering. I was sure that Doralice must have had a good reason for not telling me about it. I just couldn't understand what it was.
Jim sighed and set his coffee cup down. "Janet was . . . the reason I came to Grand Junction. She was . . . my wife."
"Your . . . wife? But the sheriff said . . . you weren't . . . married."
"I'm not, Bart. Janet died over two years ago."
"She . . . she died . . . "
"Yes, old boy. Over two years ago."
I needed . . . I don't know what I needed. I'd had too many shocks this morning, one right after another, ever since I walked into this house. Dandy had a home, and a live-in housekeeper, and a wheelchair. And he'd had a wife. I was overwhelmed; it was too much to digest all at once.
"Are you alright? You've gotten a bit pale, Bart. Do you need to lie down? I have a spare bedroom, you'd be perfectly comfortable in there."
I shook my head. "No, Jim, I'm fine. I didn't expect . . . didn't expect any of this." The flask was sitting on the table. "Do you mind?" I asked, and pointed to the brandy.
"Help yourself, old boy," came the swift reply, and I did, pouring a full shot into my cup, then following it with coffee, and a bit of cream to cut the taste of the liquor. It was warm and steadying all the way down.
"I didn't know any of this, Dandy. Tell me about Janet."
"That would be a very long story, and I'm afraid I'm feeling rather worn out. And we haven't talked about you and yours at all. How long are you staying in Grand Junction?"
I gave him the most honest answer I could give him. "As long as it takes to do what needs to be done."
"Then why don't you join me for supper this evening? Say, about six o'clock?"
"Alright." I'd be more than grateful to spend some time alone, examining the things I'd learned this morning. And maybe finding out a little more about the sheriff's obvious respect and affection for my former friend. There was more to this story than I'd expected there to be, and I needed to know everything I could about the present before I had a solution to what had happened in the past. "I'll be here at six."