Death Has Its Price
Chapter 17 – The Long GoodbyeCamping with Doc Holiday left a lot to be desired. He snored worse than Bret. He made lousy coffee. He couldn't go to sleep and he didn't want to wake up. And he complained constantly that the ground was hard.
"Of course it's hard, Doc, it's the ground. It's supposed to be hard."
"Not this damn hard. You'd think we were in the desert or something."
Bret sighed. Better not say anything or Doc would get mad and complain all night. With any luck at all they'd only have to sleep on the ground one more time and then there'd be a hotel room and blessed relief.
"What if he's alive and he's not Bart anymore?"
"What?"
"I said – "
"I know what you said, Doc, I just don't know what you meant."
"You know, he's not the same person."
"I'll take him any way I can get him, Doc. "
"Yeah, I would, too."
There was silence for a few minutes and Bret thought maybe Doc had drifted off. Just as the gambler was about to slip into sleep himself Doc turned over and asked another question. "What if he just doesn't wanna be found?"
"I don't believe he'd do that. It's been almost a year and there's been no trace of him at all. It's like he just fell off the face of the earth. Even when Caroline – well, even when he had the need to disappear, he finally resurfaced. Nope, there's a reason we haven't heard anything."
Silence again. Then, finally, "What reason?"
"I don't know, Doc. We'll find out. Go to sleep, would ya? I'm tired."
"Sure. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Doc." Under his breath, as he had every night for almost a year, he whispered, "Goodnight, Brother Bart."
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Ah, it was good to be clean again! Even if he did have to wait an extra half-hour for hot water because he'd let Amy take a bath first.
Clean clothes felt good, too, but when he picked up his hat it was beyond saving and he was forced to wear the new gray hat he'd bought yesterday. He got the strangest feeling when he put it on and looked down at the tan hat he'd been forced to abandon. It was almost like déjà vu but he had no idea what the memory was he was evoking. He finally shrugged and strode out to the front room, grateful that he no longer needed the crutch or the cane to walk. Every once in a great while his ribs hurt, almost like they'd been broken more than once and hadn't healed properly the first time.
The house was empty; even Cora was nowhere in sight. He stepped out onto the front porch and both Cooper and Noble were standing at the hitching rail, saddled and ready to go. He heard Amy's footsteps on the stairs and she came running out with a bottle of her father's wine and wearing one of the new riding skirts she'd bought in town yesterday. "Right on time," he told her as she handed him the wine and almost jumped into the saddle. He deposited the bottle in his saddlebags and closed them up, then mounted Noble and led the way out the back gate. The gelding turned and gave him an ugly stare as if disgruntled at having to wear a saddle.
They took the ride slow and easy today. John knew this was his last trip to the mine and he wanted to remember every step of the way. He knew he'd made the right decision for Amy's sake; that didn't mean he was happy about it. As far as he knew, the memory of today would have to last the rest of his life, however long or short that was.
He spread the blanket under the pine trees, and Amy surprised him with fried chicken and cornbread, stored in her saddlebags when she retrieved the horses. She had glasses in there, too, and he opened the wine and poured some for each of them. "A toast!" she cried and raised her glass.
"To what?" he asked her.
"To us, Amy Stanhope and John Holliday. To the beginning of all the things yet to come." They clinked glasses and Amy downed almost half of hers. John couldn't drink that fast; the wine was dark, rich, and sweet, almost too sweet for him.
She unwrapped the chicken and corn bread and they dug in, both surprised that they were as hungry as they were. When they'd finished everything but the bones and their appetite was sated, John poured more wine and they drank again. The remaining wine was set aside with the glasses and Amy lay on her back and gazed up at the man she loved. She ran her fingertips down the side of his face and he kissed those fingertips and held them to his lips; how could he ever let her go?
"Why so sad?" she asked him, and he knew she could sense something wrong. He leaned down to kiss her and closed his eyes, and he was lost in the smell of her, and the taste of her, and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her as he'd kissed no other woman in his life. And he thought that it would kill him if he didn't have her right there, right now, and the only thing that stopped him was the voice in his head that kept saying, "You're leaving tomorrow, you mustn't do this, you're leaving, stop, stop, STOP!" and finally he forced himself to pull away from her.
"Don't stop, John," she whispered sleepily, and he brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her lips tenderly, gently, knowing that she had drifted off into slumber and would always be there in his dreams, waiting for him. He laid back and held her in his arms for the last time, closing his eyes and joining her in sleep so peaceful that the rest of the afternoon passed while they dreamt of building a life together, a life that wasn't meant to be, the only life that John Holliday and Amy Stanhope would ever have.
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When they woke, it was late afternoon and there was a chill in the air. The seasons were beginning to change, from early to late fall, and when the sun started to set the nighttime chill snuck in the door. John and Amy both put on their jackets and proceeded to gather the wine and the blanket, storing one in Amy's saddlebags and the other in John's. He gazed out into the twilight and took the whole scene in one last time; the old mine, the pine trees, the patch of ground where they'd come oh-so-close to being lovers in every sense of the word.
He was sad that it wasn't to be; he'd longed to hold her warm, naked body against his and truly possess her, but he was glad that she'd still have her dignity when he was at last gone. That was the one gift that he could honestly give her, knowing that when she found the man to spend the rest of her life with she could belong to him completely, with no reservations and no regrets.
They rode back to the ranch just as slowly as they'd ridden out to the mine, almost as if willing time to quit passing so quickly. John was quiet and introspective; Amy knew there was something going on in his mind but had no intention of prying. When they got home he took both the horses to the barn and gave Noble a good rubdown. In just a few hours it would be dark and time to leave. "Have a good last night, old man," he told the gelding as he turned him loose in his stall.
Supper was as crazy and noisy as usual, with everybody trying to talk at once and nobody getting a word in edgewise. It was Friday night and time for the weekly poker game down in the bunkhouse, but John begged off due to lack of sleep the night before. When he kissed Amy goodnight it wasn't the normal peck on the cheek, I'll see you in the morning kiss, but rather a goodbye forever and I love you with all my heart kiss. Amy almost asked him why the difference and then thought better of it, chalking it up to John's rather odd mood all day.
He didn't go to bed, instead he packed his belongings and then sat down to write Amy a letter. When that was finished he turned out his light and lay on the bed in the dark so she would think him asleep when the poker game broke up. Right before midnight he heard her come down the hall, then turn and go upstairs to her own room when she saw his light off. He waited for almost an hour until he was sure she was asleep, before getting up and quietly leaving the house via the back door.
He went to the barn and stopped Noble from whinnying with a carrot. The gelding gave him another odd look, as if to say "Didn't we just get home?" but stood calmly while John saddled him for the trip ahead. Once completed, he took one last look around and led Noble out of the barn and away from the house. He swung his bag up on the horse and mounted, careful to make as little noise as possible. He'd been here so long it almost felt like leaving home for the first time.
Sometime close to two a.m. John Holliday turned his horse and headed south, saying goodbye to the Stanhope Ranch, the only home he remembered, and the woman he would always love. What lay ahead of him he couldn't know for sure, but he would never forget what lay behind him.