He had received the letter two weeks ago and still couldn't make himself open it.
Elizabeth had said something about 'wonderful news' from Abigail, and Henry didn't figure it was that she had tapped into a vein of gold. He hadn't asked Elizabeth to elaborate, and she had not volunteered anything else. Bill had later said 'That's kind of surprising, but it's good news'. Oh, yes. Wonderful news.
The letter still sat on the little desk in his room. He glanced at it every morning before leaving and every night before collapsing into bed but couldn't bear to even touch it. Cowardice didn't taste good, but he wasn't sure he could handle anything that tasted worse right now.
Not that he hadn't gotten a good dollop of wonderful news himself - Christopher had written, saying he and Rachel had married (quick, in a courthouse, which made Henry figure maybe the wedding had to be moved up due to 'unplanned circumstances'), and were honeymooning in San Francisco. He had written back, telling his son how glad he was for him, and welcoming Rachel into the family, such as it was. He had also received a short, rather terse note from his ex-wife, saying she and Jerry were well and how was he and best wishes and we hope you can stay out of jail for a full year this time, etc.
He hadn't had to send any kind of monetary support following the divorce, as she had married Jerry the Dimwit so quickly after it was all settled. He couldn't remember the last time they had exchanged any kind of communication. She had wired when Christopher had fallen out of a tree and broke his arm and when he had graduated from high school. Aside from that, he could barely remember what she looked like. Of their brief marriage, the only bright spot had been Christopher and he had botched that, too. But at least now he had a relationship with his son, even if it was long-distance. Better than nothing.
Christopher had even changed his surname back to Gowen.
He went downstairs for breakfast, and was greeted by the nauseatingly happy sight of Elizabeth, Little Jack and Lucas having another engagement breakfast. This was, what, their thirtieth so far? He was happy for them, but sometimes he wanted to pour sarsparillas on the two adults and take Little Jack somewhere where such sappy sweetness was a little less... annoying. Fishing, at least. He doubted Lucas was the fishing type. It might get his hands dirty.
(And yes, cleaning fish was disgusting, but still.)
Grouch.
He took a seat, ordered eggs (scrambled) and bacon (defiant), with coffee, and read the paper, hoping no one would totter over and start pestering him about something. Lucas knew when to call off the sympathy hounds, but Elizabeth just couldn't help herself, bless her. Curse her. This time, however, the trio were too absorbed in each other to really notice him. Which was fine with him. He started reading a fascinating article in the Valley Voice about how to raise rutabagas when he was almost sent into total cardiac arrest by Faith, who cleared her throat like a logging truck engine starting up on a cold morning.
"You missed your appointment yesterday," she said sharply.
"Well, we can schedule the funeral instead," he rasped, wondering if he should check his pulse, but he figured that would make her even more grumpy, if not alarmed.
She at least looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, Henry, but I've been worried about you. You look... pale, and haggard."
"Well thank you, Doctor, and that skirt makes you look like you should be stuffed into a pencil box."
The skirt was a bit too narrow. Not even her hard glare could really contain acknowledgement that it didn't do much for her.
"I have rescheduled you for this afternoon at two o'clock."
"I'll be at the mill."
"You'll be in the office, even if I have to get Nathan to drag you over. Got it?"
"It'll take more than just Nathan," he muttered.
Faith stomped off and Henry returned to the rutabagas, wondering what a rutabaga actually was. He had never seen one. What color were they? How'd they get such a stupid name? He yelped when a tiny hand banged on his knee. Little Jack grinned up at him, clearly pleased with himself, and Elizabeth gasped in horror. She picked up the boy, gently scolding him for giving her the slip like that. "I'm sorry, Henry. We were paying and... "
"It's no big deal," Henry shrugged. "That butter stain will come right out, I'm sure."
"Jack!" Elizabeth said, giving her son a stern look. "Naughty! Say 'I'm sorry' to Mr. Gowen."
"Sorry, Mr. Henry."
Henry only nodded, not annoyed at all. The memory of Christopher getting loose in a restaurant and wreaking havoc came back to him, making him feel a little better-it had been pretty funny. His ex-wife had blamed Henry for it, of course, but then again she had blamed Henry for humidity and bad hair days and the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War. Christopher had just given him the slip while he had been working on some sleazy deal and...
He shook his head quickly, pushing the past away.
Lucas interrupted his thoughts then. "Morning, Henry. You do look... kind of pale."
"Haven't been sleeping well." He took a sip of his coffee. Lucas took that as an invitation to sit.
"I have an idea about the hotel."
More terrifying words were never heard, in Henry's world. New ideas meant new problems, new headaches, new heartburn. He was avoiding new ideas lately, because he figured anything new was just another temptation to do something to mess all his progress up.
Progress. Pfft.
"Okay."
"Well, what with the tourists swarming into town... "
"An apt description, I must say."
"... the hotel could use not only more amenities, but also more... attractions. Entertainment. I was thinking of something along the lines of vaudeville shows... "
"Burlesque, maybe," Henry said, nodding and taking a bite of his bacon. He thought of what Faith would say and took another bite.
"... and professional singers, orchestras... burlesque?! Good Lord, Henry! The hotel is a family-centered establishment."
"Okay, maybe just can-can dancers or suchlike... "
Nathan glared at him. "No. Not that. String orchestras, comedy performances, family-friendly skits, maybe... dinner theater? Maybe one or two-act plays, and I really like the idea of professional singers."
"I'm not sure Rosemary could take on all those roles, Lucas," Henry said. "Though she'd certainly try."
"Well... see... now she's so... um... "
"Enormously pregnant? I keep expecting people to dock their boats at her."
"Don't let Lee hear you say that."
"As if Lee would let her hear him say that, at least not without grievous bodily harm. I said 'hello' to her yesterday and if she had been able to bend over I'm sure she would have thrown a rock at me."
Lucas had to fight back laughter-he was one of the few people alive who knew Henry did actually have a sense of humor. Of a rather sarcastic type, true, but it was there and Lucas seemed to appreciate it. "Come on, Henry. Seriously - what do you think?"
"It's your hotel."
"Partly mine, partly yours, and any decisions made about it are between the two of us."
"But what about the Rosemary problem? She'll insist on auditioning for every part."
"Yes, but see, I think I have a way around her. She's due any day now, and she'll be home with the baby for a while at least and in that time we can put out feelers for local talent and maybe even advertise to further points and not tell her about it. Lee agreed, but you know how he is - you never know if he really heard you when he agrees to something and... oh, by the way, did you hear that Abigail is getting married?"
Henry's good mood vanished. "I heard about it... in passing."
"Right." Lucas studied Henry carefully. "I'm sorry, Henry. I know it hurts."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not blind, Henry. Neither are Elizabeth or Bill or... well, anybody. They all noticed how you looked at Abigail."
Henry felt his chest tighten. "How did I look at Abigail?"
"The way a fat man looks at fried food."
"Thank you, sir, for your kind assistance. I do appreciate it. If there is a cool place in hell, I hope you get it."
India Ward slammed the door in the bellhop's face and turned to look around her dim little rented room. She had come to Canada to get away from Yankees, and yet some half-witted exile from New Jersey had carried her bags to her room and had made several rude and derogatory statements about the South. Possessing good manners and a Southerner's knack for honey-dripping insults, India had put him in his place at the door. She doubted he'd even realize he had been insulted until tomorrow afternoon while he was stealing something from someone's room.
Did she have shoes as a child? Was he talking too fast for her?
Were her parents cousins?
No, but then again, she wasn't British royalty.
"Ugh." She grabbed one of her bags and opened it, pulling her dresses out and stretching them neatly across the bed. They were wrinkled, but steam would take care of that. She grabbed her purse and dug through it, hooting triumphantly when she found the advertisement.
LOOKING FOR A WELL-PAYING JOB IN A BEAUTIFUL HOT SPRINGS RESORT IN WESTERN CANADA?
LOOK NO FURTHER!
HOPE SPRINGS HOTEL & SPA IS SEEKING TALENTED SINGERS, ACTORS AND PERFORMERS TO PROVIDE ENTERTAINMENT FOR OUR GUESTS. APPLY TO NATHAN BOUCHARD, AT THE QUEEN OF HEARTS HOTEL & SALOON.
AUDITIONS WILL BE CONDUCTED ON A WEEKLY BASIS UNTIL ALL POSITIONS ARE FILLED
***NO RISQUE MATERIAL WILL BE CONSIDERED***
Hope Valley, Alberta Province, Canada
"Well, risqué I am not," India said. She smoothed the front of her skirt, then checked herself in the mirror. "But what I am right now is hungry."
Lucas had scolded and browbeaten Henry into going to the infirmary, sans being hauled there by Nathan, and left the mill in time to make it across town. He was at the door just as Faith came out, loaded for bear, and saw him. "Oh. Mr. Gowen. Come on in."
"Listen, I don't have... "
"Much time and almost zero patience, I know, but you'll just have to be a patient patient and let me check your blood pressure. I've been doing research on new drugs that might help, but the main thing that will help you is to learn how to relax. Every time you get into something business-related your blood-pressure shoots sky-high. You'd think you'd see the connection there."
Henry sighed. There was no use arguing that point, since it was true. Lately, every business venture had him stressed out. All the baggage that went with it was exhausting. Guilt for his past mistakes. Fear of failure yet again. Anger at his own stupidity and pride.
"Undo your shirt and sit here on the exam table. This won't take long."
He was still uncomfortable about having a woman be his physician, but there was nothing for it these days. Besides, he had to admit that Faith was good at her job. She was professional without being overly brisk, and she genuinely cared about her patients. Even the impatient patients. He didn't squabble with her about the blood pressure cuff this time, which made her brow furrow as she squeezed the pump, the cuff tightening on his arm until he felt his eyes bug out a bit. After a moment of 'goodgodwomantakethisthingoffme' she finally let the cuff release and paused, then smiled.
"One-twenty-six over eighty-six. High but not horrible."
"So that's... good?"
"Better than the times you've keeled over, definitely. Please, Henry. Try to relax a little. You're working at the mill, right? I'd go ahead and quit. You're partnered with Lucas. Enjoy just being a partner and kick back. Get some sun. Read a book. Read the newspaper. "
"As if that wouldn't get my blood pressure up. There's elections going on right now."
Faith tried not to laugh, but failed and started giggling. "Very true. Don't read those parts of the paper, then. Don't you have any hobbies? Things you like doing?"
"Yes, but I had to stop if I want to stay out of jail."
"Very funny," she said, giving him a light cuff on the shoulder. "But really... hobbies?"
He shrugged. "Um... well, I don't collect stamps, I'm not much of a reader. I can play the guitar a little, but it's been ages since I... "
"You can? Really?"
"Not really. It's been a long time... "
"Take it up again. Whatever you do, just try to find something to help you relax. Do you wake up with headaches? Or with a sore jaw?"
"Um... sore jaw sometimes."
"Grinding your teeth in your sleep. Good heavens, Henry, even when you're asleep you're tense! I'm going to give you some bismuth nitrate tablets and you're to take them once daily, at breakfast, and if I hear you didn't take them I will... "
"Call my mother? I'm afraid she's dead."
"... tell Minnie to stop letting you have bacon."
"Aw, c'mon... "
Henry spent the rest of the afternoon at the mill, looking over the house plans of a man who was building a place outside town. Calculating the amount of wood needed was his primary job and he rather liked it. Numbers came naturally to him - he had little schooling in mathematics, but he was good at it, and Lee left such matters to him until he presented the calculations and how much would be needed to build the house. Then it was a matter of working out what kind of wood, various thicknesses and lengths. Then the architect would come in, screw everything up, and Henry would have to recalculate.
No wonder he had high blood pressure. Still, it was a job he could do, and could do well. He ate a sandwich at the office and walked back to the saloon, heading upstairs without being seen, and went into his room. He turned the light on, saw the dark silver-gray cat on his bed, turned the light off, went back out to check the number on the door to make sure he was in the right room, then went back inside, flicking the light back on. The cat raised its head and studied him, and he studied it.
"I don't own a cat," he told the cat.
The cat didn't seem terribly concerned about this fact.
"Is this how you get a cat?"
The cat offered no theories.
"Uh... just a min... wait a minute. I'm talking to a cat. Git! Scram! Get out!"
The cat regarded him with calm green eyes, making not a single move to git, scram or get out. Instead, it began to quietly bathe itself, licking the inside of a front leg, rubbing it on its face, and repeating that motion a few more times. Henry considered picking it up and throwing it out the window, but he wasn't a cruel man, even to cats, and besides, cats have claws and might object to forced defenestration.
"Okay. So what do I do with you? I don't think Lucas allows pets."
The cat remained unconcerned and was now cleaning its belly, which also revealed that it was female.
"I also don't know that I can get along with a cat."
The cat regarded him calmly again, finally sitting up in an utterly dignified pose, front paws neatly lined up, tail flicking side to side, regarding him with placid but keen interest. Before Henry even knew what he was doing, he was scratching the cat's ears. She accepted his touch without cowering or trying to dodge his hand. Instead, she seemed to consider ear scratches perfectly suited to resolving whatever problems she might have. She bumped her nose against Henry's hand, tucking her head underneath, indicating she wanted ear scratches to continue.
Finally, Henry gave up on shooing the cat out. He got ready for bed, climbed in as the cat sat on the end of the bed, in the same dignified pose, and turned off the light. Moments later, she was stalking up to stand right at his side, face inches from his own, irises huge and black. She wasn't purring, but she was obviously friendlier than any female that had ever been in his bed.
"Can I help you?"
She had a strange way of meowing - barely even a meow at all, but a kind of raspy 'meh' - and he gave in, scratching her ears again. There were a few more rounds of 'nose-bump-scratch-me-again' before Henry decided that maybe tucking his hands under the blanket might make her catch on that he needed to sleep. The cat caught the hint and stalked back to the end of the bed, tucked herself into the 'meatloaf' pose and lay there in total silence, watching him in the darkness. Henry grumbled under his breath, confused about how a cat got in his room but feeling too tired to investigate further. He was asleep in moments, not noticing that the cat had moved back to his side and curled up into a ball of silver-black fur, and didn't move from his side until dawn.
He did notice, however, that when he woke up the next morning, he had no headache and his jaw didn't hurt.
"Er... Lucas, does this hotel allow pets?"
Lucas put his pen down, wondering if he had heard Henry right. Maybe he had said 'vets', but who was against vets? "Um... what?"
"Pets. Does the hotel allow pets?"
"I... I'm not sure I've ever been presented with that issue. Who has a pet?"
"Um... just a question."
"Well, I suppose it would depend on the pet. Is it big?"
"Like what, an elephant? I don't think elephants can climb stairs."
"Really? Where'd you hear that?"
Henry looked exasperated. "I don't know. Somewhere. But what about dogs, cats... "
"Turtles? Fish?"
"I'm going to the mill."
"Cats and dogs, I think I could be persuaded. In the hotel itself, I mean. I know people keep turtles and fish, but who takes fish and reptiles on vacation? Hamsters and other rodents, definitely not for the hotel. Canaries, but not chickens. Not Shetland ponies, not camels, and definitely not monkeys. Horrible creatures, monkeys, and filthy. Oh, and no peacocks. They shriek and attack chickens. Which are, of course, also not allowed."
Henry was already gone. Lucas couldn't stop himself from laughing. Pets?!
Saturday dawned bright and clear-skyed, and India took that as a good sign. She knew auditions to perform at the hotel would begin at noon, and that there had been two previous Saturdays worth of auditions, with only two people being hired. They were both, however, vaudeville performers. She hoped no minstrel performers would apply, as she found minstrel shows undignified and besides, she knew the woman who ran Abigail's Cafe (was her name Abigail?) was black and likely to find them just as insulting and degrading. Having seen the meanness of some people back home (and everywhere else, for that matter) towards blacks, India was heartened to note that in Hope Valley, skin color seemed to be of little to no issue. 'In God's image' was a serious matter to India, and she was glad for that.
She put on her best dress, fixed her hair up into a pretty Gibson Girl bouffant do, put on her silver bracelet and headed across the street. It was dry, thank goodness, so she only had dust to cope with, instead of mud, and she climbed up the steps to the boardwalk. She paused in the doorway, drew in her breath, and walked in. Or would have, if she had not hit someone with the door.
"Ow... dammit...!"
Appalled, India stepped back. "I'm so sorry."
He didn't look terribly upset, even if he was rubbing his nose. He had silver-gray hair, blue-green eyes and a nice jawline, but there was something... wounded about him. Sad. Lonely. Hunted.
It surprised her that she could pick up on that so easily, but she always did. Her mother had told her she should be a riverboat gambler, she was so good at reading people. But India knew all too well about people who took such wild risks.
"It's all right." He continued past her, down the steps and up the street, limping slightly, already lost in his own thoughts. India huffed slightly, smoothed her skirt and stepped inside. She followed her nose to the front desk and asked to see the manager.
"Is there a problem, madame?"
"No. I'm auditioning, actually."
The desk clerk nodded and went back into a room behind him, then returned with a tall, handsome bearded man. "Good morning, ma'am. You're here to audition?"
"Is it still morning?" she asked, looking down at her watch. "Oh dear... I forgot to set it to local time. I'm still living on Savannah time!"
"Savannah? Ah, yes. Miss Ward, was it?"
"Yes. India Ward."
"I've read about you. Quite a few splashes throughout the South and in New York City to boot."
"Well, yes, the boot was a factor. Where can I audition?"
Lee grinned when he saw Henry shuffling in. "Henry! I'm sure glad to see you. I've got a new lumber order for a house outside town and... "
Henry always looked so startled when anyone said they were glad to see him. In fact, he often turned to look behind him at whoever he thought was welcome in the room. Today, however, he only seemed distracted.
"Do you know anything about cats?"
"... I need your head for math... wait, what?"
"Cats. What do they eat?"
"Um... fish?"
Henry nodded, and Lee knew he was taking a mental note. The man's ability to memorize things by just hearing or looking once astounded him.
"What else?"
"Milk, maybe? I mean, to drink."
"No, I think cats don't do well with milk after they grow up."
"Oh, well, maybe they take up whiskey. Why do you ask?"
"Curious."
"So am I. Do you... have a cat, Henry?"
"I don't know yet. What about this lumber order?"
Lee wanted to strangle Henry then, but then again, the man often had people wanting to strangle him. Though, really, that was only in the past. Nowadays, people seemed to be taking a more relaxed approach to Henry. He was still shy and unsocial, but he was also putting forth a lot of effort towards improving himself. He had few social graces, but what few he possessed he was actually using well. He was apt to even smile at people sometimes. He was still a little dour, but he was often at social events in town, if only on the edges.
But a cat?
The more Lee thought about it, though, it seemed right. Henry might benefit from someone to just talk to that didn't talk back and only needed tuna fish.
"A Mr. Cadwallader and yes, that's his real name, wants to built a little hunting cabin in the woods and needs logs and the like. Should be fairly simple - he wants it to be a one-room type thing. Stove, sink, table for cleaning things he's killed... "
"Cadwalladar." Henry sat down and looked at the preliminary list. "Welsh, I think."
"How'd you know that?"
"A passing interest." Henry studied the list. "How big a cabin?"
"He said maybe thirty by thirty at most. Peaked roof. Maybe a small porch. He's quite the sportsman. Fishing, hunting, skeet shooting, horses... "
Henry nodded absently, wondering about the cat. She had sat on the bed while he had gotten ready for work, but as soon as she heard the housekeepers in the hallway she had jumped down and shot under the bed. Henry had tried to persuade her to come out, but she had refused. So he had finally left the door open a little before leaving and left it up to her if she wanted to stay. If he found her in his room tonight, he'd buy some tuna fish and a couple of bowls.
"Henry, are you in there?"
"Huh? Oh. Yes. Right. Sportsman. Shoots horses."
"No, skeet."
"What's a skeet?"
"I think it's short for mosquito. You know, they really liked that last batch of tourists and would appreciate more."
Henry grinned and perused the list of Cadwalladar's specs. He would head to the lumber yard and see what was available, then head to the cafe for lunch.
Lucas was amazed by India Ward's voice. She belted out a familiar old ballad in the sweetest soprano imaginable, then a sad love song in a softer, smoky alto that had everyone blinking and wiping their eyes. She was also quite a looker - slim and petite, with dark hair, bright blue eyes and pale, magnolia-white skin. She carried herself with remarkable style, and had a warm, ready smile. She was the classic Southern belle, but he sensed a toughness there that only Southern belles could possibly possess - he knew just enough about her, from newspaper articles, that her family had lost everything in the War Between the States (despite being abolitionists and Union supporters) and she had grown up in genteel poverty in Savannah.
"I can't see any reason not to hire you, Miss Ward. In fact, I'd be a fool not to beg you to sing for us here at the hotel."
She smiled, looking very pleased. "Thank you, Mr. Bouchard... "
"Lucas. But I'll need to run it by my partner, of course, but I'm sure he'll agree and... he's not here. But where are you staying?"
"At the boarding house... Blanchard's?"
"Well, enough of that. While you're employed here, you will have room and board, as well as generous pay."
"Oh, thank you!" she said, smiling. Wow, she was breathtaking! Lucas knew she'd be pulling in paying customers just to look at her as much as to to hear her sing, whether they were guests at the hotel or not.
"I'll see you get your room prepared. It's ensuite, too, so you won't have to tromp around to shared baths. Very uncouth, I say," he said, smiling expansively.
"Yes, I've always hated having to schlep towels and bottles of hair shampoo to and from bathrooms, and I've been to a few places that didn't have bathrooms and we won't go into that, particularly the one about the spider. I'll head to the boarding house and get my things." She started toward the doors, then turned back to look at him. "By the way, none of your bellhops are from New Jersey, are they?"
Henry was tired after his trip to the lumberyard, pacing along piles of wood and making notes in his head of what would be best for a cabin. Planks would be best for indoors, of course, but a cabin wasn't a cabin if it didn't have logs. Otherwise, it was a shack. So he wrote down what he figured would be the best selections, did some simple arithmetic to determine how many planks and logs would be needed, made room for the architect lousing things up, then walked back to town, passing Lee as he was closing up. Lee trotted out to catch up with him, huffing a little.
"For a man with a bum knee, you move fast."
"What's up?"
"That Cadwalladar fellow wants to meet with us tomorrow morning. Is that okay?"
"Sunday morning?"
"Yes. Before church."
"Yeah. Okay." Henry shrugged.
Lee was amused. He knew Henry often had private discussions with Joseph but didn't often darken the church doors themselves. Just the same, Lee knew Henry was having trouble reconciling himself to a God that might not hold grudges. Joseph, however, was making inroads with Henry. Just the other day he had told Lee that Henry seemed... lighter. Less gloomy and depressed, even if his sarcastic sense of humor sometimes threw cold water on some of his progress.
"Eight o'clock?"
"Sure. Whatever." Henry continued on, and Lee made his way home, ready to feed pickles and maraschino cherries to Rosemary.
India got the key to her new room at the front desk of the hotel and headed upstairs, humming happily to herself. She was a little surprised to find the door ajar but figured the bellhop had left it open for her sake. She bustled into the room, looking around, brow furrowing slightly. The bed was made neatly enough, but she noted a slightly masculine scent in the room - cedar and pine, plus there was a man's comb on the table, and an unopened letter. She was just reaching for the letter when the man she had run into that morning came into the room. He stared at her, and India realized she really was in the wrong room. He stepped back, looking up at the room number above the door, then stepped back in.
"I'll bet you're wondering who I am," she managed.
"I'm mildly curious, because if you're a cat, I'm leaving and I'm never coming back."
She stared at him, puzzled, then decided cryptic might just be his thing. "I'm so sorry. I'm India Ward. I think I got the wrong key... or the numbers wrong. I tend to mix up numbers sometimes. Runs in the family. For years I thought I had four great uncles, instead of just two... I'll be going. Again, I'm so sorry."
"Four instead of two?" he asked.
She thought 'crinkly' and nodded, her embarrassment fading into amusement. "Yes. Um... well, my grandfather had brothers named Nelson and Wiley, but they were nicknamed Bubba and Junior. So for years I thought Pappaw Ward had brothers named Nelson, Wiley, Bubba and Junior." She tapped the side of her head with her knuckles. "Dumb as a post sometimes, that's me, particularly since I never actually met Wiley or Nelson, but only Bubba and Junior. I figured maybe Nelson and Wiley died in the war or something."
"I'm sure that's not true," Crinkly said. She was calling him Crinkly, at least in her head, for now. "About the dumb as a post thing, I mean. Oh... uh... Henry Gowen." He didn't extend his hand, which she found odd, but she stopped herself from extending her own to avoid further awkwardness. Instead, she smiled, gave him a little courteous bob and left quickly. Henry waited until the door was closed, brow still furrowed, before looking under the bed.
The cat was still there, but when she saw him, she came ambling out, tail up, and he settled a bowl of tuna fish down for her, then poured some water into another little bowl.
"Anything else, Your Majesty?" he asked.
The cat began eating, obviously hungry, and Henry sat down at the desk, absently fingering the letter from Abigail. Finally, he opened and read it, feeling a twinge in his chest at each word, but once he finished the pain only lasted a few moments before fading away. The cat finished her tuna fish, then drank a good bit of water before jumping up into Henry's lap, finding his hand and nudging her nose under it, asking for ear scratches.
"Subtle, you're not," he told her. The cat said nothing but appeared to be quite pleased with her new circumstances. She stayed on his lap for a long time, happy to be scratched but not fussed over, then went to the door and 'meh'-ed at him until he recognized that she needed to go out to use the facilities. "Housebroken, huh? Well, that's a relief. See you in a bit."
Henry left the door open a little and sat down in a cushioned chair, propping his feet up to read the paper until time for bed. He was starting to get a little worried about the cat when she came strolling back in. She jumped up onto the bed and sat in her dignified pose, watching him until he was finished with the paper. When he climbed in, she sat at his side and insisted on her ear scratches until he turned the light off and tucked his hands away again. She moved into position at the end of the bed, watching him in the darkness, and when he was finally asleep, she lay back down beside him and slept as well.
India was still working on the song, well past midnight until time no longer really mattered. She didn't usually write her own songs, but sometimes one would come to her in some embryonic form and insist she flesh it out until it was ready for birth and being presented to the world. She knew what she had so far wasn't very good, but it had potential, with more polishing. She wrote out the latest draft and pondered what tune it might go best with (thus far, 'Don't Bury Me Out On the Lone Prairie', which didn't seem quite right, but no way was she going to use 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic', which would make her grandmother spin in her grave). For now, she liked it, if not just for the idea, and sat at the hotel dining room piano, using a few different tunes as she went along, softly singing out the semi-finished product at almost three in the morning, smiling a little as she gave voice to the written words.
We only have this day to live.
We can't go back to yesterday.
to fix its mistakes.
Or speed forward to tomorrow
And from it all its surprises take
Because yesterday is dead
and tomorrow is blind.
We go through each day,
one day at a time
We call today the present.
because 'gift' doesn't rhyme
Each day from God is sent.
And how we measure our time.
Yesterday is dead.
and tomorrow is blind.
So, we all live just one day at a time
"Very nice."
Music sheets flew everywhere, along with a glass of iced water. She gasped and turned back to see Lucas Bouchard in the doorway, looking both amused and apologetic.
"I'm so sorry," he said, rushing in and gathering the sheets while she picked up broken glass. "Are you all, right? I didn't mean to scare you. But that's a nice song. Nice sentiment, too."
"Thank you. Give me a moment while I pull my heart down from the chandelier."
He laughed. "Again, I'm very sorry. You have some mad musical skills."
"Oh, well... it's a gift."
"Like today?"
India laughed. "Exactly. I'm nothing special, really. I was singing before I could talk, dancing before I could walk. Otherwise, I'm a terrible bore." She sorted the sheet music into the right order. "I also had a terrible faux pas today, too. It might have given my head the little kick needed to put this song to paper, though."
"Faux pas?"
"Yes. I went into the wrong room. The door was a bit ajar, but I was just noting men's toiletries on the table and a letter on a desk and realized I really was in the wrong room when its occupant came in. Fortunately he was pretty... understanding."
"Really? What man?"
"Henry Gowen."
"Ah. Yes. He would probably think anyone going into his room was there by accident. He's sort of... in prison."
India's eyes widened. "Prison?"
"Self-imposed. He's officially a free man, with many dead yesterdays behind him. His todays, however,... they need some work before he accepts his freedom."
"I take it he's made some faux pas?"
Lucas laughed. "Quite a few, but they're in the past and I have no right to rehash them. I hope you're finally going to bed?"
"I am. I can sit up all night singing, if needed, but I admit I'm pretty well knackered. Good night, Mr. Bouchard, and thank you for hiring me."
"Lucas. And you're very welcome. I think you'll fit right in here in Hope Valley."
She smiled, gave him a little bob that made him smile in appreciation, and she headed back upstairs to her own room. She'd do some song dreaming tonight, she hoped, and do some more polishing tomorrow.